With a soft click of metal on metal, he snapped the brass tablet shut, whispering the final words to ensure its tight seal to the wall of the bootlegger’s walkway through the city sewer, for the next hundred years…or so.
“Ingress and egress, shadow between,
Passage do rest on the right sequenced three.
The spirit now locks it, twin set will it free,
As I do pray it, so mote it be.”
He snuck a look backward and over his shoulder at the woman in the black watch cap, as she reached her arms round him to stroke his broad chest, thinking to himself “…and she’ll probably pick my pocket, while she’s at it.”
The Fates hadn’t yet settled on what lay between Whisky Nicolaysen and himself, but he intended to enjoy himself — and her self – thoroughly, in the meantime.
By the time the third weird sister raised her shears to snip the final thread, he’d have figured out another escape; he dimpled, knowing that never failed to charm the ladies, be they human or celestial.
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2022)
To get back to the serial’s start, click here for Part 1
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