Temptress

Lillian’s always loved this time of year. Especially on the Falls.

Most people are dismayed by the season’s name; calling it ‘Wilting’ was a logical choice, but the people living here have long since taken those connotations and spun tales of grandiose superstition. Lillian just leans into it.

It’s why the Hellhound is decorated from head to toe, fake cobwebs lining the hallways, lights dimmed to near darkness, the fluorescent spotlights changed from their usual neons to blood reds and cold blues. The atmosphere is incredible, she knows because the Hellhound is packed to the brim, a queue a mile long outside, with almost every patron dressed to the nines in a ridiculous costume.

Even Lillian has joined in the fun this year. A witches hat is perched on her head, tilting precariously to one side. The wide brim covers her eyes in shadow. Makes her seem more menacing than usual, which is always a positive when she’s speaking to clients.

“You ready to see Kieran yet?” Josef says.

She glances over to her left, offers him a smile. “Let him stew a lil longer,” she says, chuckling. Josef joins in a moment later, grinning wildly.

“If you say so boss, but when he starts getting people to call you the witch of the falls, don’t come complaining to me.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be fun though?” Lillian wags her fingers in Josef’s direction, dropping the pitch of her voice to a low vibrato. “Beware the witch, lest she bestow a curse on your poor, unfortunate soul, or ensorcell your mind to do her bidding.”

She laughs again, louder this time, but silence is her company. It takes a second before she realises that Josef isn’t laughing along with her. A second more before she actually looks at him, smile falling just a fraction.

There’s a look in his eye, an uncharacteristic softness that Lillian so rarely sees in her lieutenant, that catches her off guard. She’s seen it emulated a hundred times before on the faces of other men and women, those that beg at her heel for a second of her time and more. He doesn’t look away from her. Almost like he can’t. Like he’s trapped analysing her words and her features from now until the end of time, capturing every gesture, every curve, with naught but a look.

Lillian watches him. She vaguely remembers the stories of spells and enchantments used to capture the hearts of men, to lure them to their ends.

Perhaps there was a truth to them, not so much that magic exists - a ridiculous notion better left to the playful minds of children - but that someone could bend another to their will with mere words. If that makes me a witch, a siren, so be it, she thinks, slowly leaning closer to Josef. He says in his trance, gaze darting down to her lips and back up to her eyes, burdened by a cautious question. It’s not my fault people fall too easily.