Whisper was halfway into the intersection when the truck hit her. It caught her from behind, crushing her hip at the waist before sending her violently to the asphalt below. Its driver, a lawyer of some renown, had looked down to find his phone when it had slipped between the driver’s seat and the center console of his Tacoma. He slammed on his brakes as Whisper’s body spun away from him, watching an assortment of keys spill from her pockets while her body landed broken and huddled on a street that was otherwise empty. He waited until the body slid to a stop, made the decision he was always going to make, and then sped off as quickly as he was able.
***
Whisper’s eyes opened with the force of the gasp. Her lungs contracted involuntarily, taking in a deep breath of the stale urban air. She lay still, feeling her body stretched along the pavement, the electric tingle of tissue that had been torn asunder, and the impending pain of realization. She didn’t scream nor sob, refusing to grant fate even that much of a victory. Instead, she let her mind travel to where it always went – to a distant meadow bathed in the sunlight of a frozen morning. There she remained while the storm raged around her, through the worst of the painful howling winds, until it had tired itself out and the sunlight returned once more.
Then she stood up.
It was her neck that surprised her most, still aching with a twinge of pain as she fought to lift her chin. She gave her head a tentative shake, searching carefully for the tiniest pinpoints of discomfort before feeling the conflicted satisfaction of finding them. Behind her, Whisper’s long honey-blonde hair stirred along her back and shoulders. She ran her fingers through it once, reached down to gather the precious keys that had spilled from her pockets, and then finished crossing the street with long, deliberate steps.
She had picked her entry point a few blocks away, choosing to arrive in the city a short walk from her invoker. This was standard practice, as it not only gave Whisper the chance to study the photograph that now smouldered in one of her pockets, but also allowed her time to enjoy the views of the city. Just now however, Whisper found the city to be a somewhat bleak affair, devoid of much more than a palette of browns and greys. It was nothing like the rich tapestry she’d expected.
“Oh … my … God!!!” A man stepped from the doorway of a nearby restaurant, a napkin in one clenched fist. “Are you okay?! How are you even – “
“I’m fine,” Whisper smiled, adopting a languid movement as she stopped to stand before the man. He was a good deal shorter than her, most of them were, and he had hair that jutted from his hat as though it were a wig. Yet he had too, bright eyes and a coy smile, and a certainty to his stance. She could find something to like about most anyone. She wouldn’t be much good at what she did, otherwise. “I think you called me.”
She reached into her pocket to fish out the wrinkled photograph that smoked faintly around the edges. Then she turned it out to him, showing the man his own picture.
“I … yes,” he was off guard only a moment before he flashed a smile of his own, close lipped and crooked. “I’m Glover,” he beamed. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come inside, I’ve got us a table.”
The restaurant was Korean, while the decorations that adorned it were anything but. It was dimly lit, smelled of garlic, and was full of the sound of nearby conversations. Glover led the two of them to an empty circular booth, on which lay the remains of the ritual – a line of salt, the skull of a sparrow, an ancient looking key, and the burnt remnants of the man’s own photograph. He beckoned for Whisper to sit.
“What does the key belong to?” She asked as she scooted into the booth.
“I think it opened the grandfather clock. It was my mother’s.”
Whisper pocketed the key smoothly, relishing in the curve of the varnished metal and the thrill of doors yet unopened. It landed with a kink among the other keys that lined her pockets, before she turned her attention to the burnt offering.
“They let you just light a fire in here?” Whisper pushed around the ashes of the old photo with the edges of the new one. “Here at your table?”
Glover shrugged as he took a seat across from her. “Most people just don’t care. They won’t stop you from doing anything. They don’t even take time to disagree with you.”
“Or pull over after they hit you with their car.”
“Or that.” The look on the man’s face had fallen back to one of concern, though the corner of his mouth betrayed his interest over his empathy. “How are you still …?” His question trailed off as he waved his hands to encompass the entirety of her.
Whisper winced, though her smile never faded. “Honestly it happens all the time,” she sighed.
“You get hit by cars all the time?”
“Not that, specifically.” She nearly laughed. “But something in the summoning itself seems to always take its price from me.” Glover only looked on stunned, so she continued. “Typically I try to get it out of the way before I ever get to my invoker. This morning I was in Indonesia, and managed to get through the worst of a snake bite without anyone ever knowing.” She could still remember the painful sensation of the creature’s venom as it had entered her leg.
“I’m so sorry.” Glover said in a tone that approached genuine. “I had no idea.”
“How could you?” She shook her head. “That part is never in the books.”
“And you just … walk it off? No big deal?”
“Well I’m not the god of healing,” Whisper joked, though she had wondered at times if she might indeed be the god of painful accidents. Her hand moved reflexively to her neck, massaging out the last of the soreness as she sat up to her full, impressive height. “And now here I am. Shall we get on with it?”
Glover nodded. “Do you want anything to eat? The wings here are supposed to be really something.”
Whisper shook her head. “What can I do for you?”
Glover cleared his throat and leaned forward a little. “What did you do for the man in Indonesia?”
Her own smile was sincere. “I helped him find the type of carnal experience for which he has searched his whole life.”
“You helped him have sex.”
She nodded, bringing one of her long legs up to drape over the other.
Glover’s smile looked almost relieved. “And how was it?”
“It hasn’t happened yet. Four days from now, his neighbor, a woman with soft hair and perky breasts, will get on the wrong train while in a rush to catch her own. A stranger will offer her his seat, a man that she doesn’t fully recognize but who seems nevertheless vaguely familiar. Our hero, who I visited just this morning, will not suspect this woman to be the object of his affections because he will be too preoccupied with an upcoming meeting with a client. And so he will not be trying so hard to impress her when he meets her. As a result, the most lovable parts of him will shine through, and it will not be long until swapped phone numbers will lead to a late night tryst at her place.” She looked deep into Glover’s eyes, trying to gauge his reaction when she said, “One that will change his life.”
Glover bit at his lip and cocked his head to the side. “Does he know, your boy in Indonesia? Does he know that he’s going to meet her on the train?”
“No. It wouldn’t work if he did. And even after it does work, he will spend the rest of his days wondering if the ritual had anything to do with it, or if he just lucked into the best sex of his life simply by being himself.”
Glover sat back in his booth, his arms spread out along the cushiony ridge that arced circular about the table. “Amazing,” he said quietly.
“I think it is.”
“Do you like what you do?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” It was not often that Whisper found her interactions to be anything more than one-sided. She studied the man intently, but though she found him to be a strange specimen, she could not identify any particular reason to distrust him. He only smiled back at her when she continued. “I love what I do. It makes a difference. So many of you,” she met the man’s gaze, “need so little,” and found something there she couldn’t quite name, “to feel so much.”
Glover leaned forward and dipped one finger into the ashes that lay between them, then smudged them slowly between thumb and forefinger. “Does anyone ever … ask you to help someone else?” He cleared his throat again. “Instead of themselves?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. Her mind jumped back to a recent evening four nights hence, to a crumbling little home, and a bull in the nearby pasture that had trampled her unconscious. “A few days ago a young woman conjured me.”
“Spicy.”
“She asked me to find someone for her husband.”
Glover looked caught off guard. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“She is dying, and wants him to move on after her death.” She remembered clearly the look of desperation in the young woman’s eyes. “Even if it means finding someone while she yet lives.” She marveled, not for the first time, at the razor thin line on which desperation and true love so often teetered. “But it’s not all sad,” she hefted her smile once more. “Sometimes it’s just worried friends trying to help a BFF post-breakup, or a concerned parent acting on behalf of a child, or even sex therapists.”
“Sex therapists?” Glover laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” and she found herself laughing as well. “How do you think they stay in business?”
They chuckled together as the waiter approached the table with straws, and two glasses of water. When Glover had politely dismissed the man he turned back to Whisper.
“And if someone wanted something else – success in business, or an improvement in health – “
“Then I suppose they would invoke someone else.” She ran her finger along the cool edge of the water glass. “I have to assume there are others like me.”
“You would think,” the man agreed. “There are goddesses, and demons, and wayward spirits aplenty. You however, seem to be something of an anomaly.” He cleared his throat one last time before asking. “So, how do we proceed?”
“With the ritual?’
He nodded.
“You give me a name.”
Glover’s head bobbed as he spoke. “And this person, who I name to you, will have the sort of experience you described.”
“Correct.”
“Even if they aren’t searching for it?”
“Even then.”
Glover seemed satisfied with himself. He wore a look of smug accomplishment, though his posture had tensed and his smile widened more mischievously. “Very well, I name you.” His eyes bore into her. “Whispered-Word-That-Long-Ago-Left-The-High-Places.”
Whisper’s insides swam. It had been a very long time indeed since she’s heard her full name spoken aloud, and she studied the man now warily as he hid behind a mask of gleeful innocence.
“Name someone else,” she said flatly.
“Do I have to?” He affected a look of apology. “Is that sort of thing not allowed, or … are you just unable to do it?” His hand, close to her own, darted out to give her a lingering pat on the wrist, leaving behind a black smudge from the ashes.
There was something about this man, with his bright eyes, and his crooked smile, and the hair that hung foolishly from the confines of his hat. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” He shrugged and sipped at his water. “I’m no one important.” When she did little more than stare back at him, he pushed a loose strand of hair from his face and added, “So can you do it?”
“I can do it.”
Glover’s smile widened again, and behind it his eyes grew a pale icy blue. “How will you?” He looked around the room, peeking above their booth to leer out at the other patrons of the restaurant. “Will you find someone here befitting your gift? Will it be a man? A woman?” He bit at his lip. “It won’t be like, four days from now will it? I’m really quite interested to know now.”
Whisper sighed and lowered her brow. She lifted one of the straws that the waiter had left and crumpled it free of its wrapper, smashing the thing up into a little ball that she let fall onto the table’s smooth surface. She suspected that the man might already know exactly what she would do, as he already knew more about her than any of his kind ought to. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for all of that,” she said, still looking down at the crumpled straw wrapper.
“And even if you did … “
“… I would worry about what may happen to the recipient of my gift, caught unprepared for it, as they may be.” She poked one edge of the straw through the surface of the water, then stoppered the other end with her finger, capturing a single tiny drop within the tip. It hung there, transfixed as if by magic, while she carefully hovered it over the crumpled straw wrapper and released her finger. The droplet landed softly on the little ball of paper, which sprang instantly to life as it absorbed the fluid. Then it grew, and straightened itself out onto the table.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Glover agreed carefully.
“There is a man in this restaurant, who sits now at his booth, toying with forces he doesn’t understand and courting annihilation. Forty seconds from now, he will stand up, and follow a beautiful mysterious woman to a supply closet, located just beyond the women’s restroom. He will think himself lucky, or clever, or favored by fate for what he sees as this pinnacle moment. But he will never consider the ways in which it will affect him, being too distracted by the journey itself to ever consider the outcomes.”
Glover’s face never flinched. “Sounds agonizing.” His hand found hers again, and gave it a little squeeze.
Whisper’s smile returned in earnest, laughing to herself at the eagerness of such an offering. They really did need so little, to feel so much. She let her smile sit effortlessly upon her lips, allowing it to wash over the little man freely; a beacon that had long ago left places celestial to tarry among the lesser things of the world.
She stood, and bade him follow.
They entered the supply closet without challenge from the restaurant staff, and when the door was closed behind them, Whisper turned to face the man. She pushed at the clothes that clung to her midsection, until they fell to her feet with a jingle of keys, and she stepped effortlessly from them. Then she leaned back against a low sink and fiddled with the buttons of her neckline, her long legs spread out gracefully beneath her. Glover’s smile faltered a little as he approached, and she caught his hand and guided it to her hip, the same one that had been crushed by the vehicle of an over-eager attorney not one hour hence. Glover’s hand, stronger than it ought to have been, pushed hard into the crevice of her waistline, just above the top of her thigh, eliciting a gasp from Whisper’s deep places.
“Not too late to change your mind,” she said breathlessly.
“It’s been too late for a while,” he buried his face into the crook of her slender neck and near-growled the words. Her hands found his lower back and pulled him closer, the growth of his manhood resting roughly against her.
“It will … change you,” she tried to warn him.
“I’m counting on it,” he whispered back. Then he turned her deftly about, and took her by the neck as he bent her down to the sink, before pushing slowly into her place of excitement and uncompromising heat.
They made enough noise to draw the attention of everyone in the restaurant – customers, and servers, and management alike. Glover’s screams alone were enough to coax a look of shared concern from the assembled kitchen staff.
But no one did anything about it.
