Something Stinks at the Spa, page 1
SOMETHING STINKS AT THE SPA
The ABCs of Spellcraft 3
Jordan Castillo Price
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Something Stinks at the Spa. ©2019 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN 978-1-944779-07-8
Electronic Version 1.2
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
1 | DIXON
2 | YURI
3 | DIXON
4
5 | YURI
6 | DIXON
7 | YURI
8
9 | DIXON
10
11 | YURI
12 | DIXON
13 | YURI
14
15 | DIXON
About this Story
About the Author
1
DIXON
I’VE ALWAYS ADORED a good road trip. And taking one with Yuri, the man who made my heart go pitter-patter? Best adventure ever. After a lengthy drive that was rife with potholes, country music radio stations, and a particularly baffling detour, we’d finally made it. Mostly, I was excited to track down my Uncle Fonzo. Excited, and a little nervous, too...which was totally crazy. He was family.
And nothing was more important than family.
We rolled into town well after midnight. The place was famous for its mineral waters, and a series of increasingly emphatic signage encouraged us toward the city’s main attraction. And there, at the center of the town where all the signage converged, we discovered a resort built around a pond that was scarcely big enough for Yuri and me to lie down head-to-toe without touching. Not that I ever mind touching Yuri.
As we approached, I tilted my head to see if I could detect any steam rising from the waters. “Is that a tendril?” I asked.
Yuri pulled into a parking spot and squinted through the truck’s windshield. “Maybe. Or maybe our eyes only show us what we’re hoping to see.”
I checked the postcard my cousin Sabina had messaged me—the one she’d received that very morning. Soak Away Your Troubles at the Spring Falls Hot Springs! I’d say calling the mineral spa a “hot spring” was quite a stretch. From what I could tell, at best, the waters were tepid.
The spring-fed pool sat at the bottom of a natural depression, and we looked down into it from the cab of the truck. Irregular stone walls sloped down toward the water. One side was cut into a broad staircase. The other had a trickle of water snaking down the stone.
We both stared for a long moment, and eventually I decided, “No, there’s definitely a wisp. C’mon, Yuri. Let’s go see if they can spare a room.”
Yuri cut the engine, and his hand dropped to the door latch. “Judging by how few are in the parking lot, I’d say...ugh! What is that smell?”
“It wasn’t me!”
When the door opened, a massive stink rushed in to fill the cab like a garden hose filling a water balloon—from a tap with incredibly good water pressure. And it didn’t just fill the truck—it filled my senses. A noxious reek, like the whole town had been subsisting on sauerkraut and beans, then let loose in one great, coordinated release of human-produced methane. It coated the inside of every mucous membrane in my head. It was so substantial, it seemed like it should cloud my vision and stop up my ears. So tangible I had to fight my way through it.
“Sulfur,” Yuri said.
The witty retort would’ve been Sulfur? I hardly know ’er! But I didn’t think I could make the quip without throwing up a little in my mouth.
I wished I could say the Spring Falls Hot Spring Spa at least looked a lot better than it smelled...but that would be a pretty big fib. In person, it was nowhere near as scenic as the postcard. The spa was a turn-of-the-century resort that might not’ve seen a new paint job since it was built. Unless you counted the corners of the building’s foundation where something had been painted over in a slightly different color. That looked pretty fresh.
I clapped my hand over my nose and mouth. Breathing through my fingers didn’t really help, but hey, I had to do something. Yuri squinted even harder than usual, and said decisively, “We will get used to it.” But his voice sounded pretty thick.
I wasn’t so sure...but if we wanted to find Uncle Fonzo, we couldn’t exactly start looking somewhere else. Besides, it was really late, and there were no other motels for miles around. We’d have to buck up and try. I hoisted my bag on my shoulder, and the two of us high-tailed it inside.
I hoped that the HVAC system would filter out some of the stink, but the air in the lobby was even worse. Not only did it reek like a baboon’s hind end, but it was overlaid with the cloying smell of flowers. Not any specific flower, like lilacs or jasmine or roses, but a generic “floral” scent that smelled like old-lady perfume.
The door chimed shut behind us, and a sprightly blue-haired woman dashed up to the counter to greet us. She had a can of air freshener in her hand, and the aerosol streamed behind her like the exhaust of a steam locomotive all the way across the expanse of the room. Once she got up close enough to get a good look at her, though, I realized that she wasn’t sprightly at all. In fact, she was young enough to not take too kindly to being called “sprightly”—as butch as a female trucker, or maybe a phys ed instructor—and her close-cropped hair was actually more like a pastel dye job of pale aqua and violet and periwinkle.
“Cute hair color,” I said. “Very chic—very edgy.”
She stopped her spraying, blinked at me, then touched her hair as if she’d forgotten it was on her head. “This?” Even her voice was husky. “Uh, thanks. It’s...totally intentional. One hundred percent. Anyhow, welcome to Spring Falls Hot Spring Spa. I’m Janet. How may I facilitate your delightful stay?”
Yuri slid me a look as if to double-check that I was truly willing to bed down amid the butt-and-fake-flower atmosphere when the door burst open behind us, and a sobbing woman staggered in. As she walked, her path wove in a serpentine line and her breath hitched with every inhalation. Her blonde hair was in an updo that must’ve been elaborate at some point, but now was mostly down. Tears cut through heavily applied foundation, leaving her with twin tracks of paleness streaking down each cheek. The collar of her lacy white top was stained orange with diluted makeup.
Yuri backpedaled. For such a big guy, he can move pretty quick when emotional displays are involved. I stepped aside as the crying woman made her way up to the desk, giving her a wide berth. When she reached the counter, I told Janet, “Go ahead and facilitate her first. We can wait.”
Janet didn’t look any more comfortable with the weeping than Yuri, but she had a job to do, so she slid a tiny box of tissues across the counter and said, “Welcome to the Spring Falls Hot Spring Spa.”
But before she could offer to facilitate a delightful anything, the crying woman said, “I have a reservation. For the...the....” She choked, snuffled, gathered herself, and finally bellowed, “The Honeymoon Suite!”
“Oh,” Janet said. “Mr. and Mrs...?”
“Just me: Liza. Do you hear me? Just. Me.”
“Of...course,” Janet said, none too smoothly, though Liza had started crying again in earnest and probably didn’t much notice.
Janet soldiered on with her spiel. Only louder. “The Spring Falls Hot Springs have been a fixture of the community since they were discovered by a turnip farmer in 1910. The building we’re standing in right now is the original Spring Falls Hot Springs Spa, and in fact, you won’t find anything like it anywhere else in the Midwest. Your stay comes with a complimentary relaxation massage.” She glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight. “Between the hours of nine and five, of course. Our sauna is located on the lower level. Rejuvenating mineral soak, highly recommended. And, naturally, no stay would be complete without the Spring Falls Hot Springs Spa gift basket.”
She hauled out a massive crate from under the welcome desk—a goodie box clearly created with a newly hitched couple in mind, given the prominent fancy ice bucket and champagne glasses inside, not to mention the chocolates, massage oil and naughty dice game. The impulse to swap it out with a standard welcome gift played across Janet’s expression like a tickertape, but before she could switch it, Liza stopped her sobbing, latched onto the wedding-themed welcome gift, and yanked it possessively across the countertop. “I take it this comes with a bottle of champagne?”
“Of course,” Janet said, almost naturally, and produced said bottle from a nearby mini fridge.
I eyed the crate. It was filled with shredded paper, mostly, but nestled among that and all the kitschy wedding stuff were all kinds of product—lotions and soaps and a stunning variety of scented candles. I always love a good freebie, and I could hardly wait for my turn to be facilitated.
Once Liza headed off to her room with her welcome box and her champagne, Janet turned to Yuri and me and said, “Thank you so much for your patience, how can I help you?”
I said, “We were hoping to facilitate a room, of course!”
“Just one room?”
“Yep, that’ll do.”
Janet hesitated like she was trying to feel us out, then said, “The businessman double?”
How intriguing that she pegged us for businessmen. I’m a flashy dresser, so I suppose I could be taken for an advertising rep, or maybe a talent agent
“How many beds in room?” Yuri demanded.
“Two. Full-sized. Very comfortable.”
“One bed,” Yuri said. Such a turn-on when he got all assertive!
“And your most romantic welcome basket,” I added.
Janet tittered a bit huskily, but at least now that she knew the score, she had a clear course of facilitation laid out in front of her. “Our honeymoon suite is taken, obviously.” She clicked around on her computer at great length, then said, “But our Romantic Recharge package is available. That comes with all the perks of the honeymoon suite, minus the champagne. Which is available for purchase separately.”
When I got a load of the price of the room alone, I thought better about adding a thirty-dollar bottle of bubbly. Lucky thing I was punch-drunk enough that even a fizzy-water would leave me feeling a little giddy. “We’ll take a pass on the booze, but one more thing....”
I pulled out my phone to call up the Uncle Fonzo picture I’d been showing around. But before I could even open the app, the door burst open yet again and a blindingly blond man strode in. He was wearing a suit—a power suit—and he strode across the lobby like a man on a mission. “Name’s Quint,” he announced, even though it was clear Janet was still facilitating us. “I’ve got a reservation. The premium businessman suite.”
Dang. I guess the second full-sized bed was for his massive ego. No way could it possibly fit in the same bed with him.
Yuri bristled as if he might teach the guy some manners, but as much as I would’ve loved to see it, we couldn’t afford to wear out our welcome before we tracked down Uncle Fonzo. And if my uncle was there, we’d see him at breakfast—all the Penns were keen on a hearty breakfast. I grabbed the room key, stuck the welcome basket in Yuri’s arms, and said, “Thank you so much for all your help, Janet!”
Yuri knows when to take a hint. He grumbled something in Russian—some of those words were starting to sound kind of familiar—but he let me guide him away from that Quint guy and his obnoxious display of self-importance. With Yuri hauling our welcome basket, we made our way to the charming old elevator—the kind with an elaborate gate to keep us from tumbling out between floors, and controls like an old steamship—and headed off toward our room.
2
YURI
“BUSINESSMEN!” DIXON exclaimed—he exclaimed the majority of things he said. “She actually took us for businessmen. Imagine that. Parading around like you’re the most important guy in the room. Buying trades and trading stocks and selling short and shorting sales. What do you think?”
“I know nothing about business.”
“Me neither. But I gather businessmen get to drink pretty heavily at lunchtime. Do you like martinis, Yuri?”
As if anyone didn’t care for vodka. I gave him a look, but I doubted he saw it around the towering gift basket.
While Dixon threw around a bunch of meaningless terminology, I pondered the conversation we’d just had at the front desk. It never felt like coming out was an option for me. In the old country, even with another man’s hand down the front of my trousers, I would have denied being gay.
But here, I’d been outed by the Spellcraft.
It was surprisingly liberating.
And yet, I was starting to see you don’t just come out once. You do it over and over, in every new situation, with each person you meet.
Hopefully someday it would get easier.
The lift stopped, mostly on our floor, and with a lot of elaborate rattling and further exclamations, Dixon opened the gate. Our room was at the end of a narrow hall with worn carpets and yellowed wallpaper—a hall which stunk of air freshener and sulfur. It had been overly optimistic of me to decide we would get used to the stink, but there was no leaving Spring Falls until we found out if Fonzo was still there.
All the way to Spring Falls, I turned around his Craftings in my mind—whether they would have resolved themselves in the end, or whether it was only our interference that turned things around. I still had not settled on an answer. Spellcraft has a funny way of threading back and forth through time, blurring the relationship between cause and effect. And my own experience was limited; my mentor had not been exactly forthcoming in explaining the process.
Dixon unlocked the hotel room and held the door open for me. The room wasn’t bad. It was done up in muted shades of white, with hints of neutral blues, khakis and greens—spa colors—but it still reeked of sulfur. I set the basket on the dresser. By the time I locked and deadbolted our door, Dixon was already rifling through the crate.
“Shampoo, conditioner...I don’t suppose you’re too picky about either of those. Body butter—caution, do not eat. What the hey? If you’re not supposed to eat it, why call it butter? Soy candles. Maybe the candles are edible. Huh, doesn’t say. And how do you suppose they make candles out of beans, anyway? However they manage to do it, I bet soybeans are easier to harvest than beeswax...unless soybeans have stingers, and I’ve just never heard about it....”
While Dixon called out the names of all the ridiculous candle scents, sniffed them, and declared they all smelled like rotten eggs to him, I found my gaze pulled to the shredded paper fluff he’d tossed aside. It was just filler. And yet, when I allowed my focus to soften, it seemed as though I could find shapes within the randomness, like I was gazing at clouds. There were colors in the shred. Cool aquas, bluish grays. And when I focused on those, specifically—and especially on the tiny flecks of black—it seemed like the wad of shredded paper was actually alive. The paper itself did not move. But my eyes couldn’t settle on any one place, and as a result, the shred seemed to have its own pulse.
Volshebstvo. It took me a moment. But when I saw it for what it was, the influence of Spellcraft couldn’t have been more obvious. “Dixon,” I said, and he paused to listen. “This place is under the influence of a Crafting.”
“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. Businesses who don’t add a lucky piece of Spellcraft to their marketing plan are just leaving money on the table. Hey, maybe I know more about business than I realized!”
It was true. Here in America, where Spellcraft had never been exactly illegal, it wasn’t uncommon to spot the occasional Crafting passing itself off as a framed poem or inspirational saying. But this was not a charm to make the customers happy. This was...convoluted. And not only that, I recognized the tangled energy.
If ever there were any doubt that we were on the right track, I now knew for certain that Fonzo Penn had been here.
While Dixon watched—momentarily too distracted to speak—I grabbed a handful of shredded paper and dropped it on the white duvet. It wasn’t moving. Its outline hadn’t changed. And yet, to my eyes, it squirmed like a nest of slender, papery vipers. “Do you see that?” I asked him.
“Unfortunately not...but it’s obvious that you do.” Dixon crouched beside the bed and pushed his face up close to the shredded wad. “I’ve seen lots of things over the course of my life—but never once have I seen anyone shred a Crafting. D’you suppose it was intentional? Or a matter of the Crafting being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Since when does a Crafting end up anywhere it was not intended to be?”
“True enough.” Dixon poked the shred gingerly, as if he was worried it might shock him. But the only shocking thing was the fact that the Spellcraft had contrived to put itself through the shredder, and thereby stamp its magic on Spring Falls indelibly.
With the delicacy of a surgeon, Dixon teased out one strand of paper, then another, and another. He was going to try to put the Crafting back together. Anyone could see it was a fool’s errand—but I doubted that knowledge had any chance of stopping Dixon.
“Why?” I asked.
“What else have we got to go on? Besides, if it’s a one-word wonder, like the Craftings in the last town, we could potentially reconstruct it well enough to at least deduce what it said. A little knowledge is better than none.” He fluttered his thick, dark lashes at me. “Right?”
