My Girlfriend, the Witch-Queen, page 1
My Girlfriend, the Witch-Queen
M. P. Smythe
O&H Books LLC
Copyright © 2023 by Matthew P. Schmidt. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover designed by MiblArt. miblart.com
Published by O&H Books LLC.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-959703-03-7
Print ISBN: 978-1-959703-02-0
Contents
Dedication
Check out the prologue, free!
1. Dinner Date with the Witch-Queen
2. Companion to the Crown
3. The Marathon
4. The Price
5. The Flames of Hope
6. Decadence
7. Consequences
8. The Witch-Boyfriend
9. An Omelet of People
10. The Mason Foundation
11. Money
12. Intrigue
13. Revenge
14. Empire
15. The Answer
Acknowledgments
Want more Witch-Queen?
About the Author
To Mary, the Queen of Heaven
To Mom and Dad, who showed me opposites really can attract
And to A. R. K. Watson, who told me I could do it, and S. R. Crickard, who told me I should.
Check out the prologue, free!
See where it all began in The Prototype Diagram!
Come get your free copy at https://bit.ly/3oMfWv1
1
Dinner Date with the Witch-Queen
“Calm down, man,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “It’s just a fancy meal. We’ll eat it, she’ll be happy, and Lumberton will get the help it needs. It’ll all work out.”
My reflection didn’t agree. I saw fear in my olive eyes, an accidental cut on my clean-shaven face, and a slightly-too-small suit that was a steal at 100 Imperial Marks, which also probably cost less than the tip where I was going.
At least I wouldn’t be paying for it.
I held my head. “How did I end up here?” I asked my reflection.
I had seen the throne room on TV, after watching the audiences weekly on INN to prepare. But being there in person, ten days ago, had been another matter entirely.
Unlike on TV, I could barely see the Witch-Queen herself, just a small woman in a wide black dress, sitting on top of a diamond throne. Above was her coat of arms, below a black granite dais.
“Ornate” did not begin to describe the wide, spacious hall. Black banners hung from the marble walls and ceiling on diamond-tipped golden rods, and I wondered how much that decor had cost. Sweltering daylight shone through the open diamond windows, and there was no air conditioning, only the faint salty smell of the ocean. None of this was remotely expensive compared to the fact the Capital was suspended over the Mediterranean through billions of marks' worth of gravity generators and nuclear reactors, a city built entirely by and for the Witch-Queen.
As the long winding line approached her, I looked around for anything that would ground me in this crazy place. The ground itself, a marble-white floor, was covered with a massive pattern inscribed in grooves: concentric circles and geometric shapes, labeled with mixtures of symbols and characters in languages long dead. Courtiers in bespoke suits or fancy gowns stood at attention behind the two tables to the side. Several magisters wore what had once been considered a magician’s garb, back when magic was make-believe. The Imperatrix Mundi had conquered the world, but she had not killed all of the Old Magisterium.
“I will consider the matter. Next!” said the Witch-Queen in a soft soprano. The man with the crying child hurried off.
My stomach knotted.
As we approached, petitioner by petitioner, I could pick out details on her coat of arms, or at least the motto at the bottom: Per Aspera Ex Luna. Although the Witch-Queen spoke with a faint British accent, no one really knew where she came from, other than “the Moon.” She didn’t seem too concerned by any petition, but I wondered if that was a form of official detachment or just boredom.
As I saw her sharp eyes carefully examine each petitioner, I decided she was just detached. I had counted six sob stories so far, and she had—no, chose—to do this every Friday, inviting a weekly torrent of human misery and despairing hope. Every Imperial citizen had a right to one audience with her per lifetime.
And this was mine.
An unmanned typewriter rattled away, recording everything that was said. “I will consider the matter,” she repeated to the petitioner before me. I could hear her perfectly—the room was deathly still aside from the typewriter, and had amazing acoustics. “Next!”
I gulped.
She consulted no schedule as she greeted me. “Michael Mason of Lumberton?”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied, stepped forward, and bowed deeply to the edge of the carpet before her. Deeper than before the tabernacle at church, the irrelevant thought entered my brain. But I could go there any time! I had spent months training for this one moment. It was our only chance. After all, the Witch-Queen only granted one audience per citizen per lifetime.
I looked up at her, and lost my train of thought. I could barely breathe, after all.
I had thought propaganda artists, or her daemons, had done their best to prettify her. They didn’t need to. She was small, yes, but looked almost girly in her youthful face, maybe around my age. That face was pale white with soft features, her only exposed skin contrasting with the all-covering elaborate black velvet dress and immaculate white gloves. Her hair was the right shade of auburn, though I couldn’t see much of it, because it was full of diamonds and the Imperial Diadem.
She met my eyes with her own, sharp, piercing and emerald. “Well?”
D’oh! I snapped out of it and hastily began my well-practiced spiel. “Ma’am, our village relies on an old well system for water. Recently, we discovered a kind of trapped daemon inside, and it has become unsafe to draw from it. If you would kindly deign to remove it, we would be forever in your debt.”
“Can you move the village?” she asked.
The Elders and the Mayor had argued for hours over what my response to that question ought to be, but we had finally decided honesty was the best policy. I kept my voice steady. “Theoretically, ma’am. But we would lose anything we can’t move. We don’t have the resources to reconstruct an entire village. And—it is our home, ma’am.”
“I see,” she said, looking into my eyes as if searching for the slightest deception. I was going to melt, and not from the summer heat. Then she smiled slightly, as if on a whim. “Is that all?”
“That is all.”
“Thank you for being brief. I will consider the matter. Next!”
I bowed and walked out, hoping against hope that this was enough. The Palace didn’t publish statistics on how many petitions the Imperatrix granted. But after seeing her, I clung to a little hope that mine would be one.
I lay on my bed in the expensive hotel room, exhausted. My once-in-a-lifetime interaction felt like it had lasted two lifetimes.
What the hell did that smile mean?
I couldn’t get it, or the rest of her face, out of my mind. If I had bumped into her at the library I would have started praying for the courage to go up and talk to her. She was just that gorgeous.
“You’re going nuts, man,” I told myself. “Like she’d seriously want a boyfriend.” No, I was going to stop it there. We would never meet again, and God willing, she would save our village.
Speaking of which, I decided I should call home. They had to all have been watching INN, probably since daybreak their time, to see my audience.
I flipped open my cellphone. For the Witch-Queen’s faults, she had standardized nearly everything worldwide, so my plan still worked even in the Capital. Through the cracked screen I could still see Mom’s congratulatory text:
You did awesome. I love you.
I texted back.
I’m exhausted.
Someone knocked at the door. Room service? The idea of having anyone to be a servant was foreign to me. I walked up and opened the door—to see a magister in an expensive suit waiting outside with a solemn expression. “Michael Mason?”
Oh no dear God this is the answer isn’t it? “That’s me,” I said, my mind shooting off in every direction at once like a pack of dogs with ADHD.
“Her Imperial Majesty wishes to tell you that she will listen to your request in more detail if you dine with her ten days from now.”
Oh no. Oh no.
“Yes, sir,” I stammered. “Tell her I’d be pleased. Delighted, even!”
“Very good.” He gave me a card and a look of disinterested pity, then bowed and left.
I closed the door, went back inside and sat down. Deep breathing. Deep breathing. This was progress. Progress that could end in my death, yes, but progress. Besides, only like three or four people had ever died of poisons intended for the Witch-Queen. Officially, at any rate. You had to figure she didn’t release the exact numbers or no one would be her food tester any more. Kyle claimed the actual number was five hundred, but he believed everything.
Whatever. Five or five hundred I wou
I dialed home.
“Michael!” The Mayor said instantly. “How did it go?”
“The Witch-Queen said she’d discuss it over dinner.”
“No way! Dinner Roulette?” Kyle’s voice came from the background.
“Yes, and I’m sure nowhere near as many people have died as you—”
“WHAT?” Grandma Peterson yelled.
“I’M GOING TO EAT WITH HER!” I shouted into the phone.
“WHY?”
“BECAUSE SHE WANTS TO TALK TO ME!”
Someone wrestled the phone from her. “Tonight?” Grandpa Franklin said.
“No, in ten days,” I said.
“Do you need more money?” he asked, with the slightest hesitation.
The village had pooled funds to get me here, and pay for my room in the cheapest hotel they could find. Would I just have to live on the streets for a few days?
Ten days of unwashed man would sure make a great second impression at a fancy restaurant.
“Hold up,” Grandpa Franklin said. “Your mom just asked if they gave you a number to call.”
“Let me check.” What if they spent all the rest of their money and it didn’t pan out? Of course, if this didn’t pan out… I looked over the card and saw a number on it. “There is a number. Let me call them real quick.”
“Sure,” Grandpa said. “Bye!”
“Bye for now.” I hung up, then immediately dialed the number.
The voice was female and British, but thankfully not the Witch-Queen. “Magister Alice Stephenson speaking, who is this?”
“Um, my name is Michael Mason, and—”
“What do you need?”
“I need somewhere to stay.”
A pause, and muttering in Latin. “We may have to move you to another hotel. We’ll contact you again. Do you need a stipend?”
“Uh… No, no, I think I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? You might have looked at the prices in stores here.”
I hated to beg for anything else—but she was right. What if I needed something? “Sure. I mean, yes, uh, a stipend would be nice.”
“It’ll be in your account tomorrow. Anything else?”
“I think I’m good.”
“Very good. Farewell.” She hung up.
I sat on my bed, utterly disoriented.
The Capital had a place of worship, usually several, for every religion, sect, and cult in the world. The Basilica of St. Albert Magnus was the largest church in the world, let alone the largest Catholic church. Rumor had it the Witch-Queen made it personally with her construction daemons, as a gift to Pope Augustine II for surrendering to her.
Whatever the case was, the day after the audience, I didn’t want to be in a crowd, just alone with God. And the streets of the Capital were very much crowded, all foot traffic except for the gondoliers and the airborne carriages above. As I struggled to navigate the streets and not get pushed into a canal, I spotted an ornate church along the way. St. Malachi Catholic Church, read the inscription above the front door.
I hurried inside. As I dipped my fingers in the brass holy water font to bless myself, I relaxed. This was normal. It looked like any other Catholic church, down to the colorful mess of posters and plastic rosaries in bags tacked to the wall.
There was a sign with a universal no over a spirogram: USE OF DAEMONS PROHIBITED INSIDE. That was different than home, but probably necessary for the Capital.
I stepped inside into the nave, which was still crowded, but probably less so than the Basilica would be. The incense wafted strongly in my nose. I walked up to the poor box and hesitated.
I was used to tithing, one of the few things Mom and Dad agreed on, but I had never tithed an amount so large. I would have written a check, but I couldn’t physically write the number, so I just withdrew from the stipend in cash.
I looked around to make sure no one was looking, then stuffed 1000 IM down the slot.
I breathed deeply, and tried not to think about the money.
I went to the altar rail before the sanctuary, and knelt.
No, if I prostrated myself before the ruler of the world, I had to do more for God. I lay flat on the ground.
“Are you all right?” a voice whispered.
I looked up to see an old priest in a cassock looking down at me with concern. “I’m… doing… not so well,” I admitted.
“If you want to talk, we can talk in the sacristy.”
“I’d appreciate it.” I got up, brushed myself off, and followed him through a door to the side.
“I am Father Jeffrey Xavier,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“This is going to sound crazy, but the Witch-Queen invited me for dinner.”
“And you’re afraid because…?”
“Because I might get poisoned,” I said sheepishly. “I know it’s unlikely…”
“Quite. More people have died by falling into the canals than have been casualties to assassination attempts. Yet I don’t suppose you worry about the former as you walk around the Capital.”
“I actually did—I, er, am new here. I’m actually from the North American Southeast Dominion. Maybe I should start at the beginning.”
“That would help,” Fr. Xavier replied with an amused smile.
I explained it as much as I could.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Think of it this way. If it is God’s will that you really do die, you can intercede for your village from Heaven. Or perhaps the Witch-Queen will grant your petition in your memory.”
“I guess,” I said, not comforted.
“Or perhaps you are just afraid of her not granting your petition and it’s coming out as fear of death?”
I sighed.
“We all experience events out of our control. We can only pray for God’s mercy, and the strength to endure if he lovingly allows evil to occur.”
“Right. I am still a little afraid.”
“When is this dinner, if I may ask?”
“Nine days from now.”
“I’ll get you a novena to St. Louis IX. You take those nine days and pray and prepare your soul. You might still fall into a canal tomorrow, after all. Then forget about it. Worrying about the future won’t make it any easier.”
“Yes, sir.” And now I did feel a little relieved.
Nine days later, I took an aerial cab, which was sweet, but I could barely focus on the ride.
Even in Lumberton I had heard of the Needle’s Eye: a gourmet restaurant suspended by daemonic power over a tall, thin tower, with a kitchen for every kind of food in the world. The prices, I was sure, were even sky-higher.
So I walked in the front door and pretended I had any damn clue what I was supposed to do. The maître d’ nodded at my presence as if recognizing me by sight. “Michael Mason, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
I could see him using all of his butler powers not to smile that I had called him sir. “Right this way, sir,” he said, and I followed him to an elevator.
Calm down, I told myself, and breathed deeply. As the elevator rapidly ascended I said a prayer under my breath. Then we left the tower behind and were suspended in thin air. All around I saw the sprawling Capital, the Mediterranean in the distance, the colossal Palace nearby.
Then we were back inside a building. The maître d’ had not even flinched. “This way, sir.”
In the wide room that swayed ever so slightly, diners chattered, drinking from wineglasses and eating luxurious-smelling dishes. I spotted many magisters in men’s and women’s evening wear—way more expensive than mine. I had never had one of those nightmares where you’re naked in front of a crowd, but I felt like I was in one now. A band—human, not daemonic—played jazz on a stage. Wait staff zipped from table to table, carrying platters, while others waited beside tables for the slightest order.
“Sir, this way.” I stopped gawking and followed the maître d’.
The Witch-Queen waited at a table by the window. I tried to brace myself for impact, but she was even more stunning up close. Really thin, too, which normally wasn’t my type—what the hell brain I don’t even have anything in the same galaxy as a chance—but she pulled it off well. She still wore a black dress with white gloves, but this one was more of an evening gown that perfectly filled out her shape. Around her neck hung a diamond pendant in the shape of a crescent moon, dangling gently over her small bosom. She wore the Imperial Diadem and had plenty more diamonds in her hair, not to mention bracelets, earrings, and rings, but her smile outshone them all.
