The puff of white and black feathers banged against a garbage can. The lid rolled along the ground as the bird regained its balance, dark talons curled unsteadily on the stained barrel. Sandelene grabbed the screen at once, started to set the bottom frame against the sill.

The sharp sting of a razor's edge split the skin between her thumb and forefinger. Crimson flooded the grungy sink. The edges of the frame, now steely and razor sharp and glistening wet where they'd cut her, clattered back against the stainless basin with the woman's startled yelp.

That's what you get, insolent wench, the bird cawed, hopping back onto the faucet. Blood beaded its white underbelly.

Sandelene had always known birds could be smug, arrogant little minions of the car wash industry. They stained the sidewalk up and down the street, hidden away behind yellow poplar leaves, rear ends edging closer and closer to a hapless victim down below...

Crap, this hurt. She grabbed a paper towel, wiped the sheet of blood off her hand and pushed down a flap of skin.

Don't feel good to be attacked, does it?

Shit, this bird was really talking. In her mind, as this sharp intrusion of darkness, as if a light somewhere in her brain had gone out and that bird was perched there, clenching her neurons, its hooked beak gleaming as it bent to pluck a thread of grey matter.

I'm in your head, sweetheart. Living rent free for all eternity. Or until you die, whichever comes first. And I'd bet my cozy new house you're smart enough to figure which contract ends first.

Nerves from her thumb to her elbow pulsed with every crimson squirt. Hands shaking, Sandelene wrapped a washcloth around the injury, trying not to look at the bird, trying not to let her eyes finalize what she knew in her brain to be real. The blackened end of its forked tail flicked against her wrist.

I brought you a housewarming gift, Sandy. A small thank-you for releasing me, for opening up your heart to me. No one's ever done that since, well—orange-rimmed eyes regarded her with hawkish intent—ever.

"Get the hell away from me." This cut was similar to the one on her throat; burned, hurt like she'd left her hand on a gas stove, but there was way too much blood. It wasn't all hers, couldn't have been all hers.

A wet drip from the pot rack over the petite kitchen island. Dark, smelly liquid spattered the formica countertop. In an easy motion, the bird landed up beside the handles of rattling pots.

Far enough?

He was sitting beside the porcelain bud vase her grandmother had given her a few years ago, a gift for passing her GED test. A wilted chunk of wildflowers had been stuffed into the hand-painted vase. Her grandmother had purchased it in some desert market in Rajasthan. Sandelene suspected it was not worth nearly half as much as her grandmother claimed.

You really want to know its origins? Let's pay a visit to dear old Dida and ask her.

"Get out of my head," Sandelene said, hefting the broom again.

Can't do that. You invited me in.

"Then I rescind my invitation."

Oh, if only I had fangs, the bird said, clacking its beak as it leered down at her, one wing hovering against the vase. That's for vampires, dipshit.

"Look," she said then, throwing up her wrapped hand. "I'm not doing this today. My shops in tatters. I'm due at the police station to give a statement, oh, probably two hours ago, which means I'm probably gonna get my ear chewed off at the station from Officer Hot Bod. So, whatever the hell you are—Essex, your familiar— you can show yourself the window. This isn't even my house. For all I know I ate the wrong kind of brownie for breakfast."

This isn't a Christmas Carol, Sandy. Or maybe it is. It stuck its neck out, turning one eye on her with a half-parted beak. Have you been a naughty girl? Do you need me to teach you a lesson? I've got knowledge, babe, and with a little convincing I'd be willing to share a tidbit or two.

"You shouldn't even be here," she continued, and flipped on the water in the sink. Lisa didn't need to come home to a bloodbath. "I locked you in that box."

Did you read the fine print for that spell of yours?

"What fine print?"

The bird rubbed its face with its wing. What century is your edition?

Sandelene's forehead wrinkled. How could that matter? "Twenty-first," she said slowly. "Latest interpretation of Latin meanings."

Couldn't even spring for an original copy. What kind of witch are you?

"The kind that sells her wares to better ones."

Snails, it muttered, and the little bud vase rocked beside its folding wings. Suppose I'll have to teach you then.

"You said you were a familiar."

Yes.

"Then as your master, I command you to leave me alone."

I suppose I could grant you that, the bird said, tilting its head in that sharp, predatory fashion of a hawk's assessment. Hooked talons rolled in an impatient tap. But you know what they say about idle claws, don't you?

Before she could reply, one black-tipped wing struck out. The porcelain vase hit the floor with an audible crack. Wisps of dried straw and wildflowers scattered beside her feet.

That got the woman's attention quicker than anything spoken. When the bird jumped, she swung. Its feathers skimmed the edge of the broom. It landed beside the sink, orange-rimmed eyes bright and shining.

Devil's work!  it cawed.

Sandelene rolled her eyes. "I can see that, asshole."

A feathery tail flicked and wiggled.

What were you expecting? Birds don't wear underwear.

Sandelene's mouth opened, then closed. The edge of her jaw tightened.

You're upset, it crowed. Is this all too much for the brave little woman who let the cop get mauled?

"That wasn't yours to break."

Cry me a river. It brushed its beak against the curve of one wing. Boo hoo. Dida's vase is in pieces. You never liked it anyway.

"That's not true. It's very pretty."

You hate the meaning of it, the bird continued. All those hours someone wasted detailing tiny scenes of a happy marriage add up to all those hours Dida spent reminding, then nagging, then begging that you follow a more traditional path. The path she took, that led to a ho-hum marriage with a man who was nice enough and strong enough but never smart enough to keep pace with her. But at least her kids will turn out alright, and her grandkids, too. Except that silly little firstborn from her favorite son. The heathen little brat, wasting good family money selling tricks and toads. A toad isn't a pet, Sandelene. There's something obscene about those sharply colored eyes on that squat, warty frame. Carnivorous burrowers, digging for grubs underneath dead leaves.

Her hands shook, but it wasn't from pain. "So you're mine to command?" she said slowly, running a hand through her hair as if it would gather her racing thoughts.

Yes.

"Do you have to listen?"

The bird walked to the edge of the counter, lifted its wing as if to beckon her closer. Between you and me, I enjoy pushing boundaries.

Sandelene looked from the bird, to the floor, and finally the purple stain seeping through the washcloth. "Fine," she said, and began to sweep the mess on the floor. "Go catch a mouse, then bring it to my shop, you know, the place of my livelihood that you just destroyed." 

For one long moment she watched the bird, couldn't read a lick from its expression. At last, it turned its back to her, waddled then hopped onto the sill.

Oh, come on, Sandy. This is Memphis. Can't it at least be a rat?

"I didn't ask for a rat."

Fine, the bird hissed, and with a strong push of its legs exited through the gaping window.

Sandelene followed it to the sink, leaned out to locate it, but it had disappeared into the cheery yellow poplars. The ache in her hand subsided. She peeled back the washcloth to have a look and rinse it.

As she held her hand beneath the burbling stream of water, a bony hand, digits ragged with peeling tendons, covered her wrist. A second hand gripped her waist, spun her sharply into a fetid body of decaying burns.

"One for the road," the demon cooed, and pressed its purple lips on hers. She shoved it back, so hard one of its grimy hands smeared the countertop. "Rent free," it laughed as she dry heaved.

Its lips twisted into a smile that slid off its chin face, melted like bloody rainwater. The muscle and bones was quick to follow, until there was nothing left but a dark, smelly stain in the center of Ronnie's tile.

"Shit," she said, and squatted beside the sink for every kind of cleaner there was.

*

Sandelene did not want to go to Smudge, to the thing she knew would be waiting.

But her books were all there, and she suspected that if she didn't turn up in a reasonable time frame that thing would come looking for her.

And Neville was still in there, alive, she hoped.

When she arrived, unlocking the front door, the bird was absent but her toads and salamanders were loose, many gathered around the terrarium as if it were a blessed ground. Most of the lights were shattered, and the chandelier in the center of the room was hanging at a steep angle, but they could be replaced. It took her twenty minutes to round up her pets. Neville was alright, one or two of the others were either lost or dead in the chaos. She pushed Neville's tank toward the upturned register and heaved it onto the counter, and had gone out back for two seconds to grab some paper towels and crickets for him, when the door jingled open.

"Hello?" came a deep, masculine voice that triggered Sandelene's memories with the annoyance of an incoming sneeze. She'd heard that voice before. Knew it, maybe not well, but it was familiar. Within a half-step the perky voice had gone quiet, transitioned to the wary whisper of, "Ms. Jhel?"

"In the back!" she called quickly, shoving a roll of paper towels underneath her arm.

"You alright?"

The blonde officer from the hospital was halfway through her shop, gun drawn but relaxed toward an upturned pile of incense sticks. "Are you alright?" he asked as she rounded the corner, picking his way over scattered peacock feathers and ritual bowls. "What happened in here?"

"Uhm," she said, her stiffening body framed by the doorway.

A shadow had flicked past the crooked chandelier.

It only took him half a second to look up, but it was half a second too late.

The weight bearing chain snapped with an iron pang.