*Corman

Corman, ignoring the pounding at the door, continued to inspect his hand. The cut was over an inch long and still bleeding. "I'm serious. This needs stitches."

"The door. Move!" Olson hissed. Both agents crossed the floor to press against the wall, out of sight of anyone standing at the door.

"Move it, Mr. Bennet. Answer, and stay calm. Invite her in. Remember, we aren't here," Lee whispered. He brandished his purple wand thing again.

Corman shook his head. "Screw you guys."

"Do it." Olson pulled the gun from the holster to threaten him.

Corman grunted in defeat. Still clasping his bleeding hand, he stood shakily and walked to the door. Whoever was there pounded on it again, and a man yelled his name. He frowned at Agent Olson.

"Answer it. Stay calm. Get rid of him, unless of course, your shadow mistress is there. Then invite her in."

Corman mouthed yes, sir. He breathed in, filling his lungs and on the exhale, opened the door.

Detective Miller stood on his doorstep. There were no women with him, shadowy or otherwise.

A smile bloomed on Corman's face. He hoped it conveyed a hint of desperation without giving anything away to either of the insane, fake policemen watching him.

"Are you all right?" Detective Miller asked him. "I heard shouting."

"Shouting?" From the corner of his eye, Corman watched the gun tip forward until it was pointed at the level of his chest. "I was playing D&D with the speakers on. I was fighting a couple of evil mages, who jumped me when I was going to a tavern in a town."

He motioned with his eyes left and right at the feet of the two agents holding him captive. The detective, however, blinked in confusion. "The commotion I heard from your apartment was a game?"

"Some call it a game, others feel it to be very real, indeed. You could say, as real as real life." Corman raised one eyebrow and tipped his head a tiny bit toward his right, where Olson held the gun.

Take the hint, detective!

The detective frowned, arms crossing. "Can I come in, I would like to ask you a question about this afternoon, after you left the office."

"My office or your office?" Corman asked.

"Can I come in?"

Both the maniacs in his apartment shook their heads. Besides, unless the detective was ready for a gun-magic wand-fight, Corman couldn't let him cross the threshold.

"I'd rather not. My cleaning day is tomorrow, so the place is a wreck." It sounded weak to him and by the annoyance on the detective's face, it must have sounded weak to him as well. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes, we had a report at—is your hand bleeding?" Detective Miller asked.

Corman glanced at his injured. Blood had dripped down his arm and all over the welcome matt. "Yes, it is. Does this look like it needs stitches to you? I was just trying to decide whether or not to go to the emergency room. Of course, it's going to hard to drive myself." He held up the injured palm.

Take the fucking hint and get me out of here!

The detective squinted. "It doesn't seem too deep. Disinfect and put on a big band-aid. This leads me to ask about this afternoon."

"Good. Okay. Shoot."

"We had a report, as I was saying, about a scuffle in town, near the bar you frequent. The caller said two men were wrestling a third to the ground, and this third man fit your description. When officers arrived on the scene, the men had left. However, I asked around a couple of the shops and the comics book cashier said you had been in his shop at about that time. You didn't purchase anything, however, you did ask for quarters to use the payphone in the back. Care to comment on any of that?"

So, not only was the detective not going to save him from the wand-wielding wackos holding him hostage in his apartment, he was already punching holes in Corman's flimsy story about his involvement in the murder. Really, his choices at this point were creeping uncomfortably close to life in the state penitentiary, assuming he avoided lethal injection, or life in purple wand guys' underground cell.

He blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "Someone called in saying I was being beaten up in the street an hour ago and you just now showed up to check on me?"

"Were you beaten up, Mr. Bennett? We could fill a report at the station. You could talk to me about your phone activities at the comics bookstore, and maybe a few more details about this D&D game I keep hearing about."

Going to the station was not going to save his ass. "It was actually more of a friendly tussle than a beating."

"Why don't you tell me more? And does this have anything to do with the phone call you made shortly beforehand?"

"Do I need to contact a lawyer? These seem like very personal questions."

"I don't know. Do you need a lawyer, Mr. Bennett?" the detective asked.

Pressed against the wall still, the would-be wizards were getting impatient. Olson motioned with his gun for Corman to get rid of the detective.

If only it were so easy.

As much as he wanted Miller to help him, he really did not want to get any closer to the sheriff's office than he already was. One problem at a time.

"Why don't we schedule an appointment? I could come in tomorrow when my hand has stopped bleeding?" Corman suggested. He started closing the door.

Detective Miller placed one foot on the threshold. "Let's do that. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp. I am going to need some clear answers on what exactly you saw and did the night of the murder and why you used five dollars of quarters on a public pay phone, when I am fairly certain you have a serviceable cell."

"Eight o'clock," Corman said. He shut the door, but left it unlocked. Usually, he was fanatical about locking up, given the value of his electronics and mint condition, factory packaged figurines, but not now. If possible, he'd leave in a hurry.

Lee checked furtively through the window, standing on tiptoes, as the apartment was in the house's basement and the windows were narrow slits on the upper halves of the walls. Lee watched the detective climb the half a dozen steps to reach ground level.

"All right. He's gone."

Olson put the safety back on the gun and slung it in the holster. "Did you get any feedback on our call? Is she answering?

Lee put his ear over the bowl with the blood in it. "Sounds like static. She must be running interference. Or she didn't get it."

"We are nearly out of time. If human law-enforcement takes him in.... Maybe we should bend the rules this time." He motioned toward Corman—

—who did not care for the turn the conversation was taking.

"In my experience, you have to call people several times when they don't answer the first time," Corman suggested. "Or better yet, send a message. Some people really hate talking. They just want to text. Do you have a system with the candles for that?"

Speaking of, there was a burnt hair odor wafting his way now that the door was closed. He spun. The carpet was smoking.

Fire! was on his lips when Lee tackled him from the side. Corman hit the ground with the agent tangled in his legs. Kicking, he scrambled to free himself. He fell forward and landed on the flaming carpet. Hot wax and smoldering polyester burned through his tee-shirt. He screamed.

Olson landed on top of him. With a quick knee jab to Corman's stomach and then an efficient side roll, the agent had him trapped in a head-lock. Corman choked, pushing at the arm around his neck.

"Get some pliers or a hammer. Even if he won't talk, it will trigger his mistress to come to his rescue," Olson said.

"Yeah, good luck finding any tools in my apartment," Corman said. He would have laughed, but didn't have enough oxygen.

"Then something from the kitchen," Olson told Lee. "A wine bottle opener or corn on the cob skewers."

Lee yanked out drawers in the kitchen. "All I see is plastic ware. We'll have to use your knife."

Corman flailed helplessly. "No one is coming for me, so really there's no need—"

Olson sliced his tee-shirt up the front. "Say goodbye to your nipples, pile of minion-shit." Anticipation lit an unpleasant gleam in his eyes.

"No, not my nipples!" Corman cried.

"Hold still and it will go faster."

Corman wiggled free and scrambled for the corner. Swiping a keyboard from his coffee table, he swung it like a baseball bat as the two other men closed in on him.

"This isn't who you are, Agent Olson!" Corman yelled. "You believe in rules, in order and in doing paperwork before torture. Don't let my non-existent shadow mistress push you over the edge into total chaos."

"Get on the floor and take this like a man," Olson said, beckoning with the knife.

Lee ducked under one of Corman's wild swings. "Start cutting him already!"

Corman swung hard again, lost his balance, and fell on another candle.

A ripple of cool air shook the room.

"Boys," purred a feminine voice. "Is all this for me? I'm flattered."

"It's the—" Corman pointed. "It's the—"

"Witch," both psychopaths said in unison.

The raven-haired goddess, as the bartender had described her, stood in Corman's doorway. Her black clothes were matted with filth, as was her hair that hung in clumps and spikes. A cloying stench of dead, rotting things filled the room.

Corman had never seen anything so beautiful before in his life. He was saved.

"You wanted me, warlocks?" she asked. "You've got me."

*** The Shadow Mistress came for Corman!!! Thanks for reading! ***