I jab my fingers into my temples and rub, hoping to banish the irritation from my skull. With no luck, I look back at the yellowing book which smells of cobweb, musk, and coffee.
What the fuck is this?
“Femur of Thrice-Great Grandfather.” Nope. Nuh-uh. A book isn’t going to talk at me, no matter how peculiar the required reagents are—nor how sultry its voice. I haven’t done anything to warrant it, yet. Drop the quotation marks, you damned author.
Femur of Thrice-Great Grandfather.
Better. But still, thrice?
I count my fingers. “Father,” one. “Grandfather,” two. “Great,” three. “Great-great,” four. “Thrice-great,” five.
Is thrice-great proper grammar?
Using a ribbon to save my place, I flip to the first page: “Incantations—”
HEY NOW!
Incantations, Rituals, and Gourmet Recipes by Susannah Martin, 1692.
Nope; I highly doubt it’s correct. I flip back to the femur-demanding recipe.
It’s not like I can just waltz to the family crypt and grab dear-old Great-Great-Great Pappy Ebenezer’s thighbone—most of the family are in unmarked graves or buried in the cellar.
Wait!
No. This house was built after he died. Shit.
I slam the tome shut, creating a small mushroom cloud of dust that turns my already-faded black suit grayer. What the hell am I going to do now? I’m one femur short of a roast here.
Apparently, a love potion is out of the question. It’s been a while since I’ve strutted my stuff—how in the hell do they do it nowadays? I think phones are involved? I know biting necks is frowned upon. Figured that one out on my last date, a decade ago.
Straightening my ruffled mauve collar, I glance at my pocket-watch. Shit! I’m out of time. Going to have to improvise.
It’s now or nothing; I can do this…
.
.