The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady by Richard Raley Page A

the door opened.
    Tangle, tangle .
    Door had a bell.
    Tangle, tangle .
    That’s broken.
    It took gall to be a million dollars in debt
and be cheap enough to not fix a doorbell, let me tell you.
    I glanced up from my formulas to take in a
woman as she stepped clear of my door. I grunted, headache
forgotten. Old ladies, mothers, the occasional college girl who’s
young-cute but not actual-cute hunting accessories, but none like
this one walking into my shop.
    This woman was the kind I went to school
with. The kind who knew she could burn your eyes out or smother
your balls in ice if you gave her too much trouble. It’s in the
walk, in the shoulders, in the tilt of the head. It’s not about
actual attractiveness, it’s about a mindset.
    For this woman there was no submission to
the truth that I’d been born male and she’d been born female. No
submission that as a male I was supposed to be the stronger, the
hunter. This woman didn’t believe in clubs over the head, in being claimed or sold . Not on the basis of modern feminism
but on the basis that it would never have been applicable to her
during any period in history.
    I’ve always said that every man only sees
two features on any woman. For Ceinwyn, her smile and hands.
Cutting you—one after the other. For my first girlfriend Sally it
was . . . well, it was her tits really, and only her tits . . .
always her tits, but let’s add in her lips too for the few times I
was staring at her face. I was fourteen, give me a break. Don’t
jump on me for only talking physical either, this rule is only for
physical—mind and personality, those are more complicated—don’t all
men know it . . .
    For the physical, it’s only two features.
For this woman it was her neck and eyes.
    Neck?
    I know, not something you notice usually.
But for this one, she wanted you to notice it. It was a long neck,
with a great swath of smooth skin that had every man thinking about
touching instantly, like they were one of the five-year-olds who
ran through my shop breaking merchandize. At her neck’s middle
point she had a choker about an inch and a half in width that
wrapped around in a complete circle. Real metal through and
through, not cheap modern shit that’s fake on the inside. It was
made of silver, worked with dark gems in a crossing pattern. At its
center was an unmistakable large golden ‘ B ,’ with teardrop
pearls dangling underneath. It drew you to the neck and then the
skin and those long lines did the rest for her.
    The eyes were brown so dark to be black,
seductive velvet pools. At the Asylum, Valentine Ward’s were
similar, but there they were fire—threatening to ignite and burn.
Here was darkness, a slow dance of her irises to fall into and be
gobbled up, bare hint that the iris is there until you’re looking
for the touch of color against her pupil.
    Darkness is more dangerous than fire; don’t
let anyone tell you differently. The cavemen in ancient history
knew the score. Fire—you respect, you’re always aware of it—you
treat it well and it’s your friend. The thing about darkness is
that you start to enjoy it, start to sit down and rest, start to
think you’re all alone . . . until it’s too late.
    The rest of her was class, clad in
three-digit jeans and a hand-woven black sweater that stopped
halfway down her forearm. No coat, which should have been the first
warning, but I’d forgotten what warnings were in my year and a half
away from the Asylum. I’d gotten complacent. Rings on her fingers,
bracelets at her wrists, thick hoop earrings. Dark hair, long. Dark
eyebrows. Everything about her was dark escaping from soft white
skin, except the pieces added by her hand to give a glitter—but
those were just camouflage.
    “You’re not closed yet, are you?” she asked
in a voice that could make clothes unbutton themselves.
    “Almost,” I murmured, just looking at
her.
    “Good,” she said, advancing towards my
register with a sure, unquestioning stride.