The Witchstone

by Henry H. Neff

The shell game was an age-old con whose origins dated back to Ancient Greece. Everyone and their mother knew it was a scam, and thus it only worked on marks who grossly overestimated their own abilities. Fortunately, 100 percent of men fell into this category.

desperate times require desperate measures. I read that somewhere.” “Hippocrates?” said Mrs. Drakeford. “Fortune cookie.

Her lantern illuminated her from below, giving her face the appearance of an evil, or at least disapproving, jackrabbit.

Whatever was in those woods didn’t just feel magical. It felt radioactive. It felt dangerous. The sensation was unsettling, but it also made Laszlo curious. And Curiosity (Laszlo pictured her as a buxom redhead) was something he’d never been able to resist. Over the centuries, Curiosity had broken both his heart and his bones. She’d left him humiliated, bankrupt, even clapped in irons. And yet, despite countless betrayals, Laszlo continued to love her with a deep and abiding passion. Curiosity kept life interesting, no small thing when one was immortal. No matter how many times she burned him, he would always take her call.

It was a pretty good quip, in Laszlo’s opinion—pithy, clever, and he’d made it up on the spot. The woman merely handed him a receipt. Laszlo pegged her for a vegan. Maybe a Pisces.

that stupid face you make when you pretend to be having ‘deep thoughts.’ It doesn’t work, by the way. You look like a halibut.”