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Flakes of ash drift serenely through the air like snow, unbothered by distant screams and the crackling of shattered shiplap set alight. They settle momentarily onto a leathery surface, before poofing up into the air again as the witchskin hat shivers, shakes, and scoots away into the night.
—
“Hey, watch the limbs!” Wallace shouts. “You’re gonna need your arms for work later!” The zombies climbing the jungle gym moan in protest but clamber back down. Grunting approvingly, Wallace reclines on the bench to watch his crew enjoy their night out. The one he calls Condom, after their favored keychain label, gurgles gleefully as they lurch back and forth on a kiddie swing. Wallace smiles. He’s a generous master of the dead, if he says so himself.
“TOPHER!”
Wallace turns to his one-armed ‘employee’, who’s waving something excitedly. “What’s-”
He recognizes the hat immediately, but before he can tell Topher to drop it, the zombie growls, “Haaat!” and jams the thing onto his matted hair. Just as his rotted lips curve into a mockery of a grin, Condom flies off their swing and slams into Topher’s back, and he splatters apart like a putrid Jenga tower.
His head rolls to a stop at Wallace’s feet, and the necromancer plucks off the hat. “High five!” Topher’s head groans happily.
“Let’s get you put back together,” Wallace sighs.
He’s not looking forward to calling Lilith.
—
Lilith sweeps into the Bar Infernal, gathering her robe so it flaps imperiously. The hazy red-lit room is packed, but it takes her merely a moment to locate Wallace, nursing a smoking black concoction at the bar.
“You were not to contact me again,” she declares.
“Honestly, Lilith, it was one failed demonic summoning.”
“It only failed because you sold me zombie semen instead of mummy semen!” Lilith hisses. “What do you want?”
Wallace shrugs, pulling out a familiar-looking hat. “Found something of yours, thought I’d give it back to you before it decimates my workforce. An olive branch.”
Lilith’s eyebrows lift. She’d thought it was in the possession of a certain vampire, but she bites back her curiosity. “I told you zombies are a waste of time. Always falling apart.”
“Eh, they’re cheap and they don’t complain.” Wallace smirks. “Can’t say the same about your sorry lot.”
“Just give it to me.” As she reaches for the hat, a leprechaun appears in a puff of green smoke and snatches it, then scampers away giggling.
They exchange a look before Lilith rolls her eyes and saunters after it. Following the trail of marshmallows to a nearby alley, she finds a large brick newly fallen on the ground, the hat clutched in a hand jutting from underneath like a pair of ruby-clad feet.
Back at the Satchel, she instructs the coven not to touch the hat and leaves it in the window display with a tantalizingly cheap price tag. Some unlucky soul will buy it, or it’ll scuttle its way out the door.
It’s no skin off her back. She didn’t even like the witch whose back skin was used to make it anyway.
—
Ding! The shopkeeper’s bell interrupts the calm calypso soundtrack of the Satchel Serafina.
“Delivery!” Guillermo calls, hefting the crate of jars onto the counter with a clatter. Soon the tittering of witches greeting their favorite Man Milk provider fills the room.
He’s in a good mood until he turns to leave and sees the hat on display.
“Oh fuck no,” he mutters. He’d been hoping Simon would just keep it this time. Should’ve known better, he thinks, wondering what richly deserved disaster had befallen the vampire.
Hurriedly exiting, Guillermo chances a look over his shoulder. Still in the window. At least Laszlo gives the Satchel a wide berth nowadays, so he won’t happen upon it.
Guillermo gets in the car, then jumps when he turns and sees the hat sitting forlornly on the pavement a few feet away. As he hastily swings the door closed, it darts forward and catches its tip in the jamb.
He's seen what the hat’s capable of. Rather than touch it, he pulls a stake from his ankle holster and prods the protruding point until it twitches and retreats, then slams the door and speeds away.
The squealing tires draw Black Peter’s attention from the store’s backyard. Looking across the street, he spies a very leathery and tasty-looking hat in the parking lot. The witches are distracted, so he glances both ways before clopping over and approaching it. He gives it a surreptitious nip, and oh, what mouthfeel!
It’s been ages since the witches allowed him a new toy. He’s going to squirrel this one away for a long time.
—
The clack-squeak of Colin’s shoes jolts Laszlo out of his reverie. He barely has time to shove the Call Me Colin flyer back in the bureau before his erstwhile charge pinches his shoulder.
“Hey Lasz-man, noticed you’ve been down-in-the-dumps lately. Hump day vibes, y’know?”
“I’m not in the mood for humping, least of all with you, Colin Robinson,” Laszlo grumbles. Did he imagine Colin’s eyes darting toward the exposed corner of the flyer?
“No worries,” Colin replies placidly. “I just thought you could use a pick-me-up. Guess what?” He pulls the witchskin hat from behind his back.
It’s not often Laszlo finds himself taken aback, but his jaw drops. “Wherever did you find that?”
“Funny story, I got it from a raggedy-looking goat at a petting zoo. Chipped tooth and a broken horn, poor thing.” Colin adjusts his glasses. “Anywho, I figured you’d want it back.”
Laszlo blinks and takes it. “Suspiciously kind of you, Colin,” he says, “but I do appreciate it.”
“No problemo.” Colin turns to leave, and Laszlo puts the hat on. The anus puckers contentedly against his scalp, and Laszlo smiles. He’s feeling better already.
“Hey, Nadja,” Colin’s sing-song voice echoes from the foyer. Seconds later, Nadja strides into the library.
“My darling-“ she begins before stopping short. “Not that fucking hat again!”