Felicia Facilier: Special Advisor to the High Queen read the plaque on the door. It was carved in gold and inlaid with ruby, and it was far more beautiful than any sign she'd ever had before.
A little way below that there was a second sign (well, it was really no more than a note). It was scribbled hastily on parchment, the ink collecting in globs on the corners of characters. It read, in a spiky handwriting, No Fortunes Told. Scribbled underneath that, on the door itself: no lies neither.
High King Jay started at this door. All three his lovers often popped in and out of Felicia's offices, collecting tea cakes and advice and something called vetkoek from the woman. But the two of them hardly came into contact. He still resented her, for hurting Mal all those years ago {even though Mal was the one who came to her} and she made a general habit of avoiding people who wished her ill. Now, though…
He leaned against the railing of her porch, staring at the door. Her home was picturesquely suburban, like something out of hose Auradon documentaries that they'd play in high school when the projectors worked and the teachers were present and a billion other conditions were met. He stared at the golden knocker, replaying the scenario in his mind: he'd go up, and she'd open the door before he touched the gold. She'd ask if he was here to kill her, and the animosity would crackle between them, to the point where he'd turn around without having said a word, and this would all be for naught. He gazed at the door,before turning to leave. Not worth it.
And that would, of course, be the exact moment that Felicia stepped out and locked her door behind her, hair pulling out of its braids and dress falling off her left shoulder. Their eyes locked, and she slowed down, hands coming to her sides. She twirled the keys between her fingers and steadily looked him up and down.
"Well, I suppose you'd better come inside."
The interior of her house looked exactly like it had on the Isle of the Lost (except maybe cleaner). There were shelves stacked with alcohol and potions, were bones hanging on the walls and everything had a place. The only noticeable difference was the absence of the pile of bloodstained rags in the corner, which signalled to Jay one thing- Felicia Facilier no longer provided abortions.
Jay sat silently and watched as Felicia made two cups of tea, pouring what looked like half the sugar pot into hers and leaving his black. She set the teacup down in front of him, the fine china clinking quietly. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, stirring her tea. So they sat, eyes holding each other, neither looking down to their cup. Felicia raised her cup to her lips, still not breaking eye contact. Her lip piercings made quiet pings as they came into contact with the gold rim. And still, neither of them spoke.
She drank her tea fast, then, setting down only the thick layer of sugar that clung to the bottom of her cup. Jay's eyes followed the cup down, but he didn't dare say anything, not while Felicia's eyes pierced into his soul {he didn't know the rituals of this woman Mal trusted so well, and he refused to break decorum}.
"Well, Son of Jafar?" He tensed at the name. The last time someone had called him the Son of Jafar, he'd beheaded them where they stood, "Don't hesitate. I am not a patient woman." Now he was on more solid ground.
"I wouldn't make it so that you needed to be," he told her with a wink. She remained stoic and unreactive.
"I know what you want, Son of Jafar. What I want to know is what you're willing to give for it." And there it was. No ultimatums, no dodging the subject. Just price, just bargaining {Jay and Felicia would never recognise how similar they were, but everyone else did}. His tea cooled on the table, still as full as when he'd received it, "You should be doing it free of charge. For your Queen."
Felicia responded with a feral smile, "I don't serve under the monarchy. If anything, the High Queen serves under me." Her brutal honesty, the characteristic that drove away so many customers, cowed even the High King. He fell silent, debating internally. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, and Jay said the one thing that might have caught her attention.
"Three wishes."
Her eyes glinted, but she betrayed no other emotions, "Why should magick make me agreeable. I have magick."
"You have voodoo. Voodoo and magick, despite what you tell your customers, have very different properties. And you want things that voodoo can't get you."
"And your wife wants something that magick will never get for her."
Jay picked up the teacup and drank, swallowing the entire cup, "You got anything stronger?"
"Nothing you could stomach."
They stared at each other, neither one's pride willing to admit that they desperately wanted what the other was offering. Neither one willing to hold out their hand, to begin the transaction {who wanted it more?}.
The High King broke first.
Queen Mal stretched out in the silken bed. Her palms brushed against something. She froze in position, muscles taut and a spell to torture on her tongue. She gently reached out to touch the object again, and felt life and magick {and something foreign} pulsing beneath her skin. She sat up wildly, eyes wide. Her breath constricted in her throat.
She stretched her back, and they stretched with her.
Wings made of the purest element: dragon fire. Held in place by slices of moonlight, threaded with veins through which held voodoo, black and thick like blood.