It rolled, tumbling over the little rivets of dirt, gravel and dried leaves. With each pebble it hit, the silver metal tinkled like a droplet of water on a tiny bell. Obsidian eyes rimmed with reds and purples watched the crown roll further and further down the path. The crown tumbled one more time before twirling once, twice, in the same spot. It teetered, wobbling to a resting position right side up finally.

Grit and gravel stung her cheek, dug into the cuts and welts on her hands as she tried to hoist herself back up. Her arms wobbled. Her teeth ground together as her bloodied lips peeled back. She groaned. Gaining her knees together she pulled them under her stomach and chest. One final push and she was sitting on her calves.

“Stay down.”

She spat blood, it and saliva spatting over the gravel at her knee. A snort sounded as she thought, 'All I need now is for it to start raining'.

Sunlight, bright and warm, stung her eyes as she arched back, lifting her face to the clear sky. No rain would come. The world overjoyed in her end.

A low, dark laugh parted her split lips, “I will never stay down, Dargan.” Her eyes flicked to the crown. “The crown will never bow and you will never know the wondrous feeling of it resting upon your brow.”

Her muscles screamed as she lunged. Her fingers closed around the cool metal and jewels. “O iunae lumen me renovare mihi dextera regenerationem pernox ad tempus,” she rasped, breaking the seal upon her opal pendant. A bright light swirled with black smoke engulfed her and the crown. She knew no more.

~`~

The place and man had an odd smell. She tried her best not to wrinkle her nose. Or breathe through her mouth. She inwardly cringed at the amount of dust sparkling between the fan blades and shafts of dim light. Keep it together. She smiled, knowing it didn’t reach her eyes and hated herself for it.

Oh, the things she did for a good friend.

“Are...you...ah...Vizen?” The voice was raspy, breathy, and near Death’s ear.

If a person turned into what they ate, then he should have been soba noodles. The number of styrofoam boxes from Empire Garden, a Japanese take-out restaurant down the street, could easily fill a couple of garbage bags. She nearly gagged, her skin crawling.

“Yes, Mr. Meyers. I’m Vizen, here to try to ease your passage,” she had overcome the gag reflex finally. She stepped closer to the man lying on the bed.

In the dim room, where the only light came from a crack in the dark curtains to his right, he rested in his small hospital bed. His body smelled stale, like old bread about to mold. Mr. Meyers’ skin was as gray as ash from a day old fire in an ancient home.

His scoff turned into a cough, “It’s about time.”

Vizen’s brow twitched up slightly, one of these. “Where would you like to go?”

“Heaven,” Mr. Meyers rasped.

It was Vizen’s turn to scoff. “It will cost you.”

Mr. Meyers’ lips turned up at one corner as his eyes shifted over to a desk, half covered in books and loose papers. “Pull out... Avalon …”

Vizen sighed, striding over to the desk. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books until she finally found the one she needed. Tipping it out, she stepped back as the desk opened. It spread out from the middle, like double doors swinging outward. The loose papers shifted, some fluttered to the ground.

Canting her head to the side, she studied the metal shelves. There were bills banded in stacks of thousands. There were several pouches and long velvet covered boxes. A few coin cases held coins of gold, silver, and bronze. A quick calculation told her that Mr. Meyers thought going to heaven was worth a few million.

“All that...is yours...more….than enough…” The old man rasped with a twist of his lips.

The money alone was enough. Vizen would never admit that aloud. She believed in allowing her clients to pay however much they felt was right. If she didn’t feel right about the amount, well, she took her dues in other ways. Like the IRS, she always got her money.

Vizen slid her bag onto the desk; disrupting the few papers remaining on the one side of the opening with it. She pulled out two vials: one of bright yellow light, another of purple and blue hues dancing in a silvery milk-like substance. Her hand enclosed around another jar and she felt the life flutter before she pulled it out of her bag.

A light green moth and a butterfly of white tangled their legs and wings together as they flapped in desperate attempts to escape the mason jar. She turned to the end of the bed, stepping over a pile of styrofoam on her way. Vizen jerked the thick, dark coverlet from his feet, uncovering his legs up to his knees.

He could use a pedicure. Or a chainsaw.

She smiled at the insects, setting the jar on the bed between Mr. Meyers’ immobile feet. A thing of beauty between yellowed claws on gray flesh.

“What…”

“My secrets are my own. Not even the dying deserve them,” Vizen interrupted, each word clipped. Chit-chat was not her forte. She just liked getting paid. She turned and began pulling everything out of the vault and dropping it into her bag.

The bag was black canvas. Decorated in all kinds of patches from Indie bands, pagan symbols, and some from her favorite books and movies. Patches that covered up, or were part of, the many spells the canvas had on it. She could use it for whatever she needed when she needed. All she had to do was think of it and the bag would manifest it.

Mary Poppins, eat your heart out.

Right now, the bag had a safe tucked in on of its folds, just big enough to hold her payment.

She shut the safe, locked it, and tucked the key into her jeans pocket after the last bill was placed safely inside. “Now, I appreciate your generosity. Are you ready?”

She began pulling up the sleeves of her hoodie. Opening the bottles, she smoothed the light liquid over her right arm. Spreading the swirling one over her left.

“I...wait...heaven?”

“Yes, Mr. Meyers. I will send you to heaven.” She let her arms dangle at her sides. The liquids slid over her arms, coating her from the elbows to fingertips like elegant ladies’ gloves. Not a drop hit the floor.

Vizen’s voice was low, melodic, as she began the enchantment. Arcane symbols began appearing in the thin layer of liquid; starting at her elbows and multiplying until the liquid gloves were covered with them. She tapped her foot, the jar lid twisted open to let the butterfly and moth flutter out.

Vizen caught them deftly between her thumb and index finger by their delicate bodies. Their wings fluttered frantically as she began the series of movements and hand symbols that accompanied the evocation. At the right time, a minute into the chant, Vizen folded the insects into her hands. Closing her hands, palms together as if in prayer. She took a deep breath, expelling it over her hands. A dark gray and silver ash spread over Mr. Meyers from her hands. It settled like a blanket over him.

The man before her did not take another breath.