Cauldron Anthology Issue 9: They Who Were Spurned cauldron9finalproof | Page 9

Lady Noir
E ssie D ee

The digging begins. Darkness of the woods obscures the view until a crescent moon comes
out of hiding, casting just enough doubt amongst the shadows. Late autumn frost makes for a solid
ground, thus the work is slow. And hard.

She wears a coat, leather jacket cut just above the hip. Unbuttoned. It swings as she digs,
covering and uncovering her grey t-shirt. A faded crest is splashed across it from some band or an-
other. Despite the late night breeze, thin raven hair mattes against her cheek and small beads of sweat
form above a manicured brow.

Her breath is heavy now, an occasional grunt as the shoveling carries her deeper. The ping of
metal on rock causes an under-breath curse. She wipes sweat from her hands against black designer
jeans, and kicks at the new foe with a worn down work boot. Too heavy to move? Hands on hips she
contemplates, blowing loose hair from her face with a strong exhale. An essence of luxury and refuse,
as though she were the resulting hybrid of a sports car and second hand sweater. Can she reach what
she has been digging for, or does the hole merely need to be deep enough?

A decision seems to have been made, and she peers out into the shadows, as if to ensure no
one is watching. Clambering out of the hole, she disappears for a moment into the fade of trees. Her
return is heard before it is seen, grunting under effort, distinct sound of something being dragged.
The leather has been discarded and a pendant once hidden beneath the shirt now swings free, dia-
monds glittering in the moonlight. With struggle and expletives, she rolls the overstuffed garbage
bags into the hurried pit. Three of them. She looks down at them, left brow and edge of lip turn up– a
sinister pleasure lurks about the eyes before she sets to hiding her work.

Returning to the car she tosses the shovel in the trunk, which closes with a thud. The jacket
is flung onto the passenger seat while the door slams hard behind her. As the old beater sways down
the gravel path she adjusts the rear-view mirror to peek in the back, winking at the scythe that sits
there.
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Cauldron Anthology