Jhudora's Methods

     (One might argue that there was nothing all that surprising about this— Jhudora’s dark clouds of magic and occasional bouts of evil cackling were not uncommon choices for dark faeries. But if you could still understand her after she turned you into a Mortog, she would inform you that she was the reason the younger faeries made those choices. You only copied the best.)

     How had she ended up here? As with most distasteful things in her life, it had to do with Illusen.

     As Jhudora continued past the entrance of Faerie City, pointedly ignoring the gasps and screams she left in her wake, she remembered Illusen’s scheme with irritation. Fool she was, of course the earth faerie hadn't invited her to the Glade to show her an amazing new spell.

     “Did I say spell? I meant recipe.”

     Jhudora was loath to admit it, but the pudding really had been very good. Which was why she was doing this now.

     She didn't like owing anyone any favours.

     After walking for a few minutes, she came up on a little square. It was quaint, as most places in Faerieland were, with its cobblestoned streets and ornate iron street lamps. A cafe, with its tables spilling out onto the pavement outside, was milling with patrons— all of whom had paused, cups and sandwiches halfway to their mouths as they caught sight of the dark faerie.

     Jhudora pulled a piece of folded paper out of her pocket and squinted at the address on it, written in Illusen's loopy handwriting. Goodness, who needed that many loops?

     She cast her eyes around the square, searching for the right building. She saw a Kacheek manning a food cart. The little creature had his eyes fixed on her in fear, and was gripping a mustard tube so tight the condiment kept spilling out, piling up on the sausage in his hand and dripping down onto the cobblestone. Behind him, the patrons of a dress shop hid behind the mannequins, quivering as they watched her through the glass.

     Jhudora scoffed.

     She turned on her heel and stalked towards one of the buildings, eyes flicking down to the address one more time to confirm it was the right one. She tossed the scrap of paper over her shoulder. With a snap of her fingers, it burst into purple flames. The ashes were still falling as she entered the building and slammed the door behind her.

     Inside, she was greeted by disgustingly pink wallpaper— mercifully, it was faded. It was some sort of lobby, but it looked like no one had been there in years. Sheets covered the furniture. A thin layer of dust coated the checkered marble floor. A grand staircase was in front of her; the red carpet covering it was pilled and curling in at the edges.

     Before she had a chance to announce her presence, a nervous-looking Red Cybunny wearing a pantsuit appeared at the top of the stairs.

     “M-Miss Jhudora, I’m so glad you could come! Can I offer you some jui—”

     Jhudora held up a hand. “Skip the pleasantries. Where’s the ghost?”

     “J-just right through h-here, ma’am. Upstairs.”

     Jhudora felt the spirit’s presence as soon as the Cybunny unlocked the apartment door.

     She looked around the room with narrowed eyes. Yet another dress shop. How many clothes could a person have? But this one, just like the lobby downstairs, seemed to be abandoned. Mannequins wearing dusty silk dresses dotted the shop.

     Jhudora spotted something familiar. A green dress. She approached the mannequin wearing it, taking hold of a corner of fine silk between her fingers.

     “How interesting,” she commented, to no one in particular. “Illusen has one just like this.”

     The Cybunny looked distressed, opening and closing her mouth as if she was unsure how, or even if she was meant to respond to that.

     A fresh wave of irritation washed over Jhudora. “Whatever,” she grumbled. She turned to face the shop and spoke in an echoing, threatening voice. “Show yourself, spirit!”

     The Cybunny sharply inhaled and held her breath. A beat of silence. Two. Three.

     Nothing.

     Jhudora clicked her tongue in irritation. Stubborn spirit.

     “Go home,” she told the Cybunny, who was still holding her breath (and starting to look a little blue in the face), “I’ll be here till nightfall.”

     Jhudora stood at the window, face half in shadow. In the street below, strings of lanterns lit up the small square. Several more food carts had appeared at dusk, and pets walked around, eating all manner of treats as they went. The window of the dress shop was lit up like a screen on the opposite side of the street. A young Blumaroo twirled in her new dress, showing off for her clapping friends. Faint bits of music floated up to Jhudora’s window on the breeze.

     So silly, so frivolous.

     It reminded her of the post-festival dinners that the faeries kept inviting her to— the heavenly aroma of expertly spiced food, the lively chatter, and that melodious, clear tone of the clinking goblets that only faerie-made glassware could produce.

     Jhudora doesn’t know why she always went to them. It would always end with her getting into an argument with Illusen, both of them getting progressively more heated; while Aethia massaged her temples, and Baelia sank further and further into her chair as the volume rose.

     What was it last time? Ah, yes. When someone insults you, do you blacken the very earth they stand on, exact your revenge so that they never think to slight you again? Or, as Illusen thought, do you move on and pretend that taking the high road meant they would shrivel up in the divine light of your mighty morality?

     Ridiculous.

     And Jhudora had told her as much. But Illusen had insisted that protecting your inner peace was the most important thing.

     Just like always, it had ended with Fyora casting a disapproving look at them— that is, ended without a clear winner.

     Honestly, Jhudora had been faintly surprised when Illusen didn’t mention it when they last met. But she knew, oh, she knew that Illusen hadn’t forgotten it. Illusen never forgot, despite what everyone else believed.

     Jhudora rolled her eyes. Why was she still thinking about this? The moon was high enough now. Time to begin.

     She snapped her fingers, and a ball of purple flame appeared in front of her. It split into two, and then two again; each flame floating to a corner before expanding into a blaze. The room was bathed in violet light.

     Jhudora scanned the room.

     There.

     Huddled in the corner.

     It was a little White Aisha, pressed into the wall with her face tucked into her knees. She was translucent, the flowery pattern of the wallpaper behind her showing faintly through.

     Jhudora stalked over and poked the little Aisha with her foot.

     The ghost looked up, slowly turning her red-rimmed eyes up at the dark faerie.

     “What’s your name?” Jhudora asked. “What do you want?”

     “My name is Layla, and I’m so lonely,” she replied, in a sorrowful voice.

     Lonely. That should be easy enough, Jhudora thought.

     These little creatures always had the silliest regrets. It was easier to make it right than perform a complicated spell that would sever their connections to the material world.

     “Alright, Layla. What do you want me to do about that?”

     “I am so lonely,” the Aisha repeated. “No one remembers who I was. I used to be the most sought-after seamstress in all of Faerie City. Until that solstice gala.”

     Jhudora inspected her nails, bored. She usually skipped those. The Faerie society was just one gathering after another. “Oh yeah? Do tell.”

     “A person I thought was my friend stole my design, and she made it for another faerie. My client was humiliated at the gala. She told everyone I was the one who copied. My business was ruined.”

     The Aisha got up and floated towards the window. Jhudora followed. They both stood there, watching the dress shop across the street.

     Yes, Jhudora can see it now. The designs in the window all resemble the ones strewn about the dusty boutique.

     “And they just believed her?”

     The Aisha looked sideways at Jhudora. “Mirabelle gave my design to a dark faerie. She was not kind to my client. My client was so enraged that she would not listen to me. So I confronted Mirabelle in public, but she cried and screamed and turned it back on me. She accused me of being jealous.” The Aisha paused to sigh. “And in the end, it was two faeries’ words against mine. Mirabelle copied my design, but she managed to deliver her dress first. Of course, everyone thought I was the thief.”

     Oh. Now Jhudora knew what was going on.

     Illusen was using a bereft pet to prove her point.

     Honestly, Jhudora was impressed.

     (Illusen must never know.)

     “Let me guess,” Jhudora said. “You think you should have taken the high road instead. That it would have been better.”

     Layla nodded miserably. “Now I only wish to repair our friendship. Maybe I can’t ever have the recognition for my work. So be it. At least I will have someone to visit my grave. Please, help me apologise to my friend, and I—”

     “No.” Jhudora cut her off. Apologise? That was as good as letting Illusen win.

     “What?” Layla looked stricken. “No, please, you must help me.”

     Jhudora clicked her tongue in irritation. “Shut up and listen. You had the right idea. Your only mistake was not following through. When you strike, you should strike in a way that doesn't let your opponent retaliate. Leave it to me.”

     As morning broke, pets were greeted with the sight of Jhudora occupying one of the street-side tables at the cafe. The ones surrounding her were, of course, deserted.

     Good. Just how she liked it.

     The Kacheek who owned the food cart strolled up the street, whistles petering out when he saw her. He tried to stiffly march past with his head down, but Jhudora had found her victim.

     “Hey, you.”

     He froze.

     Jhudora beckoned him over with a taloned finger. “Yeah, you.”

     He approached, eyes wide and breathing rapidly.

     “I have a quest for you.”

     Jhudora spent a good three hours sending pets on quests. The only item she seemed to want this morning? A new dress.

     Honestly, Jhudora had thought it would only take one try. The shop she wanted the dress from was right across the street, for crying out loud. But she couldn't be too obvious about it, and everyone she snared was apparently too scared that she would think they were being lazy.

     Jhudora had taken to aggressively pointing at the shop with her eyebrows.

     Finally, a Lupe dared to look at her face when she spoke.

     And then, finally, a dress from Mirabelle’s shop.

     Jhudora took a deep breath to stop herself from grinning. This part was always fun.

     She exploded out of her seat, casting a spell of thunderous fire around her. The unfortunate Lupe stumbled backwards and fell, landing roughly against the cobblestone.

     “You dare to bring me shoddy work?” Jhudora yelled.

     The Lupe gasped and said something about it being one of the most reputed shops in the city.

     Jhudora fired back without missing a beat. “And yet, it is a copy of Layla's. You do know Layla?” She pointed at the window of Layla's abandoned boutique in case anyone did not know Layla. “I do not wear copies. And if you all—” she gestured around at all the pets in the square— “do not know this… Well, now you do. Perhaps you should get your money back.” Jhudora threw the dress back at the Lupe. “Get out of here.”

     Satisfied, she sat back down to enjoy her tea as the Lupe scrambled away. The crowd in the square, though they had given her a wide berth, had heard everything. They were beginning to murmur among themselves, throwing looks at Mirabelle's shop.

     Jhudora leaned back in her chair and looked up at Layla's window. It was empty, but the curtain fluttered, as if someone had just moved away from it.

     It was about thirty minutes later when Illusen slid into the seat on the other side of the table.

     She smiled pleasantly at Jhudora and picked up a forkful of her cake without even asking.

     “You're not one to slack off, so I'm sure the job was done,” she commented. “How did it go?”

     Jhudora held back one of her bouts of maniacal cackles. “Yes, and it was easy! I know what you were doing. But you failed! What brought her peace is my way, not yours!”

     Illusen nodded serenely. Irritating.

     “Well, I'm just glad you could help Layla.” She looked at the long line in front of Mirabelle's shop. Everyone was holding bundles of cloth. Inside, someone was arguing with a Red Acara, eventually throwing a bundle at her face.

     Illusen winced.

     Jhudora scoffed. “Surely you don't feel bad for the Acara. She doesn't deserve sympathy.”

     Illusen didn't quite nod, but Jhudora could tell she agreed.

     She sighed. “I felt oh so bad for Layla when it all happened.” Then, she smiled at Jhudora and picked up another forkful of cake. “I'm glad you helped her. I could never have done what you did, after all.”

     The End.