Page 14 of Bitten By the Basilisk

“What was the outcome?”

“Unclear. I suppose I’ll find out at our next rehearsal.”

The Undrowned Pirate told the story of a pirate ship captain who slew a sadistic, witch-hunting minister and evaded capture for nearly five years before colonial “authorities” seized his ship and forced him to walk the plank.

To his crew’s surprise, he reappeared a day later, still alive, stole back his ship, and took the life of the corrupt magistrate who had tried to drown him.

Normie historians theorized he had climbed the ship’s anchor to get back aboard—not an easy feat with bound wrists—and had hidden in a secret compartment until the ship returned to shore. Never mind that two separate historical accounts stated the ship hadn’t dropped its anchor for his extrajudicial execution.

The play would present the real tale, although normies would assume it was a fictional retelling.

“As lovely as the bath is, I should head upstairs to sleep,” Mom sighed, water swishing as she sat up. “But you’re welcome to stay longer.”

“A few more minutes does sound nice,” she agreed, eyes still shut.

More water splashed as Mom exited the pool. The shuffle of fabric signaled she was drying off. “Feel free to sleep in tomorrow. I’ll be leaving early for tech rehearsal, but let’s meet for lunch.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Mom laughed. “Don’t fall asleep in there,” she affectionately warned.

“I won’t. Have a good night’s sleep, Mom.”

“You too, sweetie.”

Once her mom’s footsteps faded, Alice tried not to think about work or her mom’s attempts to lure her away from Chicago. Instead, she replayed the moment the local supe on his motorcycle had flipped up his visor to check her out.

Part of her wished she hadn’t caught her scarf. A rather physical part, which was currently tingling at the thought of that big biker driving them somewhere private and putting his hands on her, sliding them beneath her clothes, preparing her to take him.

In her fantasy, he wore nothing beneath his leather jacket, allowing her to grip his bare flanks and feel his muscles flex while he worked his hips between her legs.

The helmet would stay on, visor down so she could watch herself climax.

Ugh, she really needed to rub one out, but not here. Someone could come in at any time. Resolved to take care of herself elsewhere, she sat up and reached for the folded towel she’d left nearby—only to hurriedly cross her arms over her chest, the motion splashing water onto the floor.

“Oh my god!”

She wasn’t alone. Another hitodama hovered by the doorway. Or maybe it was the same one as earlier? It bobbed almost playfully from side to side, trailing pale-golden light.

“Oh. Hello again,” she said softly, pulse still racing.

The glowing orb swooped out of view toward the hall. When it didn’t reappear, she cautiously picked up her towel and stood. Keeping an eye on the doorway and the shifting light beyond, she stepped from the bath, dried off, and put her robe and spa slippers back on.

When she peeked into the short hall that led from the women’s bath to the main hallway, the hitodama rose in apparent excitement and floated ahead as though leading her somewhere.

She had no choice but to follow it out of the baths, intending to head toward the elevator and eventually her bed, but the second she reached the main hallway, the hitodama zoomed in the other direction, leaving behind a trail of duplicates that formed a lighted route.

“O…kay,” she said under her breath. Obviously, it wanted her to follow. Should she? What if this entity meant her harm? Saw her as an easy target? Her better judgment warned her not to be gullible, but her gut surprisingly didn’t agree.

She removed her spa slippers and held them in her hand as she padded silently down the hall toward a doorway, the top third of it blocked by a split curtain that had the Japanese character for sand embroidered on both sides. A discreet plaque next to the door read “Volcanic Sand Bath” in English.

The hitodama and its duplicates hovered close behind her, bathing her in soft, heatless light. Moving as quietly as possible, she entered far enough to see past the plain wood partition obstructing her view of the cozily lit room.

Three sizable pits of black volcanic sand took up most of the stone floor, separated by walkways of the same light-colored wood species as the walls, ceiling, and support pillars.

In the closest sand pit, a man lay on his stomach, partially submerged.

Correction—a ridiculously handsome man, whose muscular back deserved its own topographical map. He seemed to be asleep, his thick arms crossed beneath his cheek, eyes shut. His eyebrows were naturally steep, making even his relaxed expression appear wicked, and his clean jawline narrowed to a pointed chin.