“And tell me, Little Miss I-Like-To-Play-With-The-Dark-Arts, how does it feel when someone keeps you stuck some place you don’t want to be?”
Rory had been hexed once himself for a week in 1980. He shuddered, recalling the feeling of his tongue weighed down with iron chains.
The band played “What I Lose Now” fourteen more times after that.
Even now, Rory would meet some listeners who insisted that every disco song sounded the same. They had no idea of the dark bargain that Sergio Sequin had struck to hold the top five spots on the chart at the same time with the same song.
Rory let the song’s C minor opening chord progression wash over him so that he could parse it. Fresh as sushi, yet with something incredibly familiar about it.
Ferrell had seen the Rain God of the good city of Reardon only a few times in his long life.
The plants were still producing, though they seemed to struggle; the broad zucchini leaves sagged like broken umbrellas, and the leaves of the basil and parsley curled inward as if they had tasted something sour.
The Rain God of Reardon had been missing from the city of almost a month and a half, and its absence was hurting everything. Including Ferrell’s business.
The empty rooms inside Mrs. Morton’s house felt large and cold. The empty space inside her chest felt larger and colder, and filled with a terrible draft.
“You know what it’s like,” he finally said, “to have a fox show up out of nowhere and start talking to you?”