The Ossuary isn’t that hard to find, if you know where to look. Since breaching it without the Morrigan’s approval is impossible, the only security concern is its patrons being targeted for choosing to frequent it, and that runs afoul of the pact. There’s a portal to the extradimensional nightclub in almost every major city in the Pacific Northwest. Each portal rotates through a few dozen spots tucked away all across the city, with a few dedicated followers—some of whom have been barred from entering and can only engage by snooping—in each city tracking those locations and keeping maps updated on various sites and forums. If you’re the type to obsess over witches and magical girls, you’ll run into one of those maps eventually. There’s still the problem of getting there, of course; the portals aren’t usually found until the evening, probably by design, and I used to rely on public transit to go anywhere far from the apartment. Now, however, I can fly. The entrance itself is fairly noticeable, being an archway of skulls set seamlessly into a brick wall. The doors appear to be solid steel, but they glide open easily at the slightest touch. The portal, revealed behind the doors, is a featureless black void. I step through without hesitation. On the other side, a simple antechamber awaits. It's largely featureless, just gray walls and a gray floor, except for a black stone podium in front of a sharply-dressed skeleton. The skeleton greeter tips its pure white top hat as it gives a slight bow. “Good day, madam, and welcome to the Ossuary. Are you familiar with the rules of this establishment and the sacred laws of the Morrigan?” He has the voice of a kindly old man, genteel and weathered, which only mostly lines up with the clacking of his jaw. “I am,” I confirm, rather delighted by the creature in front of me. There’s something so wonderfully old-fashioned about a witch having familiars that are walking, talking skeletons. “Then you may proceed at your leisure.” A second black portal appears behind and to the left of the skeleton, just as blank as the first portal. I walk through with a nod of thanks and enter the Ossuary proper. There are no pictures of the Ossuary thanks to its magically-enforced policy against recording, but I’ve still read plenty of descriptions from people who’ve been inside. I thought that would prepare me, but I was completely wrong. The Visage Spire is a piece of architecture that can only exist in a world with magic, but at the end of the day a levitating structural component isn’t that far from what magnets are capable of. It looks impressive, sure, but it doesn’t look wondrous. A clever architect could probably achieve a similar effect with well-disguised steel cable. The Ossuary is not a piece of architecture. The walls of the central, conical chamber are the ribs of a leviathan more vast than the sea’s greatest whale, the space between each rib filled not with sinew or brick but simply more bone, ten thousand outstretched limbs intertwining, and the whole thing expands and contracts at a steady rhythm like the structure itself is somehow breathing. A hole in the top of the ribcage leads to an unknowable realm of witches, while below is the twisting geography of the Ossuary’s mortal layer, where spaces for dancing and drinking are divided by pillars of skulls, and where winding hallways lead to private nooks. Candles drift through the air as if pulled by invisible string, burning cold blue and searing red to light the floor below and fill the world with color. If the scenery and the skeletal staff give the Ossuary the vibe of a lich’s ziggurat, the clientele shift it toward a vampire’s nightclub instead. My gaze flits across the dance floor and through the lounge areas, picking out detail after detail. There are the Halloween true believers, of course. Five girls wearing Harley Quinn, five others dressed as unbranded clowns. Freddie Mercury clinking beers with two David Bowies. A dozen variations of the classic “sexy witch” costume. A Sith Lord holding a Twi’lek’s leash. A pair of greasers, a pair of steampunk enthusiasts, a pair of sexy nuns. That much is about what I’d expect from an adult Halloween party, but that’s not all the Ossuary hosts. Short skirts and tight tops, fishnet shirts and pasties, plenty of skin bared across the boys and the girls, and then add on leather straps, kitty ears, latex suits, and so many kinds of collars. There are as many people in BDSM-adjacent outfits as there are in fits like Bombshell tried to shove me into. It’s a stereotype to say that the kind of person who desires a witch must be submissive, but it’s probably true more often than not. Witches and magical girls both hit all the classic desirability hallmarks of celebrity—attractive, wealthy, and famous—but witches have that edge of bad girl danger that tends to attract the more extreme personalities. If you want to have sex with a witch—and so, so many people in this room want to have sex with a witch—you’re probably into being dominated by women, or you feel very unreasonably confident about your odds of pulling a witch that wants to let you lead. I can see a few guys and gals around the floor whose outfits lean in a more dominant direction, but they’ll have better luck picking off the more desperate mortals in the crowd. Mortals, huh? What a funny word to be using like it’s completely normal to say and think. At the start of this month I was one of the freaks in this room, only toward magical girls instead of witches (and one magical girl in particular). I was just another pathetic human pining after superhumans and wishing I could be with them, be like them, be them. And now I am them. Now I’m more than human, more than mortal, more than a leech or hanger-on. I’m the thing all these people are obsessed with. I’m a witch. It almost makes me feel confident in my appearance! Almost. I’ve been trying to think of my outfit as another layer of disguise over my true self, but I’m not kidding anyone; I’m still incredibly nervous and embarrassed. I came to the club in shorts, tights, and a leather jacket over a crop top. The black lipstick is mine, but the rest of my makeup was supplied and applied by Hannah. The pièce de résistance of my outfit, which I’m simultaneously most proud of and most nervous about, is a set of bright purple acrylic nails that glow in the dark, with two nails cut short for… signaling. I take a deep breath, let it out, and merge into the crowd. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. The air is warm from too many bodies pressed against each other and writhing. Chaotic music and the stomp of boots and heels vibrates through flesh and bone. The candles shine down, brighter than any flame yet casting so much shadow. A cacophony of light and sound and heat drowns me in its careless embrace, a maelstrom of skin and song and the stench of sweat. There is a flow to the throng like the movements of celestial spheres through the heavens above, but I am an interloper passing by a foreign star and I do not belong among these orbits. It’s just a jumble of heat and matter, and the longer I stay here the more likely I am to crash, burn, and break apart. The girl beside me is dazzling in motion and her eyes are shining in the candlelight, but if I get lost in her eyes I’ll end up on the floor, and there are too many elbows and the breath of a hundred strangers is hot against my neck and cloying on my skin. I don’t belong here. I slip out of the crowd and rush to the bar, nearly tripping over myself in my haste to get away from the panic attack I can feel coming on. I haven’t had sensory overstimulation that bad in years. My skin is still crawling. I slump onto a barstool and wave a hand at one of the skeletons manning the bar, this one wearing a red bowtie and an immaculate white apron. “Pass me a shot,” I call. “Your worst vodka, if you please.” “Coming right up,” she chirps, voice surprisingly youthful and peppy compared to the first one I heard talking. She plucks a bottle, pours me a glass, and sets it in front of me. “I’ll put it on your tab, Ms. Emily,” she says, and I get the feeling that if she could wink with an empty eye socket she would. The staff—or the Ossuary itself, or however that works—know me, and they probably know my other identity, too. Well, I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. “Thanks.” I pound back the shot and savor the pain of shitty alcohol burning its way down my throat. God, that sucks. Just what the doctor ordered. The unpleasant sensation of cheap vodka pushes away the chaos of the club even before the ethanol kicks in to dull my awareness. I look past the skeleton for a menu and am amused to discover a certificate proudly proclaiming the bar FDA-approved, another certificate for the Canadian equivalent, and a dozen passing grades from health inspectors across the PNW. I don’t think there’s an organization in either country that could actually stop the Morrigan from operating, so there’s something almost adorable about the commitment to meeting their standards regardless. “Wings,” I request of the fleshless bartender. “Cajun, with blue cheese dipping sauce. And a gin and tonic, please and thank you.” While the skeleton gets working on my next drink and passes the food order to the kitchen—I catch a glimpse of a skeleton in a chef hat, amazing—I fish my phone out of my pocket and open the group chat. I can’t take pictures inside the Ossuary, but I can text just fine. Alexandria: i fffuccckkin hate clubssssss!!!!!!!!!! Alexandria: oh my god itsloud in here Alexandria: i tried to dance but i cant dance and also there are so many people and they are so loud and the music is loud as FUCK Alexandria: im doing the thing mike does and getting BOOZE to cut the sensory edge Alexandria: so uh. report back in a minute if successful Alexandria: or like five minutes i did get wings Alexandria: served by a skeleton!!!! this place would rock if it was empty I put my phone down and take another look around the bar, sipping the drink that came while I was texting. There’s a guy next to me in suspenders and taped glasses chowing down on sushi like it’s his last supper. I don’t have anything better to do while I’m waiting for my food and a reply from my friends, so I say, “Dig the costume. Is the sushi really that good?” He swallows a roll, washes it down with what I’m pretty sure is soju, and answers, “Eh, it’s decent, but more importantly it’s the only place I can eat it. I’m allergic to salmon and tuna.” “You poor bastard,” I commiserate. “Shit sucks! But hey, gotta give thanks to magic, right?” One of the quirks of the Ossuary is that it has two sets of rules: one set that fits what you’d expect to see governing conduct in any club, and one set termed the “sacred laws of the Morrigan.” The first set will incur immediate punishment for violating them, but the second set physically cannot be broken. That includes a law of hospitality which says food and drink served in the Ossuary cannot harm its patrons, which prevents food poisoning but also goes so far as to nullify allergies while eating—and digesting, so no surprise reaction after leaving—the Ossuary’s food. You also can’t reach dangerous levels of alcohol in your blood no matter how much you drink; it’ll always cap out just below your body’s safe limit. Magic is so cool. “Cheers, I’ll drink to that.” I raise my glass and knock back another gulp as my wings arrive. I dig in, and after a minute of ravenous consumption I notice my phone beep and check the group chat again. Mordacity: u should have taken an edible like i told you to Mordacity: witch form can purge non-magical toxins there’s a paper on it a single femur: I can’t imagine anything going wrong with taking a drug that alters your senses before stepping into a sensory overload environment a single femur: Your wisdom is truly unparallelled, I doff my cap to thee Mordacity: bah, i say. bah! it would have been fine, would have loosened her up Alexandria: im not getting high before meeting witches even if i can purge it Alexandria: the alcohol is working fine i had a hsot Mordacity: so true bestie Alexandria: tjat was a normal typo my hands are covered in wing sauce it spicy Mike Trout: yooo the Mike Trout Method! We are gaming Mike Trout: Remember to drink lots of water, especially if you’re already on your third hsot. And I know it probably doesn’t matter because witch protections but you still shouldn’t accept any drink you didn’t see the bartender put in front of you. a single femur: What exactly was the point of doing this in the first place Alexandria: “perspective” Alexandria: which i dont believe in actually but whatever it wasnt too bad and now i have delicious wings seriously these things are great “Hey, girl!” Hannah greets me, tearing my attention away from my phone as she pats my shoulder and grins. She’s even more glittery than usual, and swirling something pink in a wineglass with three different berries on the rim. I gulp down another chunk of chicken. “Hannah, hey. We good to go?” She pouts. “Aw, c’mon, weren’t you gonna dance?” “Tried,” I grimace. “I think I’d rather not.” She sees the look on my face and softens. “I’m sorry it wasn’t good for you. Thanks for trying, anyway. When you’re done with your food, follow me and we can get started.” I scarf down the last of my wings and guzzle the gin and tonic, ready to set this form aside and upgrade to a better one. And then, round two.