buildings?”
She smiled and gestured toward the door from which she’d come. “Perhaps I should show you around.”
Chapter Nine
Brighid McAlister turned another page and smoothed it, pressing it flat against her legs, trying to acquire the dream-like state that often overtook her when she examined the shrubs and flowers depicted there. She wished she could dematerialize and reappear inside the magazine, become a part of that world where she could sit on the beautiful garden bench and feel its slats against her legs as it suspended her above the fertile soil.
Still unfortunately grounded in her own reality, Brighid put the magazine aside. She couldn’t get the phone call she’d received earlier off her mind. It had been Becket, claiming to have seen her at Cymry’s Friday night, flirting with some man, a man she had left with. She had no memory of this, only vague images of meeting someone in the parking lot, and waking up in her car the next morning. The thought of it sent a current of anxiety running through her. Sure she experimented now and then, but never with anything serious and she wasn’t habitual, not even close. Had never blacked out before. All she’d had last night was a shot of scotch, maybe two. She knew she’d been drugged.
Brighid picked up her coffee, wrapping her fingers around the cup, feeling the warmth of its contents as it radiated through the stoneware, and she brought it to her lips and drank, holding the cup with both hands. When she put the cup down, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster, a distorted image caused by the imperfect surface, which she thought quite appropriate. She wasn’t quite sure if what people got with her, was not what they saw or if what they saw was not what they got, but it didn’t matter really because it all boiled down to the same thing. There was a part of her that no one ever touched because it was so peculiar that even she could not grasp it, not entirely. She once believed she could make it go away, if she wished it hard enough. She no longer harbored that illusion. Her grandmother had tried to explain. “You’re different,” she would say. “You have a gift.”
Had someone at the bar given her something, slipped it into her drink? Yes, she thought they had but that wasn’t all. Her purse had been emptied as well. She was five days late on the rent, she had no money, and she hadn’t pulled a trick in . . . three days that she knew of. She was afraid to; afraid it might happen again. A thought she’d been trying to avoid snaked through her. Perhaps it had not been drugs at all but magick that had been used against her. Someone had attacked her in a way that was all too personal. She brought her hand across her stomach, touching the tattoo that ran along the left side and prayed for the gods to give her strength.
Brighid pushed away from the table and went to the sink where she washed her coffee cup, performing the act more out of rote memory than anything else, and she began to cry. Why had she allowed herself to get in such a state? The drugs and the partying had caused her to forget her ways, and the gods had done this to gain her attention. She thought about Douglass, the quiet man she’d met at the Full Moon. His interest in her had been genuine, so much so that it had frightened her, and she’d feigned a lack of interest to discourage him. It had worked, though not immediately, and it had been as much for his sake as it had for hers. The bashful gentleman with a verifiable lack of self-interest deserved no place in her world. Then again, such an unconditional act of kindness on her part could be construed as evidence of her evolution, her growth toward a way of life that wasn’t so self-centered.
She pushed her hair back. Perhaps she could change, crawl out of her universe and slip into his. The more she toyed with the idea, the more attractive it became. It could be as simple as knocking on his door; her way out of
She smiled and gestured toward the door from which she’d come. “Perhaps I should show you around.”
Chapter Nine
Brighid McAlister turned another page and smoothed it, pressing it flat against her legs, trying to acquire the dream-like state that often overtook her when she examined the shrubs and flowers depicted there. She wished she could dematerialize and reappear inside the magazine, become a part of that world where she could sit on the beautiful garden bench and feel its slats against her legs as it suspended her above the fertile soil.
Still unfortunately grounded in her own reality, Brighid put the magazine aside. She couldn’t get the phone call she’d received earlier off her mind. It had been Becket, claiming to have seen her at Cymry’s Friday night, flirting with some man, a man she had left with. She had no memory of this, only vague images of meeting someone in the parking lot, and waking up in her car the next morning. The thought of it sent a current of anxiety running through her. Sure she experimented now and then, but never with anything serious and she wasn’t habitual, not even close. Had never blacked out before. All she’d had last night was a shot of scotch, maybe two. She knew she’d been drugged.
Brighid picked up her coffee, wrapping her fingers around the cup, feeling the warmth of its contents as it radiated through the stoneware, and she brought it to her lips and drank, holding the cup with both hands. When she put the cup down, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster, a distorted image caused by the imperfect surface, which she thought quite appropriate. She wasn’t quite sure if what people got with her, was not what they saw or if what they saw was not what they got, but it didn’t matter really because it all boiled down to the same thing. There was a part of her that no one ever touched because it was so peculiar that even she could not grasp it, not entirely. She once believed she could make it go away, if she wished it hard enough. She no longer harbored that illusion. Her grandmother had tried to explain. “You’re different,” she would say. “You have a gift.”
Had someone at the bar given her something, slipped it into her drink? Yes, she thought they had but that wasn’t all. Her purse had been emptied as well. She was five days late on the rent, she had no money, and she hadn’t pulled a trick in . . . three days that she knew of. She was afraid to; afraid it might happen again. A thought she’d been trying to avoid snaked through her. Perhaps it had not been drugs at all but magick that had been used against her. Someone had attacked her in a way that was all too personal. She brought her hand across her stomach, touching the tattoo that ran along the left side and prayed for the gods to give her strength.
Brighid pushed away from the table and went to the sink where she washed her coffee cup, performing the act more out of rote memory than anything else, and she began to cry. Why had she allowed herself to get in such a state? The drugs and the partying had caused her to forget her ways, and the gods had done this to gain her attention. She thought about Douglass, the quiet man she’d met at the Full Moon. His interest in her had been genuine, so much so that it had frightened her, and she’d feigned a lack of interest to discourage him. It had worked, though not immediately, and it had been as much for his sake as it had for hers. The bashful gentleman with a verifiable lack of self-interest deserved no place in her world. Then again, such an unconditional act of kindness on her part could be construed as evidence of her evolution, her growth toward a way of life that wasn’t so self-centered.
She pushed her hair back. Perhaps she could change, crawl out of her universe and slip into his. The more she toyed with the idea, the more attractive it became. It could be as simple as knocking on his door; her way out of
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