I Witch: The Powers of the Blood and the Heart
Erin Munday
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Erin Munday
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ISBN: 978-0-9865114-0-0
Language used for spells:
Wales Website from alphaDictionary.com (English – Proto-Celtic, Proto-Celtic – English)
Accessed July 2008 – July 2009
http://www.wales.ac.uk:80/resources/documents/englishprotocelticwordlist.pdf
Cover:
St-Amant, Martin. “Panorama of Toronto.” Sunset. Wikipedia 09/09/2009. 12/09/2009.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:122_-_Toronto_-_Septembre_2009.jpg >. Image distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License
This book is dedicated to,
Mom, Dad, and Am
To Janet S.
(Who gave me a journal
And pen
And told me to get writing)
And especially to my husband
(Who waits, and explains, and helps
And laughs – sometimes AT me)
Day Off
I finished typing the sentence and brought both hands down flat on my keyboard, resisting the impulse to mash the keys.
I got up too quickly nearly upending my stone-cold coffee on the floor, and looked back at the blazing white screen of my indifferent computer. It wasn’t its problem that there had never been anything so unoriginal or dull written by anyone, anywhere, ever – and it didn’t care.
Leaning over, I saved the drivel I had just written in toto because I couldn’t look at it long enough to sort out what to delete. Probably all of it.
I’d just huddled in my perpetually gloomy basement for over four hours, letting my nose get cold and doggy for what?
Shivering, I clicked ‘shut down’ and didn’t stick around to hear my c.p.u. fan grind to a halt.
I left my bag of wintergreen pink mints behind; they’re hard and I bite down on them, and my jaw was aching from it. Which probably caused the headache that was coming on, or maybe it was hunger; candy isn’t food.
Trying to drive my feet through steps that squeaked in protest, I climbed up to my much warmer kitchen straining to draw a calming breath, and I forced myself to stop seeing everything through a red and black haze.
My poor coffee encrusted mug, I set carefully on the counter, before I could break it. It’s my favorite; it holds about two and a half cups. Whenever I was home, I’d nurse it all day long and reheat it to the point of inducing some sort of chemical change in the coffee. Maybe one of these days if I never wrote anything that wasn’t trite garbage, I’d invent yoffee; a new coffee flavored yogurt that was good for you, and would keep you wide awake. I had to calm down before I gave myself a brain tumor.
I went upstairs and considered myself in the bathroom mirror.
Now I am expecting my usual pasty colouring as I have some olive to my skin, which unless I’m deeply tanned and the sun lightens my hair; goes sort of pale and sickly looking in the winter. People are always asking me if I’m feeling all right. ‘I’m fine; just a little tired of being asked that, why?’ Sigh. ‘You’re beautiful when you’re angry.’ I don’t know where that expression came from, but at this second it’s true, or at least… reasonably pretty. My short bout of temper has flushed my cheeks, offsetting my best feature; my green eyes, and since I haven’t fooled with my hair, and its just being itself, its flowing in long, full tangles, almost to my waist.
Yeesh, flowing to my waist?
‘Flowing?’
The ever-present winter wind throws huge wet snowflakes (popcorn) at the bathroom window. I guess ‘flowing’ was a bit ‘romance novel’ even for the wind.
Who do I think I am? Besides, it doesn’t say much that it hangs to my waist, in that I am only 5 feet tall. I’m quite curvy, but too short for people to notice. I also have tiny features so I’ll always look young; just good genes, so nothing really for me to be proud of.
How negative can you be?
The wind shakes the window, laughing at me for my tragic pity-party. Just get in the shower, Meagan. Mmmm, the best part of any day. The water is too hot for most people, and if you let it pound straight down on the top of your head, it’s as though it slides through you and fills you up with heat, chasing out all of the cold through the bottoms of your feet. I’m usually in there about a half hour, but this time…
I have my hair in a big, sudsy, cotton-candy pile on top of my head when my vision goes blurry, and I hear a high-pitched tone like the emergency broadcast system on TV; only higher.
My first thought is that I’m having a stroke, then I start thinking about getting shampoo in my eyes, and I shut them and bring my hands up to wipe at my face.
Suddenly dizzy, my shins make jarring impact with the stone tiles in the bottom of the shower, and my forehead connects with the thin marble edge of the seat, fortunately for the integrity of my skull in slow motion. The sound grows in volume and goes up higher and higher until it’s out of the range of my hearing.
I remain there eyes squinched shut waiting for my head to clear, but behind my eyelids, instead of patterns like a reverse negative from the pressure of my fingers against them, I see a face as clearly as the replay in my head of a scene in a beloved much watched movie, except with no background, and it starts out as a black and white. He – it’s a guy, young or old I can’t tell yet - is vaguely familiar… like maybe I met him at work.
As colours begin to come in, he is looking straight into my eyes from what would be no more than a foot away.
The man says my name but his lips don’t move, which would be kind of creepy, but for the fact that his voice is even more familiar, almost comforting, if hearing the voice of every fantasy lover you’ve ever imagined all rolled into one could be considered comforting.
Then he’s gone. That fast.
Maybe twelve seconds start to finish?
I begin to unfold myself from the floor, and gasp in shock. My knees protest as I spring up and slam into the wall scrambling to get out from under the water. It is literally ice cold; and as I start to shudder and glower at the shower head, I wonder in passing how it’s managed to flow through the pipes in my house.
I shove the shower head over so it points against the wall, push the tap in to turn it off, and open the glass door on the blessedly steamy bathroom.
Longer than you thought, if condensation has built up?
Could I have really been in there so long that the hot water ran out? So much for my hair. The shampoo has probably destroyed it being on that long. And I can’t rinse off in that water!
With one eye jammed shut against the stinging assault of shampoo film oozing over my face, I grab a towel, and head downstairs in the light from the bathroom to boil some water in the kettle so I can rinse off.
My hands are still slippery and I can’t get a good grip on the darned thing to fill it, so without thinking I turn on the tap and run my hand under the water. It’s warm! And getting hotter as I stand there with my hand in it.
Before it has a chance to go away, I duck my head under and rinse frantically, spitting out shampoo, and yelling every time I bump my head on the faucet.
I come out of it, towel off my face and hair, and rewrap myself wondering vaguely if I’ve given the neighbours an eye-full. I only have the light on over the stove so perhaps not. It finally occurs to me to wonder how the water heated up so fast.
I go back upstairs and check the tap in the shower to see how hot I had it. Pretty darned hot; so I hadn’t bumped it over to cold when I sort of fell. Ok, the water had been numbing, unbelievably, painfully cold. Well, I’m not going to sort it out standing here, freezing my backside off.
Grumbling and prying my wet hair from the back of my neck, I get back in, taking only a second to sigh in pleased gratitude for the heat, and I condition my hair and wash in record time. I’m not taking any chances with the water turning cold this time!
I’m just toweling off, for the second time tonight, when the phone rings. Perfect.
I snag my deodorant and run for the phone, cursing as I trip over various and sundry items on my bedroom floor between the door and the dresser on the far side of the room.
“Whoever you are, you better have a bloody good reason for bothering me right now,” I snarl, as I reach for the cordless, and answer it in my little kid voice.
It’s Shannon calling me long distance and its fine, because it’s her, and I tell her all about my phantom shower man.
“We used to tease each other about our elaborate nightmares and dreams, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of either of us having one when we’re awake,” she laughs. “So you don’t know who it was?”
“At the time I thought I knew him, but I can’t place him.” And then I add something I know my friend will love; “Well the bright side is, from what little I saw, he was easy on the eyes, unlike the shampoo.”
“What little you saw,” she asks slyly. “Meagan! I’m shocked and appalled.” She pauses then adds, “Well less shocked, just appalled.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. She joins in and soon we sound much like I imagine the witches of Macbeth must have. By this time, I’m more or less dry, and my sodden towel is on the back of the bedroom door. Shannon has to put her youngest to bed, and I have to blow-dry my hair, or I’ll freeze when I’m trying to sleep.
I let Shannon go finally; you know how it is, a half hour after I start trying to, and my stomach hurts from laughing so much. I haven’t heard from her since I called to wish her happy birthday and I spent way too long venting. I’m glad she’s called me. Ever since high school, I’ve always over-shared and felt more than a bit selfish for it, and I guess I’m still grateful she’ll put up with me. She has this spirituality that has little to do with religion, which is still immensely comforting.
As I play the hot blast of the dryer over my hair and skin, I realize I forgot to tell her about the icy coldness that interrupted my ablutions more thoroughly than any vision could have. I’ve considered heading for bed, but I still feel chilled (sleepier and more relaxed than if Shannon hadn’t called me), but still somewhat unnerved.
On my way downstairs I flip lights on, one light in each room in a corner or to one side to create warmth without being blinding. I move faster and faster until I reach the kitchen and here I turn on all of the lights. The problem with strategically placed lighting is it also creates shadows and my imagination is now in hyper-drive. I felt someone behind me as I fairly ran through my home and in the living room I glanced outside several times; certain someone was on the deck watching me.
I rinse the soap off the kettle, fill it, and settle into the breakfast nook while it boils. Yes, I’m a nook person and I’m taking comfort in the coziness of my kitchen right now. It has a large bay window facing the lake and tons of light pours through it during the day. Day or night though, it’s always the warmest room in the house. It’s insulated by the rest of the house from most of the wind that whistles and moans incessantly over my home in the winter. Sometimes I think the wind has spent too long away from people playing out over the lake; and at the first signs of civilization upon it’s return, it starts chattering away about all that it’s seen to the first beings who will listen. My house is one of the closest to the water so that often means me.
My fat orange cat Tigger, jumps into my lap and sets up purring so loudly he drowns out the rattle-pops the kettle makes as it begins to heat up even though he can’t compete with the wind humming outside the window to me. I take a deep breath and let it out, letting all of the noisy little thoughts and impulses fall out of my mind.
I hug him, and scratch his ears and he sticks his claws into my arm and kneads; kitty love at it’s finest. I know where I’ve seen that guy! (My brain must have kept thinking on a quieter channel). Not work, in fact I shouldn’t have met him at all. If I hadn’t missed the bus after I got off the subway, and gone into the coffee shop for something to warm myself up, instead of the bookstore, I never would have seen him, let alone had him sort of invite himself to my table. He wasn’t rude about it, he spotted it first and since it was the only empty one left, and he was offering it to me, when he sat down it almost felt as though I’d invited him. He spoke politely, and very softly, barely above a whisper.
I wonder how I could hear him so clearly, he didn’t ever seem to lean in close to make himself heard nor do that macho lean-in-too-close-and-laugh-at-her-when-she-pulls-back thing some guys did when they thought they were flirting. He’d had sunglasses on, highly reflective ones that left me wondering what type of insecure tool had to try so hard. Since that ‘insecure tool’ had just treated me so chivalrously and wasn’t openly leering at me, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. We might have had a conversation if not for so many people pressed up behind him, in line for some infusion to take the chill off. He spent most of his time apologizing to them when they bumped him, when we weren’t making distracted small-talk about the weather.
Ashamed of myself for judging him so harshly on the eyewear, I watched him wrap his long fingers around a cup of hot chocolate, dressed just the way I would have liked it; with the shaved chocolate curls on top, and attributed the warmth in my cheeks to my coffee’s steam. It had absolutely nothing to do with his appearance or what that did to my wits, I swear. He had fair skin, smooth and flawless. And the man’s cheekbones and jaw-line were some kind of wonderful too. Sculpted, like they say in all the juicy romance novels; a bit exotic, like some European model. I wanted to trace the shape of his face with my fingers. His hair, like really good black hair, wasn’t just black, but had red and sometimes blue flashes in it under the café lights and even pulled back it reached almost to his waist. Wait a second.
How did I see his eyes in the…well…shower-vision episode? He never removed his shades that one and only time I saw him in the coffee shop.
Was it one and only? I wrack my brain endeavoring to figure out if I’d passed him on the subway or the bus or somewhere, anything that would have let me notice the colour of his eyes.
Is my imagination that incredible?
That’s probably all it was…but whoever even daydreamed eyes like this?
Begin with two large perfect sapphires, that throw light and shadow back at you, as suddenly as some spot light in a dance club, and which shakes you the way the thundering beat of the music pushes at your stomach, and makes you giddy and later sometimes hungry. Set these precious stones in twin pools of some Bermudian lagoon, and then ring them in evergreen trees, blue spruce, cool and damp. Lashes that would have every super model cheerfully killing people to possess screen them, and the lines of those eyes sweep upward at the outer edges, as though he were always on the verge of laughing, or just really enjoying himself.
The kettle snaps off, and I jump and crack one knee into the table.
I glance around the kitchen guiltily as if someone could have seen, or overheard my dreamy internal monologue on some guy’s eyes. It’s probably a good thing I never saw them in person or I would have followed him home. Cripes!
I limp over to the counter. Usually, I pad around in my bare feet even on the kitchen tile, but since I’ve been so chilly, I’ve stuck a pair of double knit slippers from my Gram on them.
Just as I’m about to pour, a thought occurs that nearly makes me dump the kettle and the scalding water in it everywhere.
I put my other hand on the kettle and carefully ease it back onto the stand. My hands are shaking so hard; holding them together doesn’t stop it.
I back away from the counter until I bump into the other one, as though the question I’ve just asked myself somehow came from the opposite side of the kitchen, and I could escape from it simply by putting distance between where I asked it and where I stand.
Pressing my hands flat on the cold granite behind me, I continue reassuring myself that it was just my imagination that conjured this man into the shower with me, that he isn’t real, even if he is based on a real person, I sort of met. But the sound, the dizziness, the ice water?
What was all of that?
How could that have been in my head? I take a deep breath, and another, and fold my arms tightly across my chest. I never did any drugs at all, not even the marijuana that half of the senior girls hid in the girl’s washroom on the second floor by English lit and smoked until the place reeked. So no acid trip flashbacks or anything for me.
I attempt to laugh at this lame attempt at humor which I somehow thought would cheer me up, and my throat is so dry I just start coughing.
And if I’m not insane and it wasn’t all in my head, I ask myself eyes watering, then what?
It was still all in my head in a sense, because what?
Someone was contacting me telepathically? That is what I’m asking myself. Looking around my dazzlingly bright kitchen, all I’m aware of is the nighttime darkness pushing heavily at the windows and the wind’s voice climbing in pitch as it saws past above me. I take a deep breath again, but it still doesn’t seem to be helping greatly.
I mean, what else is there? Either I met a real man and had a frighteningly vivid waking dream about him that could have caused me to injure myself, which included auditory and tactile hallucinations, or I was just contacted via telepathy by someone I don’t know, who can seize control of my senses, and can step inside my head and seduce me with his eyes.
Oh, and by the way, the thought that really gives me the willies? The thought that still has me flattened up against far counter as if I’d found a scorpion in the cutlery drawer?
If it’s the second one, the only place he could have gotten my name between the coffee shop I never go into, and my upstairs bathroom was my mind.
Monday Morning
“Good Morning, and thank you for calling, this is Meagan, how may I help you?”
I type in the telephone number that pops up to the right of my screen saying, “Alright sir, I just need your name, and I can help you right away.”
Another pause, “Thank you, I’m bringing up your information here; what is the name on the account, please?”
Around me, a half dozen other voices both male and female that have become as familiar as my own, say much the same thing, overlapping and blending together, like the pigeons at the bus terminal. Strangely comforting after last night. No matter that I’m most probably losing my mind, the call centre will always go on. As long as our jobs aren’t outsourced, that is.
With no small effort, I focus on what the customer is saying. “I understand, and I know who can help us with this, that must have been frustrating. If you can hold on a sec, I’ll get them on the line, and they’ll give us a hand. I’m dialing them now, and as long as we’re waiting, I noticed on your bill -”
I try to sell him a service, even though I can tell he’d like to strangle me, and probably every person in the entire hierarchy of the company from the president to the kid who delivered his phonebook. We have to make an effort to sell on every call, and this one would actually save him money on his phone bill.
He informs me “I don’t want anything else on my goddam bill!” and I thank him for his time and for choosing our company for his service and place him on hold after asking his permission to do so.
Billing picks up, and the obviously new guy who answers is already quite sure this isn’t his problem. I’m explaining to him, how to use his software to accomplish just what I’m asking; when a rushing… no, a thundering water sound starts to fill my head, and I can barely hear myself coaching him.
I dimly make out his acceptance of the call, and I transfer the customer, thank him for holding, and introduce him to the billing rep to the accompaniment of the feeling of cool moisture, misting on my face.
I hit the release button, log out of my phone and stand up so fast, my chair bounces off the back of the cubicle with an abused rattle-creak.
The partition wall responds with a cloud of the ever-present dust – why are all office partitions so dusty? No matter how new the office or the furniture in it; the spongy things that divide vast office spaces into claustrophobic little cubicles are perpetually full of dust. Maybe they’re shipped that way. I wonder what they’re made out of as I sneeze three times.
Looking around, I meet one or two pairs of eyes above the partitions; most are focused on their screens. My face goes hot, then back to cool and damp, and at first I wonder how I could be so embarrassed in front of friends who get as worked up sometimes, as I can; and who’ve also heard my explosive sneezes before. It’s not as though this is the first time I’ve stood up to catch my breath and put some distance between myself and a recent call, or the first time my face has filled up from cubicle dust.
You don’t honestly think they have any idea of what’s really going on inside your skull, do you Meagan? Get a grip.
I press my fingers to my cheeks alternately seeking a source for this wet feeling, and trying to jam the sensation right out of my face through sheer force of will and brute strength. Offices are dry and dusty, not cool and refreshing. And they are supposed to smell like recycled air that reminds you of all the other warm bodies living in it besides yourself. They are not supposed to smell tangy and clean. Not only will the damp feeling not leave me, but this tingling, burning sensation starts on my neck and begins travelling down my shoulders to my forearms; more like the beginning of sunburn. Another bloody hallucination?
At work? Great. I’d almost convinced myself I was just over-tired last night. Yeah, that’s it… tired.
Right, because that’s what usually happens when I’m beat, eh? I start seeing things. And I slept fine last night, no, really. Turns out I’m just having a nervous breakdown. No big. The filing cabinet girls who seem to be another obligatory trapping of offices – like cubicles – stare at me as I pass them.
I’m heading for the washroom – at least I can be alone with this craziness - when I nearly trip. Somehow instead of that universal thin, dark grey office carpeting, my feet were expecting sand.
I stumble but I don’t go down, and resisting the urge to dab at my face again I make it out through the security doors, down the hall, and to the bathroom door without having to act normal in front of anyone else.
My relief making me careless, I bull into the bathroom, nearly colliding with some girl from another office. She blinks down at me, but she doesn’t otherwise look at me as though I have two heads. Whew, at least I seem normal.
I take a deep breath as the restroom door swings shut, accidently gulping down public washroom smell, and make a beeline for the nearest cubicle, breathing slowly and shallowly through my teeth to cut down on the gag reflex. I’m not feeling brave enough to look at myself in the mirror yet, and I have to empty my suddenly overfull bladder.
What in the heck is happening to me?!
“Whoever you are,” I growl, “You’d better get the hell out of my head!” I’m about to also issue some sort of general threat to the disembodied presence, or lunatic hallucination I’m having, but I realize all at once, that I might not be alone in here.
I lean forward, aiming not to fall off of the toilet seat and peer under the stall doors... yay! No feet.
Before I can consider relief of any sort, I hear something that sounds horrifyingly like a seagull. Now I like seagulls, don’t get me wrong, I like all birds, but this means I’m still ‘receiving transmission’.
How do I shut this off?
“Go away,” I start to yell, but it turns into a mutter, just in case anyone is about to walk into the bathroom. I tell myself it’s someone laughing on a call, it’s a training video, there are other offices here, and maybe someone’s watching TV in their break room - the lucky jerks - it’s something normal, not freakin seagulls. Hmmm, no more wet face or heat on my shoulders and arms… The sensations are gone as if they were never there.
I use the fragile 120 grit sandpaper they call toilet tissue, tuck in, flush, maneuver around the stall door, and go wash my hands while finally taking a look at my reflection in the wall to wall mirrors above the sinks. Nobody looks good in fluorescents, especially bathroom fluorescents, and I look worse. With my olive-toned skin I usually have to console myself with Kermit’s line; ‘it’s not easy being green.’ What I’m seeing right now though is too sickly even for that. My skin is gray where it isn’t white, my eyes red from mashing my fingers into my cheekbones – but the red does nothing to disguise the giant black pouches under my eyes because strangely enough I couldn’t sleep very well last night - and my hair; usually scraped back in a tidy pony-tail is a mess, like I’ve been outside in the wind. And just like in high school, when I wanted to go home looking convincingly sick, and I’d just have some of the cafeteria gravy, and get appropriately nauseous-looking; those upholstered partitions are doing the same for my sinuses. Since I look and now probably sound the part with my ‘stubby dose’ (translate: stuffy nose), and since I’m obviously not going to get through any work with these ongoing hallucinations, maybe I’ll make this a sick day.
Back in our company’s office, I notice the filing cabinet girls are gone, and I tell myself with a snide inward chuckle that it’s to do some actual work. I go inform my boss who has somehow been reasonably impressed with me since I transferred here, and she goes and grabs my coat before I can stop her and even helps me put it on. She assures me she’ll log me out of my computer, and advises me to get some Tylenol into me, and one of the secretaries kindly tells me how feverish I look, and another thanks me for going home with it, and not spreading it around the office. I find myself responding to them all in an ever-shrinking voice; I already feel like such a wanker making them worry about me.
*
I should be at home; I look like hell; hell, I feel like hell. Sleep deprived and doubting my own sanity, I’m having coffee in that special little coffee shop where I met the man who consciously or not, has upset my boring life with such ease. No I’m not, I’m having hot chocolate like he had I decide, as I stand waiting for my turn. I’ve brushed my hair, and given my nose a good blow on the way over on the subway; so I look somewhat better, but I’ve still been feeling dopey.
I begin drinking in the lovely coffee shop smell through my liberated nostrils; things that end in ‘cino’, and cinnamon, and chocolate, and teas, and I feel more alert already. Maybe I picked a public place so that if I get dizzy and fall down again, and I crack my head on something; somebody will be around to call nine-one-one for me, I think cheerfully. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Maybe I should go home so if I start yelling at the vision again I won’t embarrass myself. It’s not like I can go to the doctor or the hospital ahead of time anyway. ‘Well, it’s like this Doctor… I’ve been having these… hallucinations…’ … riiight. That’s when the gentlemen with those jackets with the really long sleeves come and offer to put you up for the night.
Can they tell that at heart I’m a raving lunatic? I feel self-conscious standing there, as if most of the people in line with me are staring down at me, when really they probably have their own lives and concerns to concentrate on.
Ordering my hot chocolate, I get the sense everyone in the café has stopped to listen to me exchange a few short pleasantries with the girl behind the counter.
I try to shake it off, but as I slide down the counter out of the way of the line up of people, it feels as though a spotlight is on me.
I glance up the ragged line of half-frozen people bulky in their cold-weather wear, to see if somehow I know anyone from work or an acquaintance from the bus or the subway; somebody who’d have reason to stand there staring at me. No one really appears familiar… maybe I’m just feeling guilty for playing hooky, and worrying my very considerate boss – I mean it’s not as though I’ve got the flu or I’m dying of pneumonia or anything. I’m just slowly going crazy. In fact, mental imbalance is sort of a prerequisite to do my job.
I find a seat easily; it’s still morning but past the coffee breaks and still pre-lunch. There are a few couples lingering over coffee and newspapers; they are older and probably retired. And there are one or two guys in their suits, thumbs busy on their PDAs. They’re a good distance away across the café as I’ve taken a seat next to the door, enjoying my isolation as I concentrate on not staring at the table we sat at together.
I’m not expecting anyone to be anywhere near my table; the jingly little bell and blast of frigid air from behind me have accompanied other customer’s departures rather than arrivals, and I’ve found myself looking up to check every time I hear it. But suddenly somehow, there is a dark silhouette just in my periphery moving swiftly across the wintery white illumination flooding through the window, and then he’s sitting down across from me, and smiling at me in enjoyment and camaraderie; as if this were some joke that we were both sharing. As if I should have expected him, been waiting for him arrive, or I’d invited him again to my table as soon as I saw him.
Where did he come from?
I mean how did he get here without me being aware of his approach?
A million other thoughts go through my head; including how ridiculous it is for me to be smiling back at him, and how dare he be so familiar with me as to just seat himself at my table again, and then one grim thought occurs to me which silences the others. I can’t speak to him as though he had anything to do with the shower apparition, or even mention it, or the call centre today, because if he’s a nice regular guy, he’ll assume I’m nuts. I turn my face down into the fragrant steam from my hot chocolate and feel my face heat up.
And if he isn’t a nice ordinary guy, then he’s what? And if he’s come to see how well his sly communications have been affecting me, then I can’t let him recognize that he’s got me rattled. Whether it’s other kids when you’re in school, or whether it’s friends just goofing with you; you never let people who are trying to mess with you know if it’s working. It’s like blood in the water. I’ll let him bring it up first, and maybe get some hint along the way as to what his game is.
I fix my best bored-and-slightly-perplexed-as-to-what-he’s-doing-here look on my face, and finally glance up in polite inquiry from my incriminating hot chocolate.
He’s got those stupid shades on again, and I can’t study his eyes, but slowly I have the pleasure of seeing that infuriating, self-satisfied smile slip off of his face, and he grips the edge of the table in his hands, and leans forward.
“Hello again,” he murmurs softly, in his bedroom voice, (he has to know what he sounds like) and then leans back a little and removes his sunglasses, a mysterious smile still playing beneath his lovely lips. Dammit! I could be fascinated for hours with the fullness of his lips or the way they lift at the corners; even when he’s not smiling, but his eyes are every bit as magical as in the shower. They are shades paler than before, with the sunlight shining into the cafe sideways to light them almost from behind. The effect I noticed in the shower isn’t lessened one iota. Like some turquoise crystal kaleidoscope, I wonder if he could hypnotize with those babies.
“Hello,” I return, and I sound if not pleasant, at least not hostile, in fact my voice is a bit froggy. Maybe I am coming down with something.
I take a quick sip of my hot chocolate, scald my tongue and it does nothing for my voice. Screw it.
I clear my throat, sounding neither appealing nor healthy, and say; “Well, by now it seems introductions are in order, eh? I’m Meagan,” and I extend my hand too quickly, banging it on the table, and rattling my teaspoon in the saucer.
“Lucien,” he says after a pause, and takes my fingers in his hand.
Then he shortens up on my hand and shakes it properly.
Had he been thinking of kissing my hand? He hasn’t released it yet.
Like some old world, old fashioned romantic gesture for a lady? He doesn’t squeeze or move his fingers against mine, the way some guys have tried to, to add intimacy to the exchange; he’s just forgotten to let go.
Or maybe it’s some more modern concession to women in the workplace and that wishy-washy handshake men sometimes employ on us, as if we can’t possibly be expected to handle a real one? There is nothing condescending in the way he looks at me or his bearing, or anything particularly modern. He seems as though he’s reading me through my features or perhaps just my eyes and he’d like to finish the story of who I am in one sitting. Turnabout is fair play so, I squeeze his hand quickly and slide mine away; dropping it back in my lap, and I examine the rest of him more closely. He wears dark dress slacks of a generous cut, and matte black leather boots which look expensive. Under the edges of his long black wool coat there’s a white shirt, which should be giving his skin colour by contrast. The sleeves of the shirt actually seem to have buttons running up to disappear inside the arms of his coat, and…there is something funny about the neckline or chest of his shirt...
He catches me staring, smiles indulgently, and I flush, but I refuse to look away until my curiosity has been satisfied. That’s it, there is something knotted at his throat, in the same fabric as his shirt.
Part of the shirt?
So… what?
The hair, the clothes, the shades, the skin; is he attempting to pull off ‘vampire’ or some similar look?
Add to that the shower vision and today at work, and what?
He’s a real vampire?!
Is that how he snuck up on me today?
And of course, a powerful, ‘day-walking’ vampire no less, I mean let’s not do the ridiculousness by half measures, right?
I wonder if he has extra pointy canines and if his fingernails are especially shiny, but his hands are folded patiently in his lap, as if he could sit here all day. All right, I decide recklessly, let him.
If he is a vampire, or some other supernatural type being he’s probably used to waiting patiently; I mean they’re usually immortal if they’ve got any abilities akin to telepathy, right?
What’s wrong with you Meagan?
Are you sure you’re not feverish?
Vampires?
Immortals? He’s drop-dead gorgeous - pardon the pun - and you have a way over-active imagination that’s all, I tell myself.
‘And just because you are – drop dead-gorgeous, that is; don’t get your hopes up Bub,’ I think frowning across the tiny glass-topped table at him. Nah, he’s just some guy, and I’m having a psychotic break because I’m just so shocked somebody’s interested in little, baby-sister-of-the-girl-next-door me. He’s been staring at me as though during these moments the air between us has gotten heavy with significance, as if something immense is about to happen. Yeah, it’s called a restraining order I think, if I’m not getting Punked, and you’re not a vampire lover come a-calling in the morning, braving the lethal sunlight. Hmm, this is a bit elaborate though – if you include the visions - even for Ashton Kutcher. And those visions had been seriously powerful and a little outside of the realm of the everyday, even for my strange-beyond-all-measure imagination.
So I’m supposed to realize I’ve been gifted with the presence and perhaps the interest of a real live vampire in my insignificant life and what?
Swoon?
Scream?
Beg to cross over and become another creature of the night, his mistress or willing slave?
Trading my life in the sun for immortality and immorality? He is in for a rude awakening if he thinks so. Maybe a restraining-order even if he is a vampire – that, and a stake.
I’m about to blow my plans and ask him right here what he is, and who he thinks he is, sending me visions and trying to seduce me to the dark, when he bursts out laughing. Leaning back in his chair, his lovely eyes crinkle up at the corners, his hair spilling back off of his lapels to let me see more of his jaw, and his laughter is loud and joyous, but not obnoxiously so. That rich, chocolaty sound wraps me up and slithers in under my clothes to caress me, like no mundane lover could. And it’s more than simple attraction that makes it what it is. I’m not sure about this but it doesn’t seem like it’s merely his age or power making it more than it seems, the infectious good spirit of his laughter makes me want to laugh too, and at the end to even tear up a bit; there seems to be a release for him in such an uninhibited expression of mirth. I wonder if maybe he doesn’t get the opportunity to do that very often. Whatever the case, there is just so much of him in it, it shakes me, and makes me glad for the little wrought iron chair holding me up.
As I attempt to pull my wits together I recall that I didn’t see longer-than-average eye teeth on this Lucien person before me. Hmm…
He folds his arms across his chest still chuckling; his face transformed with merriment. Before he was beautiful sure, but self-possessed, in control of the situation and his reactions. When he laughs he surrenders that, and lets himself be so young.
Is this how it would always be with him?
Too much, but so good?
Always? Wait.
What? That was quick Meagan, even for you! ‘Always’, sheesh. It’s become apparent he can hear what I’m thinking, or he’s insane and given to laughing out loud for no good reason in the middle of public places. Or he saw something in your expression, Meagan, and the pitiful lab-rat that he’s experimenting on has finally done something interesting. He’s watching you right now; waiting to see what you’ll do next. He has got to be playing with you for some reason or he’s obviously quite able and willing to eaves-drop on your thoughts for whatever reason that turns his crank. And if its door number two, you’ve just given him a mental ‘come hither,’ I scold myself. Sounding like you’d like to jump into bed with him over the way he laughs. I mean you know nothing about him.
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” I tell him deliberately for the first time in my mind, looking right at him.
He heard me!
What is he? I know I just warned him on purpose but I guess I never really thought he could hear me. I should be panicking now, but look at his face. Whatever he is, he can be shocked.
For the second time today, I’ve wiped the humor right off of his features, but this time he not only ceases laughing and rocking back in his chair, he leans forward again, and takes my hands in his. And I let him!
What’s wrong with me?
And then I hear it, lighter and perhaps younger, yet even sexier than the ordinary speaking voice he’s allowed himself; “Meagan-love, so quick, too quick, my angel -”
He cuts himself off with a gasp.
Was I supposed to hear that?
Well of course I was, or why send me two separate visions?
Hasn’t he been trying to communicate with me?
Those weren’t mistakes were they?
“Actually, they were,” he says out loud, and I start so hard just sitting there across from him, that one hand comes free, hitting my hot chocolate and almost sending it flying but my… vampire – vampire? - companion catches it before it can move more than an inch.
Hot chocolate sloshes out over his hand, and I surprise myself by snatching up fistfuls of napkins and his hand in mine, and clumsily patting him dry.
My hands shake, and tears are beginning because I’ve hurt him. I can feel the burns I’ve inflicted on him. There’s a whimpering sound coming from somewhere and it’s me.
My hands, my voice, my very thoughts stop, and I look up to see him staring again at me, only now it isn’t expectant and amused by me, but wondering and tender.
Those breathtaking eyes of his have gone nightclub dark, and I’m falling forward into them, and his sweetly curved mouth is before me and then just touching mine, and I shouldn’t be but I’m so glad, and his lips are so soft.
His fingers warm and sticky lace with mine, and all I care about is the pressure of them against my own; urgent, and strong, and fitting perfectly.
His lips sweep across mine light and sure, and my head tips back suddenly too heavy to hold up, and now his hand; the one that is still clean and dry is reaching up to trace my jaw and cradle my head so he can kiss me more deeply. I’m aware of a sound suspiciously like a sob building in the back of my throat, and then so faint as to be at the edge of hearing, a groan, silky and eager and sweeter than anything.
I glance up to heavy lidded slashes of near-violet blue, and that compelling sound is coming from him, Lucien, because he wants me, and I do sob and his fingers pull me tighter to him.
This can’t possibly be happening to me so fast, and then stranger still I can feel him, his thoughts; not just a quick flash, but more like a tidal wave that isn’t cold but just as breath-stopping. I’m caught up in it; my senses overwhelmed with it. He’s desired me since we met, and it seems like so long ago, and it was in this café that I first saw him, and it was his longing that sent me the hallucinations, first just him thinking of me, and then today, of where he would take me, to make love to me, where no one would disturb us or think to look for us for days.
Wow, me?
His fingers are tugging my hair a little, and his upper body leaning over the table is pressed so tightly to mine, I feel drunk on him, and it takes a phenomenal effort of will to remember we are still in a public place.
Without speaking or conscious thought, we decide to leave and we’re outside sans any reckoning of how we got there.
The sudden harsh blast of cold scours my senses and I’m blinking in the sunlight attempting to understand how I’ve forgotten to be cautious or smart with this guy. I’ve never had anything like this happen before; and now that it’s over…
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How did he turn me into some soap-opera-y mess so quickly? I look around avoiding eye contact with any pedestrians, wondering if I’m on camera.
Am I some animal reacting to pheromones, or loneliness, or a hot body, like some cat in heat? A burst of shame scalds my cheeks. Whatever that was, it couldn’t have been what I hoped. That stuff’s just not possible.
And just how does somebody fall for me or anyone for that matter after just one meeting? This must be some kind of trick or game. Its bloody bitter out here and now I feel a bit woozy on top of it.
What must he think of me, making out with him like that so quickly? That I’m easy and gullible and stupid. And of course, because I’m feeling self-conscious, I start getting hostile.
Hey vampire guy, do you know what ‘making out’ even is?
What did you call it back then; whenever you were made or became or started out or whatever as a vampire or whatever you are? It’s not a conscious thought directed to him, but he answers it out loud anyway.
“I would have called it, wooing. Are you properly wooed now angel?” His eyes are dancing, animating him, as he is otherwise perfectly motionless in the sunlight. His skin is brightened but not warmed by it. I thought this being could listen in on my thoughts.
Doesn’t he know this isn’t working out like he’s obviously planned? His eyes still… well… twinkle at me. He looks like a little boy standing there with hope and happiness in his eyes and a soft smile dawning on his face.
I roll my eyes at him, and then I begin to smile; I can’t help it. That had been awfully nice wooing.
My smile turns a bit sour, as I see his turning a bit smug. I’d almost let a few words in that magnificent voice and another smile derail my train of thought. I’m really starting to feel cheap. Has it been so long that an admittedly sexy smile can drop my i.q. fifty points at a time?
I’m feeling a bit more nauseous, so I take a deep breath of frigid air and hold it.
Has he slipped something into my drink?
Is that why I reacted like that and I feel like this now? My vision is clear, and so are my thoughts as I look around at passersby and hear their boots scrape on the sand-strewn sidewalk so no, probably no drugs or I’d be all over him again under the sway of some chemically induced love. Besides, it was specific thoughts and ideas, not just a wash of feeling. What I think I heard and felt in his mind was no reason to feel shameful or anything other than simply… worshipped.
Was it real?
Was it really in our minds?
What does that mean, anyway?
What is he?
Can he really be a vampire?
Or something else?
Even now, he’s watching me and waiting as if the world itself won’t turn over and finish the day until I’m content with everything. Not until I’ve discovered a lot more about you, buddy.
And again he knows what I’m thinking. He replaces his shades, and reaches down for my hand. Maybe he only listens to what I’m thinking when he really thinks he needs help.
Is he that courteous, or that smart? Either one is good.
I allow him to take it and I release the breath I was holding, but I begin to interrogate him right away, as we walk along. I have no idea where we’re going, but for now, as long as we remain in public places, I decide that I’ll trust him enough to let him escort me where he wishes.
“Angel? Why am I your angel?”
Now why ask him that first, Meagan? Not what are you, or how long have you been watching me, or what else do you know about me, or what the hell was that in our heads, or any intelligent questions at all.
How drippy and, and, and moony can I be?
And here I go, beating myself up again for acting like a typical heroine from a romance novel. It was spectacular whatever it was, and it would be grand if it was genuine.
Apparently, I can’t leave a good thing alone; I mean it was amazing in the cafe, but am I the first one he’s shared his thoughts with like this? If that’s what it was.
How many times has he seduced women right in their minds with some handy-dandy vampire trick? If that’s what he is.
“Not that I’m complaining, just… you hardly know me. How many girls have you used that on?”
I toss a smile I mean to be humorous up at him, to take the sting out, but really, I’m starting to feel pretty dumb and more than ashamed for having fallen all over him. He’s got to be, well, possibly ancient, and if so, likely pretty powerful, and he must have had his pick of women over the centuries. Or he’s not any of those things and he’s gone to a lot of trouble if he’s a mortal for little old me. Well I can’t imagine any ordinary human guy going to that amount of effort for me so if he is some sort of supernatural life form; I suppose I’d like to know just how effortless and lighthearted a conquest I am to him. If I’ve set a new ‘shortest use of the ‘whammy’ before complete seduction’ record with him.
I’m walking along beside him, and then I’m not; I’m spun right around and I bump into a lamppost or a large mailbox. No, it’s him, and his lips are pressed into a thin, flat line and his already pale skin has gone snowstorm white. I have an impression of immediate rage, and indignation? and just as I focus on the reality of being able to hear his thoughts again, I lose the sense of what he is feeling.
Why is he shutting me out?
Does he think I’ll be frightened by his anger? That won’t do at all; I’ll have many more opportunities to annoy him going forward. I’ve had a chronic and severe condition known as foot-in-mouth disease since hitting puberty. No known cure exists.
Now it’s foot-in-brain disease? Maybe it’s good he’s irritated. We’re still in a public place, and maybe this charade that I’m somehow the love of his life will go away and he’ll let me in on the punch-line. Or maybe he is trying to frighten me – frighten me out of examining him or his motives too closely.
Is he that kind of a bully? Not if he’s been reading my mind, and not if he knows what’s good for him!
And what do you mean ‘going forward’ Meagan?
You don’t even know what he is, do you?
He has a reverse grip on my hand holding it up against his chest, and even as I stare up at him bewildered and frustrated; his fingers whisper over the skin of the inside of my wrist, and oh, how surprisingly nice that feels. You’re so not seducing me again vampire-boy.
Startled by his actions and by my thoughts, I try to step back but I’m held there, immobile.
His other hand is locked in place at the small of my back, holding me close to him, and he leans down until I share the warm cloak of his hair, so I can see his eyes through the dark glasses.
“You are no conquest to me, and nothing about you is simple, my beloved.” His voice, deep with… sincerity? changes as he speaks and there is a current of laughter and my knees go weak. Dammit! He must have put something in my hot chocolate. “I have seen you, places and times you weren’t aware of, I could not stop myself, could not tear myself away when I should have. I know you, and I’ve wanted you since before I arranged to be in the coffee shop.”
What?
I feel faint and I can’t say if I’m dismayed or delighted.
He seems like he’s being honest that he really does want me, and has wanted me for some time.
But he’s been stalking me? I can see myself in his shades and even as I see my eyes widen and the questions about to pour out of my mouth again; he is kissing me.
His own eyes flutter shut behind the dark lenses, and I remember before I am lost in the lovely sensations of his kiss, that he let himself do the same thing in the café earlier. I tell myself I’m letting him kiss me like this because I want to hear him in his mind again, and find out if it’s real. Good try Meagan. This one is even better than the first; it is not tentative, but purposeful, and it seems that purpose is to see me devoured right here on the sidewalk.
I see myself in his mind as he sees me, and I’m beautiful.
I’ve been made so by his love - ! – love? for me? I can hear music in his mind that somehow means me, to him. Wind chimes and church bells and something deeper…chords on a pipe organ. Something about his mind feels so ancient it makes my spine try to tie itself into sailor’s knots, but… his thoughts haven’t become rigid with it. There is a quality within him that continually refreshes him, infusing his thoughts with vitality so that he doesn’t carry his vast age with him like some sort of heavy cloak snagging on the sharp edges of new ideas and nearly throttling him. Instead, although his memories which span centuries are there forming his character and shaping his reactions from moment to moment; he still approaches new experiences with hope, openness, and even delight. And apparently I am the new experience he most wants to embrace.
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