by Zana Wilder
Approaching Freya I have to focus on the betrayal, any other feelings I might have are the effect of her fucking spell. Despite my wolf's yowling, now that I know what she is, she can't get away with it.
No-one does this to me, no-one gets to harm my sister and not suffer the consequences. No-one makes me fall for them under false pretences. I have to get the truth out of this conniving bitch of a sorceress.
Chapter Eleven
Freya's POV
The man who storms back inside is an entirely different beast to the sexily charming one who'd ambled out moments before. As he stalks in my direction I feel a coldness wash over me.
His beautiful eyes are dark, intense and accusatory. The anger emanates from him in waves before he even opens his mouth.
I gulp nervously watching him try to control himself enough to speak, ten thousand thoughts flying through my mind. What the hell happened to cause such a violent change? What the fuck did Tavey say, and where is Liz going?!
His words are spat at me like rocks being thrown.
“How long did you think you could hide it?” he growls. His icy tone sets my arm hairs on end “How far were you going to go, you little whore?”
I wince at the unexpected insult. What the hell is wrong with this guy?
“Watch who the hell you're talking to like that!”
He gives a wry smile. “And out comes your true nature” Aaron mocks.
He almost looks sad for a second, but when I peer into his face again hoping to find an explanation, the sadness is gone and it's replaced by a raw hatred that's terrifying.
“What did you want with me? To get your talons in so deep” Aaron's words are a hiss.
I feel a knot growing in my stomach and only manage a small shake of my head. This can't be happening – everything was storybook perfect a moment ago. Who is this man that can change his temperament so quickly, on the head of a pin?
“You bewitched me but were still such a little slut you were cavorting around with Marciel in public?!” Aaron leers towards me and I shrink back, realisation suddenly hitting me.
“Marciel...” I stutter “Marc? He's... just an.. acquaintance .”
Even to me it sounds weak. My head's spinning, thoughts rushing in every direction. Tavey must have recognised me from that day in the coffee shop when Marc got rid of my headache.
Of course! Tavey peered in the window just as Marc was giving me a massage! Shit. I square my shoulders, that was uninvited invasion of my space. I can explain it, surely. One look into Aaron's face and I suddenly feel doubtful, and very very small in the wrathful gaze glaring at me.
“Whatever hold you had on me” Aaron barks “it's gone. We're done. Go crawl back to your fucking Coven, witch”.
My insides twist, I feel like Aaron has physically assaulted me. My mouth's open but I can't get enough air to breath, never mind protest. He towers over me and I flinch away, half expecting him to grab at me.
The two young men at the next table insert themselves between us and before I can explain myself to him Aaron spins off upending tables in anger as he crashes out the bar.
What the actual fuck? We're on a first date... he didn't even give me time to explain! It's not his fucking business who I was or wasn't getting a bloody massage from last week. What a temperamental asshole!
I thump the table in frustration, ignoring the sympathetic looks from the guys at the next table. As the adrenaline fades, my anger seeps away, replaced by a stale disappointment.
A massive black hole opens inside my belly. He's gone, and it's somehow my fault.
Chapter Twelve
Freya's POV
The next few days merge miserably into weeks of grey nothingness. I leave distraught voice-mails for Aaron, taking hours to pluck up the courage to send each one. Nothing. No response. I keep telling myself I've only met the man a few times, I shouldn't feel this shaken up just because he thinks so badly of me.
On good days I persuade myself that someone who can turn so vicious at the drop of a hat, and refuses to listen to a reasonable explanation, isn't a nice person. The little voice inside my head disagrees – he seemed really nice.
But seriously, how fucking dare he swan into my life and expect I've just been sitting around waiting for him?! It was a freaking first date. He's no right whatsoever to expect I've been celibate recently - and, even more frustrating, I fucking have been!
He's probably the kind of guy that would expect I was a bloody virgin too! I swing erratically between an anger of epic proportions and a grey self-pitying upset.
Mostly however, I'm just lonely.
Liz dropped by a couple of times, but its difficult not to resent her happiness with Tavey. It makes me a crap friend and I know it. I just end up wallowing in my own misery whenever I snap at her for encouraging me to 'get back in the game'. She seems so oblivious as to how bloody awful I feel, and when I try to tell her she vanishes for days without a word.
Even my gorgeous plants seem affected by my gloom. 'Vera', my magnificent Aloe Vera plant's plump leaves are browning, growing some kind of foost. The bathrooms' accoutrement of spider plants have died completely. Even the neighbours' cat has stopped visiting, put off by my aura of self-loathing and misery.
To top it off my most prized books seemed to catch onto my mood and threw themselves to the floor in attempted suicide this morning. Maybe the apartment block is finally subsiding beyond repair.
There is always just one more thing going wrong. Even the littlest everyday mishap is a massive hurdle. Now that my migraines are ramping up again, I really feel like I'm at the end of the line.
Marc has started texting repeatedly, and I mostly ignore him. Somehow, in my head, he's partly to blame for the disaster with Aaron. Marc's been very very persistent though and eventually I cave. Some sort of interaction with another human felt better than being alone again with my thoughts today.
Initially, all I do is simply reply, turning him down for a coffee claiming my migraine is too bad. Of course, he would fucking remind me about his 'magic touch'.
I have to admit the idea of this pain settling down is a really nice one, especially today when my flat's lights are misbehaving – the flickering is making it so much worse.
Meeting Marc for coffee out in public feels weird; I've not been out my flat socially in weeks. It's nice to see the world moving around me, doing its own thing. After Marc arrives he does the same weird massage thing on my temples. My migraine vanishes, and it's already the best day I've had in ages.
He's on his best behaviour and is perfectly charming. He's even nice to the waitressing staff and I feel myself start to relax. It's just pleasant to have some attention and feel like a normal human being again. I've missed getting out.
Marc suggests we have another date sometime. I hesitate, it hadn't crossed my mind that he thought this was a date- it throws me a bit. He presses on, seeming to know not to force intimacy onto me, explaining I'd be doing him a huge favour.
Marc desperately needs a 'plus one' for a family function to avoid hours of distant relatives trying to set him up with hugely inappropriate matches.
We have a giggle about how families never really know what's best for us and I find myself reluctantly agreeing. I nearly don't – the idea of a crowd of unknown people is alarming, but I can't be a hermit forever. Even if the whole evening is awful, it will be a sudden sharp shock to the system. My mental black hole is eating me alive; I need a way out. After forcing myself to socialise at a big function, surely everyday trips to a coffee shop or the supermarket will be child's play.
Marc seals the deal by promising not to leave my side, and hinting that we can leave once he's shown face for an hour or so.
Chapter Thirteen
Freya's POV
It's a huge effort to be a convincing 'plus one'. Marc's family are very 'old money' and I doubt my usual splash and dash look will hack it. It’s not easy when my energy levels are so low, but I'm pleased with the result of my ef
forts.
I glance in the mirror at my coppery hair flowing over my shoulders contrasting against the green dress Liz bought me. I clutch the only fancy handbag I own and smile at my reflection – not bad!
The thought lasts about two minutes after Marc arrives.
He greets me at the door with a flowery kiss on each cheek and I have to remind myself he's French, and just saying hello. He steps back and looks me up and down with a scrutinising frown.
“Mmm I thought you might need a little help for this event” he pouts looking pleased with himself. He produces, with a flourish, a large dress-bag.
“My family are pretty judgemental” he makes a dramatic sigh “They also know me well – they wouldn't believe our ruse if I brought a date who didn't look the part. Why don't you try these on? They should be in your size”
I feel small – my massive effort wasn't enough. I search frantically for a last-minute way out of this evening, while opening the bag. What's inside stops my thought process short and makes me gasp.
Even with my minimal fashion knowledge I recognise the dress is designer, and exquisite. There is absolutely no way I can back out after Marc has gone to such effort.
“Where on earth did you rent this?” I squeak, wide-eyed.
“Oh, I bought it” he throws causally over his shoulder while poking around my tiny kitchen “open the other bag... they should be perfect with your hair, although... maybe you should wear it up. It's more elegant like that.”
I just manage to stop myself from telling him I'll wear my hair how I damn like as I peer into the jewellery bag.
“This isn't real, is it?” I gasp stroking the emerald-coloured necklace and matching earrings lovingly.
“Mmm” he nods, mouth full of a slug of wine he's just poured.
I drop it like a scalded cat “Jeez Marc, you shouldn't bring stuff like this into my neighbourhood!”
He grins like a naughty school boy “not my problem after tonight, it's you that has to keep them here once you get home!”
I swallow hard, turning away to hide my face. He means I should keep these? What is wrong with rich people?! This one outfit is more than a year's wages! As I get changed I wonder why I feel like I'm playing at dress up rather than like a princess.
I try again, turning to Marc “I... I can't accept a gift like this Marc... we barely bloody know each other!”
He snorts through his nose, and waves a hand languidly at me “It's nothing, don't worry – we can talk about it later” He turns away like that's the end of it.
Once the dress is on, Marc fastens the necklace. I have to admit I do look far more refined. Sighing I peer at my reflection as I pull my hair up the way he wants. I suppose I really ought to look the part, especially when he's put so much thought into my outfit. The hair can go up.
Marc accompanies me outside and it's only once there I realise we have a chauffeur for the evening. That'll give the neighbours something else to talk about.
Marc opens my door and helps me inside, shutting it gently behind me. It's an old-fashioned gesture, but it's not exactly unpleasant to be looked after, especially after my weeks of self-inflicted solitude.
True to Marc's love of flare, there's a bottle of Dom Perignon Rose nestled in the back alongside two glasses. Although I love bubbles, I've never tried anything so expensive before. Tonight I'm definitely going to need some liquid backbone.
Taking the champagne I chink glasses and take a big slug from the crystal flute. Marc catches me and looks amused
“Nervous?”
Glancing at him I can't help but feel grateful that he's noticed.
“Maybe a little” I admit as he refills my glass.
Chapter Fourteen
Freya's POV
The place is jaw-dropping – we're in an actual I-shit-you-not ballroom, there are chandeliers everywhere and waiting staff for your every whim. Despite all that, it's agonising. I'm paraded in front of what feels like an entire world of relatives, all dressed like royalty and moving with far more elegance and grace than I can muster in my borrowed heels.
Women peer at me, several looking distinctly jealous, others openly judge me, and the men ogle. Polite society or not, lecherous old men are still very much a thing. I seethe to myself as I remove my arm from the clutches of yet another tuxedo wearing feathery moustached French uncle. This shit is wearing!
Marc vanishes just into the second hour, exactly what he promised not to do. He deposits me with a group of his friends 'for a minute'.
The crowd of elegant men and women flutter around me briefly, taking interest as if I'm some new toy, before mostly getting distracted and floating gracefully away. I'm left with a few boisterous young men, all of whom are blatantly trying to one-up each other.
One man, Benjamin, is distinctly worse for wear already. He insists slurringly that I call him Benji, 'because all the pretty girls do' and seems intent on boring me to death. I have to try really hard not to focus on the crumbs inhabiting his moustache as he speaks at me.
“The problem you see Freya” he slurs “ the problem with Cava... is that it just isn't the same quality as Champagne”
His voice seems to get louder and more obnoxious as he leans over. Good grief, is that a sword he's reaching for? I shrink back, alarmed.
“The problem” he continues, pausing to grab a unopened bottle of champagne from a passing waiter “... the problem is that not even the glass is good quality.”
He aims the sword toward the top of the bottle.
“The problem, chérie Freya, is that one can't ever take the top off a damn bottle of Cava cleanly with one's sword!”
He aims, remarkably accurately for a drunk man, at the top of the bottle which shoots off at the whispering touch of the metal blade.
Waiters dive forward with glasses as the champagne flows. Members of the crowd clap politely before turning away, obviously having seen the party trick many times before.
I accept a glass, groaning inwardly. Who are these people that even talk like this, like this is normal conversation. While he's momentarily distracted hanging the sword back on the wall I make an escape and sneak off in search of Marc.
I teeter through the hall, walking as normally as the blasted heels let me. It's possible the amount of alcohol I've had isn't helping either.
Finally I spot Marc's immaculate suit and perfectly coiffured curls in one of the vestibules. He's sideways on to me, talking to a French countess he introduced earlier, and I can't help but notice what a striking looking man he is.
A surprising prick of jealously needles me to stalk closer. The countess looks over Marc's shoulder and squarely into my eyes before smiling malevolently. I watch as the French woman glides her body hard up against Marc.
I'm so close now I can hear her purr “so lovely to get some time alone with you again Marciel” before she locks her arms behind his back and presses her lips into his.
“No fucking way!!” my mind explodes in anger. I am not putting up with being paraded around his relatives like some show-horse, and being dumped with his stupidly pompous arrogant friends, for him to abandon me at the first opportunity to lock lips with some French aristocratic harlot.
I feel really odd. I can't reason with myself, it's not like I'm emotionally attached to Marc. All the pent up frustrations and disappointments from the past weeks boil over.
I scream, loudly. It's as if I'm vibrating with a raw power I've never experienced before. My whole body is on fire and deadly cold all at once. My vision tunnels and I'm suddenly hideously nauseous and a thunderous pain splits my head.
Vaguely aware of a shocked looking Marc starting towards me, I turn and bolt into the ballroom. The place is in uproar – the nearest chandelier bursts into a million pieces shattering over a screaming crowd of guests.
I have just enough time to register that every guest in the ballroom is clutching their head, before my sight fades into blackness and I hit the floor.
Chapter Fifteen
Freya's POV
I groan, trying to peel one sticky eyelid away from the other. This is the equivalent of my worst ever hangover multiplied by going a boxing round with a giant, then sticking my head in a hornet's nest. My mouth is furry, my ears are buzzing and the light creeping past my eyelids is stabbing my brain, like a sword.
I groan remembering the buffoon and his stupid sword trick. Everything from that point on floods back in a rush and I sit bolt upright in alarm. Just sitting up nearly makes me vomit. I don't ever remember feeling so weak. Squinting against the harsh ceiling light I look around the room warily.
The plushly lined room is filled with books. My groaning causes the small group of people talking excitedly a few meters away to turn towards me en masse. I recognise a few faces from the evening's introductions but my muzzy brain can't put names to them.
A tall thin gentleman strides over puffing on a delicate black cigarette. For such a skinny man his voice is so loud it goes through me and I inadvertently flinch, covering my ears.
“You're awake you little witch” he booms “that is some mess you made of my ballroom room! I've never seen this Coven so entirely alarmed it couldn't even track the source of a disturbance”
I blink. My hearing seems fine, if painful, but I can't make sense of his words. I start to shake my head but quickly stop, feeling like my brain's rattling inside my skull.
I peer suspiciously at the man. Is this a dream then? It's a bloody weird one, and why does he not seem angry if I've caused chaos? I guess dreams don't have to make sense.
“I wonder what else you can do” the man muses looking at me like some sort of exotic experiment.