No Time to Cry (Nine While Nine Legacy Book 1)

by Stasia Morineaux

  Speaking it sent a shock wave through me…because I didn’t know that word and yet I spoke it with utter assurance of its intention, and because the door did that thing again, that Michael had made it do.

  I walked through it and stumbled a bit down the front steps, the reality of what I’d just done sinking further in. Those words I’d spoken, those unknown-to-me magical words of that language that evades my speech, but I could hear in my mind. They were the words of our kind.

  Our kind.

  What exactly was that? What exactly was I, really? I could feel that there was more to it than what I’d been fed.

  I traveled on down the sidewalk. I wanted to be far from that house. Far from Liam and the warring emotions he was pulling from me.

  “Iliana!” He yelled from up the street behind me. I heard him running to catch up. He snatched my arm and spun me around to face him. Heat traversed up my arm from his touch. It felt good as it raced across my shoulder, across my chest, spreading over me. Memories from several encounters crashed into me. Unwanted.

  “Stop it! Stop whatever you’re doing. You’re just being cruel.” I was furious with him. I pulled my arm away from his touch.

  “There’s still another cull today, do Mhórgacht.” The way he spit out that last word, I could only take it as condescending. Whatever it was.

  “You do it. I did mine. You’re up.” I spewed back at him.

  “Don’t you remember what Gideon said at our meeting? How far are you willing to push him? Twice now you’ve screwed up. Third time the charm?” He was billowing with anger.

  “I’ve already died once. I think it’ll be a little harder to take me out the second time.” As I spoke the words I knew, knew, they were true. “What are you really pissed about Liam?” My chest was rising and falling in fury and indignation. “You put us here. This was your doing.”

  My heart hurt. Liam was making it hurt. It had been all too clear where he stood. I didn’t want him touching me.

  “Let her go Liam.” Michael interjected.

  “No. Not until after she does her job.” Liam turned his attention and vehemence back to me.

  “She did, and she did fine.”

  “And what the bloody hell did she do to the door? She shouldn’t be able to do that.” He spun on Michael, attacking his decision.

  Michael inclined his head to me, gestured for me to go.

  I was ready to go, but I did hesitate long enough to lean in to Liam, let my eyes roam over his face, taking him all in. His eyes, his mouth, his hair, even the anger on his face; again our encounters flooded through my head.

  They had meant something to me. His friendship had meant something to me.

  I moved my mouth closer to his ear, it ached to be so close, but I wanted this feeling destroyed, the feelings he caused in me. The train wreck of emotions he triggered.

  They would be with me no longer.

  “That’s the last time you’ll ever touch me.”

  I would find a way to destroy the warm enticing memories of being on his couch, in his arms, tangled up with him, so much kissing.

  I felt the tears building.

  And before I could halt them Michael saw them. I hoped they both could feel the rawness of the pain inside me. Let them feel it. Let them know. Let them hurt, my hurt. I pushed. Pushed from that place in my heart that had awakened inside that house.

  I staggered back.

  Did they feel it? Michael looked alarmed. Liam looked shocked, I saw my heartache pass through his eyes. Was I imaging it? Did I do that?

  I backed away before they could gather their wits and speak to me. I turned and loped up the street, away from Liam, away from that look in his eyes.

  I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I’d been wandering for awhile. I didn’t want to go to the park. I didn’t feel like hunting for home décor. I briefly considered a movie, but nixed that too. But then I came across a very cool little shop on Olive that wasn’t all that far from my place.

  Catastrophia, the sign in the window enlightened me.

  Maybe some retail therapy of the fashion kind would be a helpful salve on my tattered and befuddled heart. It had worked pretty well so far with antique hunting on previous wanders. On this trip out my body could use some fresh décor.

  A sassy red plaid skirt and gorgeous, sexy little top beckoned from the shop’s window display. Oh, and some rather kick-ass leather boots too!

  I pushed open the door and was welcomed with a little metallic jingle from above. What a find. The place was brimming with glorious wonderments of fashion. A treasure trove of perfection in alternative attire. I didn’t know which way to look first, couldn’t decide which pieces to begin with.

  I began busying myself with pulling various articles of clothing from their hangers when my future best friend, Serena, approached me.

  She was strikingly beautiful with large green cat eyes, high cheek bones, and a delicate nose. Her hair was a mass of pomegranate red. The high heels of her scarlet leather boots brought her up to my height almost exactly.

  “Hi there,” she greeted me vivaciously, while glancing at the armful of clothes I held. “Looks like you’re finding things pretty well on your own, is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I’m doing rather good, thanks.” I inclined my head to the pile of clothes cradled in my arms.

  “Great choices.” She nodded her head. “Most of those are made by an amazing designer friend of mine in Los Angeles. Gigi Farrington.”

  My heart stopped. Gigi. My Gigi. My best friend…that other girl, Isabelle…her best friend. I looked down at the garments folded over my arm. Of course they were. Because my guts and heart weren’t twisted up enough already today.

  “I love them. So much elaborate detail work.” I offered in response, forcing cheer back into my voice.

  Serena walked me back to a fitting room, drew the heavy, ornate brocade drape closed, leaving me to try on Gigi’s creations.

  “Just let me know if you need me to pull anything else for you.”

  “Will do!” I called out.

  I tried on the mid-thigh, pleated red and black tartan skirt; it had a playful frilly underskirt made from sheer layers of some kind of delicate, airy fabric. I paired it with a fitted, delicate black lace and sheer cotton blouse that had details of pin tucking along the arms and bodice. It was fine and breathtaking and somehow my mind flashed to Gideon, not Liam, but Gideon and a small little jolt of thrill raced along the length of my spine. Gods, what was wrong with me?

  I chose the same blouse in vintage vanilla as well as the black, both paired perfectly with the skirt. Next I fit my feet into the kick-ass leather boots that reached to just below my knees. They were femme, but tough with little buckles up the back.

  I checked out my reflection in the mirror, and for just a split second I thought I spied a tattoo on my right forearm, on the tender underside.

  But of course there was not one there. I had no tats.

  I smiled; my outfit was fun and spunky, yet classy. I could really benefit from a little fun and spunky. After I tried on three more ensembles, two were Gigi’s and one was designed by Serena, I put the plaid skirt outfit back on, planning to wear it out of the store and maybe stumble onto some of that much needed amusement.

  As I left the dressing room, I slipped into the butter soft leather jacket that I’d picked out. It was short-waisted and added to the overall look of the tartan and lace perfectly.

  It was very Gigi. The cut and pleat of the skirt made my legs look even longer and shapelier. Even with the leather boots and jacket, it maintained an elegant edge.

  Yes, decidedly Gigi.

  I went to the counter where Serena was sorting through accessories, placing them into the glass showcase.

  “Wow! That looks like it was made for you.” Serena exclaimed.

  It very well may have been designed for me. “I’ve seen Gigi’s stuff before…when I visited California. I’m glad you have it here.”

>   “It goes really fast, just flies outta here. Really hard to keep it stocked.” She said as she snipped the tags from the clothes I was currently wearing, and proceeded to ring them up with the others.

  I was glad to know Gigi’s design career was doing well. She’d worked so hard, putting herself through night classes at the Fashion Institute after putting in a full day of hours at a corporate job. I smiled. I was really so happy for her.

  We made small talk, girl talk, as she bagged up the jeans and blouse I’d walked into her shop wearing, along with my other purchases.

  “Oh, here ya go. Do you want to put this in your coat pocket or should I leave it in the bag? Wow, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She turned the object over in her fingers, appreciating the intricacy of the design.

  “What?” I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “Your necklace, it was in your jeans pocket, it fell into the bag. Don’t want you to lose it.” She handed over a silver toned necklace. I was baffled. What necklace? I hadn’t been wearing one, or holding one in my pocket either. I looked down as the weight settled in my palm.

  My heart lurched. It began to beat erratically in my throat where it had become lodged.

  It was the dream pendant. From my dream last night. The ravens; the deep, water filled stone. I held it and stared, lost in amazement. It couldn’t be here. It had only been a dream. I didn’t own anything like this.

  “Are you okay? You look a little pale all of a sudden.”

  “Uh yeah.” I shook my head to clear it. “I didn’t realize I had it with me. Thanks.”

  “Would hate to see something like that get lost.” She handed back my change. “Looks like an heirloom.”

  “Yeah, I think it may be.”

  I took off the coat, suddenly too warm for it. As an afterthought I unbuttoned and pushed up the sleeve of my blouse, checking quickly to see if I now also sported a fleur de lys tattoo, but my arm remained un-inked. Sadly.

  That baffled me further. How could I miss something I’d never even had?

  On a sudden whim, “Hey, do you know of a good tattoo place around here?”

  I wanted that tattoo from the dream. Had to have it. I’d never gotten a tattoo before because I truly believed that a person should put a great deal of time and thought into it, and then still mull it over even a bit longer, since you better really be positive in the choice since it’s pretty much there forever. I’d never found a design that survived the process.

  But it seemed extremely important to have this one…ASAP.

  “Actually I do.” She smiled.

  Yes, I’m sure she did. She had two sleeves worth of gorgeous colorful tats and a stunning chest piece.

  “Just up the street. My ex-boyfriend’s place. He’s done all of mine.”

  “They’re amazing. I love the detail and shading,” I said admiring the artwork.

  “I can walk you down there; get you an appointment if you want. It can be hard to get him, he’s usually booked up a couple of weeks in advance, but I can get ya in.”

  “That would be so cool.”

  “I was just about to take off for lunch. Hey, Carla?” She called through the beaded curtains to the back room. “I’m outta here. Take over, ‘kay?”

  “You got it!” A voice called back.

  “Let’s go!”

  She was animated and had an exuberantly fun vibe, and we hit it off like we’d known each other all our lives.

  We didn’t go straight to the tattoo shop. After a quick call to her ex, she’d found out that he was just finishing up with a job and would be able to take me in little while. So we stopped at a small sidewalk bistro for ales and some delish little sandwiches first.

  As we drank and ate, she told me all about her life clear up to the moment we’d met.

  Her name was Serena, she hailed from the Boston area, had met Jeremy at a tattoo shop where he was visiting a friend—who turned out to be the boyfriend of a friend of hers—a fix-up followed, and when she left college she followed him out to Seattle. She’d never gone to design school, as she had planned while still in high school, too expensive and her grand mom had taught her ‘everything anyway so why blow all that money on a scrap of paper?’

  She’d opened her little store using the money her great-grand dad had left her a decade before she even moved to Seattle. She was so glad she had sat on it instead of blowing through it like her friends had been encouraging her to do.

  She and Jeremy had lived together for awhile, but discovered they made better friends than lovers and housemates. He traveled a lot and kept crazy hours at his shop. Not very conducive to a blossoming relationship.

  They had broken up a couple of years ago. She was still single, dating, just not finding the right guy, but not giving up either.

  She’d always been the ‘weird’ kid on the block, interested in non-normal things; had always preferred graveyards, faeries, myths, witches, and such over soccer and play dates with the blond Barbie-girls of her childhood. It had carried over into her adult life.

  Luckily, she had commandeered the lunch conversation so successfully that I had some time to make up details of my own life, this new life. I couldn’t exactly use too much from Isabelle’s existence.

  I offered that I was from California, had only been in Seattle a very short time, and had lucked into an awesome apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood through a friend of a friend. No boyfriend at the time. Maybe looking once life settled down a bit and was not quite so hectic. I told her about my favorite movies and books, of which we had much in common. That I loved dancing. That rom-coms were my guilty pleasure. That the Aviation cocktail was my poison of preference—poor choice of words—and that I was a writer.

  “Digital or print?” she asked.

  And that set into motion an idea.

  I could still write.

  Digital publishing. Self publishing. eBooks.

  I could write as Iliana Evenwicht!

  I still had all my notes, partially started novels, and ideas, all on my hard drive and various flash drives. Ebooks could even be pretty anonymous. No one would have to know I’d been Isabelle. I wouldn’t need a big publishing company or their advances and touring. I’d do it all myself after my culling was done. That made me smile. I could be something aside from a Coimdeacht!

  The entire afternoon flew by sitting at the little bistro, chatting away like long lost friends, soaking up some much needed and rare-for-Fall sunshine.

  Two beers and a couple of hours later I was getting my tattoo.

  I was passing by Na Sciath Snug, a pub that sat just around the corner and up the street a bit from my place, when a huge ginger cat yowled at me as I had been about to walk on by the open garden gate. The closer I had come to walking by, the louder his wails had grown.

  “What Mr. Cat, do you want me to go in there?” Yes, I talk to cats.

  He was parked in the herb garden next to the front steps. “My, you’re a big one!” He was really huge, like an ocelot or bobcat, but very much a domestic kitty. He went down on his front paws, bowing, stretching down, then rose and moved to the walkway. He was a tough looking Tom with a small notch in his left ear. He meowed loudly at me again as he sat down on the porch.

  “I don’t know sir, I’m kinda tired and ready to go home and relax, maybe another night.”

  Meeoooowrr

  “Really? That good in there huh? Well, if you insist. An ale might be a fine way to wrap up my day.”

  The place was obviously modeled after an authentic Irish pub,

  Or at least what I’d seen of them in the movies.

  Housed in an English cottage style dwelling, it boasted a steeply pitched, varying roofline, with a scattering of dormers, gables, and two elaborate brick chimneys in a herringbone pattern that were fitted with chimney pots. It was unevenly built, using a combination of random rubble stone, brick, stucco, tile, and wavy wooden siding. The roof was made up of s
team bent, cedar shingles which approximated the look of thatch very well.

  Adding to the ambiance and charm were the cottage windows, divided into small square panes, and some in diamond-shaped panes.

  It looked very much like a Thomas Kinkade painting, the windows warmly aglow in the deepening evening, welcoming, beckoning to me to enter and be warm and safe in its heart.

  I was greeted by a rousing tune by Mumford & Sons as I entered.

  The interior was just as stunningly appointed as it was outside, with polished, rich wood throughout. The floor was made from the same grey slate as the sign outside the entrance, stating that there was no wifi available. The bar was topped with a counter of red granite, a heated footrest lay beneath. Gas lamps were suspended from the highly decorative, carved ceilings of vines and leaves.

  Fires burned at each end of the large room. Two private enclosed booths, sat at the front, near the entrance—snugs—private rooms that originally were for patrons who preferred not to be seen in the public bar.

  Sometimes it was ladies who wished to enjoy a private drink in a time when it was frowned upon for women to be in a pub, or it might be occupied by the local police officer in for a quick nip, or perhaps the parish priest for his evening whisky.

  Or my favorite—lovers in search of a quiet spot for a rendezvous.

  I thought more places should have them.

  On either side of each fireplace was another such booth, but each of these had a secondary door that could open up to view the fire. The snugs all had etched and stained glass windows featuring mystical creatures, ravens, fleur-de-lys, and Celtic symbols, and were inset at above average head height into walls of intricately carved panels of perhaps mahogany or cherry wood. Scattered across the rest of the room were tables, counter seating, and cozy, vintage leather armchairs arranged in front of the hearths.

  This might very well become my new home away from home, where I would not have to worry about running into any Bháis. As I settled into the comfortable chair in front of the fire, I decided Na Sciath Snug could become my perfect little hideaway.

  I could come here for ales and pub nibblies in the evenings, keeping it simple with writing in longhand in notebooks. There was not a single television screen in the entire establishment. I liked that even better than the welcomed absence of internet.