“How do I get there?” I ask, not willing to step on the trip wire of the emotional bomb between us.
“It’s not a where. It’s a thing,” she says, handing me one of her many beaded bracelets. “When you are ready, if you really must do this, stand in front of a black mirror.”
I wait, listening for instructions, a hint, something to make sense of it all. She gives neither, walking away to leave me with nothing but my attitude and slim hopes.
“And?” I ask when she begins to walk away.
“And if you’re supposed to be there, you’ll be there.”
“Is this more of the hocus pocus shit?”
“Darling,” GiGi says with a smile so wide I can’t help but worry, “everything we do is hocus pocus shit.”
Rolling the brown glass beads between my fingers, I don’t argue over the sound of her laughter. It would be stupid to do it. Standing in a store named Great Hexpectations with cursed items instead of security cameras, with ghosts who roam the aisles as if searching for some missing ingredient to their afterlife, and with a woman with more hidden talents than I can even begin to understand. She’s right. Right down to the plants reaching their long tendrils out towards me to be petted; everything we do is hocus pocus shit.
“This is stupid.”
Or so I’ve said a thousand times to myself. Standing in front of the old scrying mirror in one of the upstairs rooms isn’t nearly as stupid as the seven outfit changes, I’ve done since arriving home. Never mind the many different ways I have styled my hair with each look.
I have gone from simple pre-k teacher to biker chick and each one looked as ridiculous as the one before it. My face is still flushed from the many times I have washed off my makeup only to reapply it. Reverting to what I know, I finally settle on the basic browns and creams I use for just about every look. With hair this red, and skin this pale, you don’t grow brave with bold colors. Especially not when walking into some magical gathering place you didn’t know even existed until a few hours ago.
Running my hands through my high ponytail one more time, I plant my feet in front of the mirror, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does. I close my eyes, thinking perhaps it only happens when one isn’t looking. Opening one eye at a time in a slow, hesitant wink of a style, I’m still standing in the upstairs room.
“This is stupid,” I repeat to an empty room. It answers me with complete silence.
The sound of my cell phone causes me to scream a very girl-like sound. I don’t have to check the caller ID. I know who it is, the same way she knew to call.
“Yes, GiGi?” I answer.
“Put the bracelet on, stupid,” her voice states before hanging up on me.
Pulling the brown beads from my jacket pocket, I roll my eyes, not just at the silent phone, but also at my own stupidity.
“Put the bracelet on, stupid,” I mock, but no sooner than it slides over my hand to settle around my wrist, that room explodes with sounds.
Grasping onto the back of a bench seat, I try to swallow down the bubbling stomach acid sensation as I look around this new room. The walls are covered in various tapestries in every color of the rainbow. Lights are hung behind a few, casting their pastel glow through the room instead of harsh overhead bulbs. There is no matching décor or any obvious theme. From the random style of seating, to the completely random frame prints, everything seems to have been collected at various times, various moods, and various moments from the owner’s life.
Just like the décor, all around me the room is packed with many different people and they are all watching me. The pretty preppy girls in one corner are glaring over their smoking mixed drinks. I’ve been on this end of a similar crowd enough times to know the whispered words are not a glowing review. I smile nervously to the couple who’s bench I am clinging to before patting it like a long-lost friend and attempting to slowly walk away. After my third wobbly step, the room slowly returns to the claustrophobic level of noise it was at when I discovered it.
I nod to those who nod to me. Except I don’t just nod, I do that silly wave thing to further betray my complete unease. Which earns me wider grins and more side glances as I weave my way to the bar area.
“What’s your poison?” Asks a female bartender when she notices me wedging myself on a bar stool.
“My social anxiety,” I mutter. “Water.” Is what I say loud enough to carry over the crowd.
“Big spender,” she teases in an almost friendly way.
Flashing another nervous smile, I use the mirror behind her to watch the room. I’m glad to see I’m no longer the topic of all their eyes, at least openly. The only group still whispering while watching me is the group clinging to their high school cheer days with matching pigtails and pleated skirts. When they catch my eyes watching theirs, they mock wave and smile before melting into loud laughter.
“Don’t let them get to you,” the bartender offers, placing the glass of water in front of me. “You would think after two hundred years they would find something else to occupy their time.”
“Two hundred?” I don’t even try to hide my shock.
The bartender lets her eyes slowly travel me with suspicion, much as everyone else already has. “First time?” she asks.
“What gave it away? The stomachache? The complete lost girl look? Or my complete lack of knowledge about everything around me?” I hadn’t meant for it to sound so cranky. The words did that all on their own.
“Yes,” she answers. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone has to have a day one somewhere.”
Her smile is warm. It settles my nerves. Even my stomach is calming itself being so near to her. As I feel myself start to lean upon the wooden counter, I ask her, “You’re fucking with me right now, aren’t you?”
She leans in close still wearing her soul soothing smile. “Yes,” she says again, but her eyes are different. They were a soft brown when I sat down. Now they are black with sparks dancing inside of their coloring.
My fingers itch to touch her face. I want to explore her mouth with mine. I’m curious about her perfume, the heat of her skin against mine and the way her hair would feel wrapped around my fingers. Would it be heavy like velvet or smooth like satin?
“That’s enough!” Comes a tense female voice. It shatters my feelings with as much force as a sledgehammer to glass.
Blinking, I turn to the woman standing behind the bartender. Her hands are placed upon her hips with a face of complete disapproval framed by frizzy waves of reddish blonde hair. She’s older, with her age etched in her face, and she wears her frustration like a leather coat, dark, tight, and protective. Shaking her head, she pushes the younger woman to the side to come stand in front of me.
“You must be Jo’s girl.” She states, but my mind is fighting to comprehend her words.
“What?” I ask, as if my confusion is from the many voices and the not-so-subtle music playing around us.
Sighing, she tells me, “Drink your water.”
It sounds like the best advice I’ve ever been given, and I drink the water like someone dying from thirst. My mind is still swimming. I can feel the blush coloring my face when I think of my reaction to the bartender and GiGi Jo’s earlier jokes.
“Sorry. Not sure what came over me,” I whisper to the remaining water.
“Happens a lot,” the woman says, once again glaring to where the bartender has retreated to wait on another customer. “Like I said, you must be Jo’s girl. Been wondering when you’d show up.”
For not the first or even second time today, my face contorts with my confusion. “You know GiGi? Wait, you’ve been what?”
She makes a soft sound of amusement. “Wow. She really does have you on lock down.”
I stare at this woman. She’s younger than GiGi, but not by much. Unless she’s like the ex-cheerleaders, which, honestly, I have no idea how that one is even possible. Her hair is long and untouched, with more frizz than curl. The
strawberry blonde shade collects the many pastels around us casting her in a rainbow haze. She looks as harmless as the bartender did, as harmless as everyone around me does, and I’m starting to think that’s all a lie.
“What brings you here?’ She asks when I don’t offer any more depth to the conversation.
“Right!” I almost shout with my brain still melted. “I’m supposed to talk to someone named Charlotte.”
“Yeah. I figured.” She extends her hand across the expanse of space between us. “I’m Charlotte.”
“Oh!” I shout again, still sounding like someone of more pep than I normally hold. “Nice to meet you,” I tell her, shaking her offered hand.
“You really are new to all this aren’t you?” Charlotte asks, and when she senses my confusion again, she offers, “Never shake someone’s hand if you don’t know what they are. Easiest way to get overtaken in one of these places.”
“I’m sorry,” I shout over the music change. “And what does that mean?”
“You know what,” Charlotte starts, “I’ll let Jo fill you in. What did you need to talk to me about? Must be pretty important if she let you come here alone.”
“Yeah, right,” I tell her, shaking my head to try to clear the remaining cobwebs. Nothing she is saying is making any sense. I need to fully understand what is happening if I am to discover what is taking place with the Tortes. “Have you ever heard of a source of magic? Something to contain a spell?”
Charlotte’s eyes briefly roam the room behind me. “Yeah. Who hasn’t?”
“You mean other than me obviously?”
Charlotte shrugs while drying a glass. “Other than you, obviously. Although Jo wouldn’t send you here to simply ask about them unless she thinks there is one out there. Is there one?”
I’ve messed up just about everything from the moment I arrived, but even me, in all my many moments of glory, can tell Charlotte isn’t focused on the glass in her hands. Her constant glances behind me has nothing to do with random eye contact. Whatever a source is, I’ve danced along a tripwire asking about it and the room is just waiting for one more wrong step to witness the explosion.
“It was just a random conversation we had.” It’s my turn to mimic her bored posture. “Thanks for the water.”
“Look, kid,” Charlotte says as she watches me try to escape from the stool, “if there is a source out there in your part of the world, it’s bad. It’s not just bad for whoever has it, which I’m guessing is a mortal since Jo seems to feel some sense of duty, but also for whatever let it get away from them. Which makes it bad for our world, for all of us.” She leans across the bar top to whisper, as much as one can whisper with all the noise around us, “Don’t go asking too much about it. Just find it.”
“When I do?”
“Jo will know what to do. I’m guessing it’s best if you do nothing.” Charlotte returns to drying the same glass she’s been working on for the whole conversation. “Don’t get me wrong. A Necro like you has your place and all. It’s just not with things like this.”
“A what?” I ask, once again feeling overwhelmed and lost.
Charlotte slams the glass onto the wooden bar, shouting. “She hasn’t taught you a damn thing, has she? What is that woman thinking?”
I hold my hands up in a gesture of surrender, unsure of what to say. “I’m just going to,” I stall, unwilling to admit I have no idea how to leave this place, “go to the bathroom. Where is it?” I ask thinking it’s the safest question I can manage right now.
Charlotte points to a side area, still shaking her head. “Be careful, kid.”
“Of a bathroom?”
“Of everything. You have no idea how deep you are in the proverbial shit storm.”
“Anthem of my life,” I tell her, waving goodbye.
I should take her warning glance with more caution and listen to her words a little deeper. I should put my ego aside, and right here and now, ask her how to leave. I won’t. I won’t do any of it. Turning, I wade my way deeper into the shit storm she warned me about.
The hallway to the bathroom is just like the many other dive bars and clubs I’ve had the misfortune of visiting. If it’s decorated, I can’t tell. For some reason, as always, hallways tend to become another staging area with their walls as support for the many standing people. There’s no polite way to nudge a path through the lounging crowd, so you don’t. You lower your shoulder and wedge yourself into an already too small space with hopes and pleadings of ‘excuse me’.
The bathroom is the same basic four stall, because all girls go in pairs, with a matching number of sinks. The white veneer is chipped, hinting at the age of this place, or at least the abuse of it. Black sharpies don’t tell lewd jokes here. There’s random shapes and letters with too many swirls spread across the deep green paint scheme. Some of the diagrams around the mirrors seem to almost glimmer, as if there is glitter, or some light source reflecting the overhead glare in the ink. I catch myself staring at them in the continued, constant state of confusion I have been in since arriving.
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of nose, closing my eyes against the stress headache I feel building. I thought I knew magic. I thought I was pretty well taught about the ins and outs of what I am and what it means. If anything, I just discovered the only thing I know is nothing at all.
“My, my, isn’t she a pretty one?”
Snapping my head back up to stare into the mirror, somehow, while I wallowed in my brief moment of self-pity, I missed the entrance of three men now standing behind me. My heart does its little panic shimmy up into my throat before I can swallow it back down to its normal resting spot. My stomach, still not happy from earlier, joins in with my heart’s demand for attention.
Trying to talk through the desert spreading through my mouth, I do my best witty, brave girl routine. “Pretty sure you forgot what the symbol for a penis owner is. Or maybe you’re so used to having such small ones you identify with the other symbol?”
“Oh,” the one who must have obtained the lucky title of leader says stepping closer, “she even has jokes. Dressed like a boring in all that polyester, she has jokes.”
I self-consciously tug on what I thought was a cute, cotton shirt and squirm a little in my denim jeans.
“Must be all that red hair giving her some fire,” another one states. “Carpets match the drapes, I wonder?”
Encouraged by the taunting of their leader, all three are now growing brave. Their shared looks whisper of this being a previously hatched plot and not just a spur of the moment thought process. I turn, watching and pleading with my brain to quickly think of something, as my hands search for anything removable from the sink behind me.
“Do you?”
All of our heads turn to see a fourth guy none of us had noticed. His black jeans are fitted and boast of being not a brand one would find on a rack of a store. His dress buttoned up shirt is a deep, charcoal grey. Black hair frames a face of pure mischief with eyes seemingly almost excited by the chances of a bar fight.
“Is that really all that you choose to wonder? Maybe not about how I shouldn’t be causing such a scene in a well-known place? Or is it wise to draw so much attention to myself when I’m such a low rank on the rotting food chain? But no, you, and yours, went right for the wonder about what her most secret of places must look like? Bravo,” he adds clapping with false enthusiasm. “You’ve set demon-kind back years of evolution.”
“This isn’t any of your concern,” the thinker of the three answers. “We are allowed to have a bit of fun.”
“...aaannndd I’m allowed to rip your heads free from your bodies. Who wants to debate which one would have more fun?” he looks around, as if there are more people in this small room than just the gathered crowd. “Anyone?”
He asks as if someone is going to answer him. No one does. It sets his smile wider.
“So, gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, what will it be? Your fun or
my fun?” he asks the room.
“You don’t own everywhere, Jedrek,” the thinker replies. “Someone is going to call your bluff one day.”
Their leader may have the courage to verbally taunt him, but he doesn’t have enough to be the one to call his bluff. He motions for the rest of the crew to follow him out. I take note when none of the three make any kind of eye contact with him when they slide out the door Jedrek holds open.
“Not the best ambassadors for our kind,” Jedrek makes an embarrassed expression with his explanation. “Sorry about that.”
Skipping right over the label to avoid asking more questions in a place I am learning it might be best to shut up in, I shrug, since it’s the universal language which might not land one dead. “Jedrek, huh?”
He smiles, lifting his eyebrows in a wide arch as his answer. “And you must be the littlest witch. Happy to meet you.”
The way he smiles causes the annoying little girl side in me to sigh. There’s something about those steel blue eyes which may even have the ability to charm GiGi’s fire into something more than sarcastic embers. Remembering the scene at the bar, I clear my throat and belittle myself for being so weak.
“Witch. Necro. Confused kid,” I say with an exhausted smile. “It’s been a long list on a short trip.”
Folding his arms, he almost melts onto the wall beside me bracing his body. “Yes. You’re quite the talk of the place.”
Groaning, and for some reason not at all suspicious of a conversation in a bathroom with a stranger at a strange place, I ask, “How can I be so worthy of such conversation?”
“Because you don’t belong,” Jedrek whispers in a teasing tone.
“That obvious?”
Jedrek’s smile grows even wider with my question. The humor reaches his eyes as he says, “Let’s see. Almost lost your lunch with the travel. Tripped at least twice on your way to the bar. Charmed by a gorgon, which was super sexy to watch by the way.” He pauses in his long list of my failures to wiggle his eyebrows at me before continuing. “You shook hands with an energy reader, bad move if trying to fish out information. You asked about a very taboo topic like a naughty little girl and then, just to win the newbie of the day award, you slip away into a closed off space, filled with people waiting to torment you some more for their own enjoyment. No. Wasn’t obvious at all. Your secret is safe with me.”
The Little Lies (The Great Hexpectations Series Book 1) Page 5