#Chapter5
From the doorway, a runway was created, leading right up to the counter. Either side of the path, shelves formed labyrinths. They wove and interlinked in a way that almost hurt my eyes. Patches of cloth, marked with strange symbols, were placed on the tops of the shelves like doilies, and incense sticks burned from boat holders that were scattered among them.
/"You./"
The single syllable rang out, slicing through the blanket of silence with sharp precision. Stumbling back a pace, a game of ‘Where’s Wally’ broke out. Didn't take long to find the source. Barren of customers, the only other visible person was the woman that sat behind the counter. And it hardly took issuing a case to Sherlock to figure out that she was talking to me.
A thin hand had lifted, jutting a single, burgundy painted nail towards me. With a building valley of wrinkles for a face and black hair that was slowly succumbing to the curse of time, grey stealing away at the edges, she was terrifyingly beautiful. And as her mouth twisted into a smile, more smug than charming, it had my feet falling back another two paces.
/"Me?/" I questioned, scowling as I tried to recover. The silly blood-pumping organ in my chest had gained speed, drilling against the cage that bound it. The intensity of her gaze . . . it seemed to fill the room.
/"You,/" she confirmed, nodding. A single, skinny braid dangled down across her face, three silver beads binding the bottom. It danced at the movement. /"Now it makes sense./"
/"What does?/"
She wasn't wearing robes or scrying over a crystal ball, as I had been half expecting. In fact, she looked perfectly normal. A long, loose-fitting cardigan, and the top of her black shirt was just about seen through the opening. But even still, even without the novelties, for some reason, she was exactly what I had expected to find in a creepy place like this.
Her smile only grew, as did the smugness. /"You’re here for my son, no?/" My lack of answer seemed to be enough because her pointy finger jumped right back into action, but swung the other way, motioning towards her left. /"He’s in the back there. Go ahead./"
I wasn't a believer. I didn't believe in magic or sorcery or even fucking karma, but her words creeped me out. Taking a hesitant step forward, almost stumbling into a stand that bore a canopy of masterfully woven dreamcatchers, I followed the path her finger had mapped. With reality rushing up to squander the runaway imaginary my imagination had concocted, it was hard to say what I had been expecting. There were no decapitated voodoo dolls, or cauldrons bubbling and sizzling in the corner. No crow cawing, or cat sleezing around like the mark of death.
No. It was almost . . . normal?
Almost.
The counter the witch — sorry, ‘lady’ — stood behind, doubled as a display unit, advertising a wide variety of crystals and stones. Good luck charms hung on swirling stands, along with cute little ornaments, and as I passed, still feeling the weight of her gaze on my retreating form, there was a tall metal railed bookshelf that held herbs of some kind.
The room was easy enough to find. It was a straight line from where she had pointed, hindered only by the maze-like structure. A thick, symbol driven curtain stood in the place of a door. Taking a shaky breath, sparing one last glance behind me at the old hag, whose gaze had never left me, I ducked inside.
Annnnnd fuck me, I almost walked right back out. The room was touched by darkness, illuminated by a series of candles that burnt away from the wall holders. The long, rectangular table was the first thing I saw walking in, kitted out with two individual candles at either end, and seated behind it, sitting directly across from me, was the man I was looking for.
Head thrown back, face skybound, his eyes were closed. Shadows danced across his face, highlighting the sharp slashes that were cheekbones, framing the strong set to his jaw.
And when those eyes snapped open, the bright depths captivatingly forceful, as untamable and wild as the ocean, my lungs hit a brick wall and stopped dead. They found me, those eyes, blazing away beneath the eerie flicker of the candle’s flame, and they anchored me to the spot.
He was handsome. I was man enough to admit that. His hair was as dark as his mother’s, cropped shorter around the sides than on top and fashioned into a neat tuft, and there was just something about his face, something so distinctively striking that it made it hard to look away. And then he smiled. Slow. Deliberate. Flashing his pearly whites. It was the kind of smile that made girls squeal and their panties drop.
/"How did you get home last night?/" was his first question. No ‘Hello, how are you’ or any other false pleasantries.
/"I walked./" Shaky. Unsteady. I hated the tremor that distorted the words. I wanted to hurl abuse at the bastard. To demand my phone and then instruct him to stay the fuck out of my life. To beat the shit out of him for tainting me the way he had. But something made me answer. Something had me swallowing my anger, pushing down the familiar burning that had begun to bubble away in my blood.
I fucking hated when the script strayed from what I had created in my head.
/"That,/" he said slowly, his forearms coming to brace themselves on the desk, /"Was incredibly stupid of you, Isaac. Do you know how dangerous it can be walking the streets, drunk, at that time?/"
/"Yeah,/" I sneered. /"Some fucking creep might trick you into his bed and force you to fuck him./"
The smile slipped instantly. Vanished as though it hadn't been there to begin with. His eyes, an odd shade that I couldn't distinguish between green and blue, hardened. Leaning forward, his shadow rolling with him, he waved at one of the chairs in front of me, tucked beneath the table. I declined with my middle finger.
/"I didn't force you to do anything,/" he said calmly. /"You were all over me, remember? I tried calling you a taxi home but you were persistent, and I was just as drunk as you./"
/"Bullshit,/" I snapped. The bar was fuzzy. I couldn't pinpoint exactly how things had gone down, but I knew, if nothing else, that was a load of horse shit. I wasn't gay. I didn't do guys. I liked tits and smooth bodies. I liked slutty girls with thick thighs and an ass to hold onto.
I. Did. Not. Like. Guys.
So whatever misguided illusion he was under, it was wrong.