Chapter 23 #2
“Did you think the lady in the mask was Meg?” Vanna asks.
He only nods this time.
“Okay,” Vanna combs her fingers through the top of his hair, then gently cups his little cheek. “You can go play now, love.”
He darts back into the living room, and Vanna stands to face me again.
“The lady in the mask?”
She nods. “He must have just been really confused. There was a lot going on in that store, and he was a little leery of all the animatronics. Before I stepped away and left him with Cherry, I was trying on blonde wigs for the Princess Buttercup costume. The woman he wandered off after had long blonde hair, and her body was similar to mine. I thought he mistook her for me.”
“I thought Meg was a redhead?”
“She is. But we have a similar physique, too.”
“You didn’t see the woman’s face?”
“She was wearing one of the Venetian masks. It all happened so fast.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember what. We just wanted to leave.”
“You didn’t recognize her voice?”
“No. Meg also has vibrant green eyes like Cherry. This woman was a blonde with blue eyes.”
“Alright. I suppose he was just overwhelmed and confused.”
“Why all of the questions about Meg?”
“Ace said he sees her around a lot. I just got curious.”
“ Protective , you mean.” She smiles.
“Naturally.”
“Well, Ace is rather taken with Meg. She’s always very nice to him. We cross paths now and then outside of her visits to the farmstand. She’s always made a point to come over and say hello, though.”
“The park, too?”
She places a hand on her hip. “Now and then. Why?”
I shrug. “Ace said she watches him play. I was just curious if you’ve seen her, too.”
“We’ve said hello whenever I have.”
“Where does she work?”
“She’s a pharmaceutical rep,” Vanna says, then playfully jabs my arm. “Hey, maybe your former booty call , Crystal, knows her? Why don’t you give her a call for a character reference?”
That entire situation from my past is nothing I want to rehash. “I doubt it. And for the record, I deleted her number years ago. That same night in the bar, actually.”
“ Good ,” Vanna says, then turns her attention back to the dining room table. “I think the burgundy tablecloth for tomorrow. It will look nice with the center pieces Ace and I are putting together.”
T here often comes a point where one must reevaluate their own perspectives when met with a lack of evidence against those they suspect. At this point, I must wonder, am I chasing the truth, or simply clinging to the version that aligns with my expectations?
I found nothing in Puppet’s apartment connecting her to Reaper, at least, not at first glance.
The contacts I transferred from her phone into the burner have yet to be verified.
His number could easily be saved under a different name, and it is highly suspicious that she deletes her texts, calls, and travel history.
Has she been anticipating this? Did he warn her of the inevitability of my suspicions and the lengths I’m always prepared to go?
As for the rest of her abode, there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t expect to find belonging to a stripper…wigs, sleezy costumes… No trace of Reaper, though…not even a condom wrapper accidentally kicked under her bed.
Perhaps I’ve given Reaper too much credit.
I would have used her to my advantage, watched her for a sign of my return, the way I suspect she has watched Vanna for the same purpose .
I suppose there is still a chance he is…
and she is truly unaware… Though testing that theory would require the pushing of a button, which might ignite a war far worse than the one already brewing…
That is, if my recent encounters with her haven’t already activated a ticking time-bomb. ..
I can’t seem to shake the feeling… Perhaps it’s paranoia… Though paranoia could always be the heightened sense of awareness… The delusion that your enemies are organized… Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you… Joseph Heller Catch-22…
Speaking of paranoia… Stanley is late…no doubt circling the designer suit shop where I’ve tasked him with meeting me.
Adjusting the lapels of the burgundy jacket as I stand before the full-length mirror, I take in the way it hugs my frame — sharp, sleek, almost predatory. It isn’t simply clothing. A suit can also be armor, and where I’m heading, I’ll need it.
I flex my shoulders, and the jacket falls effortlessly into place.
A little tug at the cuffs and the fabric pulls just right across my shoulders.
The trousers drape perfectly at my waist, with a sharp crease and tailored just enough to reveal the perfect break at my dress shoes. Armani never fails to impress.
This isn’t simply about appearances, however. This is about reinforcing a psychological advantage. A sharp suit isn’t about the price tag. It is a statement that one isn’t here to ask for anything. They are here to take.
Though as I stare at my reflection, evaluating the look with a bit of detachment, I wonder if this is too much?
Too polished? Too commanding? No… No, of course not.
Her family comes from comfortable wealth.
And before she was with Keegan, she was with Jack Nero.
True, he was a psychopath, but he was also a sharp dresser, which could have been a factor in what initially lured her to him.
The female gaze tends to be attracted to a dominant stature…
Besides, I remember our encounter at the Ametrine Cauldron…
the way she called me Sir …the hitch in her breath when she realized the man standing in her foyer was me…
The way her pupils dilated when she drank me in.
I was wearing a pinstriped, three-piece Corneliani…
A slight grin pulls at the corner of my mouth as I appraise the devilishly attractive force of nature staring back in the reflection before me…
Tell me he ain’t gonna grow up looking like one of them heroin chic runway models! Aren’t you, pretty one ?
The smile slides off my face…and I can practically feel the burning flames tattooed on my back beneath the luxury clothes as memories of being dragged naked across worn carpet assault my mind.
I strip off the jacket and hang it up on the rack beside me with the other two options I selected for tomorrow.
“Is the jacket not to your liking, sir?” the suit specialist asks, standing somewhere close behind me.
“I’m still deciding,” I reply, turning to face him. He’s holding two more of the silk neckties I requested.
“There is a man at the counter asking for you,” he adds.
It’s about damn time. “Show him in, thank you.” I take the ties before he heads off and drape them over the rack as well.
Stanley shuffles into the large communal mirror room, eyes tense and shifty, as if he expects one of his higher-ups to spring from a nearby dressing room and gun us down.
“The likelihood of being found out here is minuscule, Stanley, really. We’re in a high-end gentlemen’s suit shop in Cary for fuck’s sake.
Relax and tell me what you think of this color on me?
Does it bring out my eyes?” I grin widely at him and snatch the matching dark burgundy jacket to hold up in front of me.
He only continues to stare, as if bewildered by my apparent lack of concern over our situation.
“Come now, don’t be shy. Does this suit say I could fuck you better than your husband?
Or is it more of a… You know you want me to eat you right here on this table for dessert? ”
He reaches up to grip the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh…well…what’s the occasion?”
“Thanksgiving, of course.” I scan his disheveled appearance.
“You look like shit, Stanley. What have we discussed about this? You cannot let on that you’re trapped in a stressful situation.
The only one who can fuck up this arrangement is you.
” I hang up the burgundy jacket and select the deep grey one, slipping it on as I turn back to the mirror.
“If you aren’t going to give me your opinion, you may as well present me with your intel,” I say, adjusting the fit.
“They’re pissed about the recent hit in Bermuda County,” he says in a conspiratorially low whisper.
I release my frustration on a sigh as I run my hands over the smooth fabric of the jacket. “Endeavor to relay something I can’t deduce for myself,” I snap. “That isn’t intel. That is common fucking sense. You better have something for me, Stanley… I take great offense to uselessness.”
“They had me working at a different location in Jocsan…a house, somewhere near the ports but on a wooded lot. They drove me there in the back of a van this time, I couldn’t see much… I… I think they might be on to me…”
“Did they blindfold you?”
“No.”
“Has there been a shift in the way they interact with you?”
“I…don’t think so… I don’t know…”
“But they let you cook? At a new location?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let your paranoia sabotage you,” I say, selecting two silk ties from the rack. “What do you think? Silver or burgundy?”
“I don’t know, silver, I guess.”
“ Burgundy it is! Now go on, do you have any other locations or names for me?”
“Some new guy, but he didn’t talk to me… I just heard him mentioned as if he was some kind of… I don’t know… Someone to be concerned about.”
“Go on,” I say, finishing up the Windsor knot on the necktie, though on second thought, she may find the trinity knot more impressive.
“They called him Jagger.”
Jagger… A vaguely familiar road name… However, redundancy is a common occurrence when it comes to certain road names, Jagger being among them.
“What else can you tell me about this Jagger?” I ask, undoing the tie.
“Nothing. They kept it all very hush-hush… I was only around to witness his arrival for a minute, and then I was sent off in the van to get to work.”
“It would be in your best interest to have more precise intel for me at our next meeting,” I say, pushing up my cuff to check the time. I’m running late. This displeases me.
“I have the address of the place they brought me…here,” he hands me a scrap of paper. I glance at the address in Jocsan before tucking it into the pocket of my leather jacket draped across the nearby chaise lounge.
“Congratulations, Stanley! You get to live another week!” I jest and cock my chin at the small package I left on the chaise lounge. “Would you drop that off at the address written on it? Simply leave it in the mailbox… And Stanley, it would be best if you weren’t seen.”
He tenses again. “What is it?”
“A gift.”
Stanley swallows audibly, eyes drifting to the small package once again. I roll my eyes with growing impatience.
“It isn’t a bomb or anything nefarious,” I attempt to assuage his fears. “I’d do it myself, but am unfortunately pressed for time.”
I promised Vanna my best behavior in her home tomorrow evening. Arriving empty-handed is simply out of the question. There are a few stops I must make in preparation for our time together before my plans tonight. Plans that will have the desired impact I’m hoping for…
“Run along now, Stanley, and send the salesman back here on your way out,” I say. He cautiously picks up the parcel. “Do try to enjoy the holiday with your family,” I smile at him through the mirror. “I’ll be in touch.”
3:07 AM
T hree…the witching hour…not only linked to the summoning of dark forces…but also the manifestation of intention.
Seven…a number interwoven with the subconscious…including dreams…
Magic bends to intention before anything else. The tools, the timing, the correspondences. They all strengthen the current, but the real power lies in will … A weak spell cast on the right day is still weak. A strong will can break through even the worst timing… But tonight, I have both.
Wednesday…Mercury’s domain. The day of thought, influence, and the space between waking and dreaming. The perfect time to slip into the cracks of her mind…to shape her dreams into something more… advantageous .
What remains of the concoction I crafted weeks ago still holds the essence of my intent.
A mixture of ingredients, including mugwort for vision and dreams, as well as my blood for binding and power.
The oil is laced with old magic, and I feel them watching…
the dark ones …while I work. The candle before me flickers as if stirred by something more than breath.
I lift the vial into the moonlight beaming through my window and peer through the glass.
Potent as it is, there isn’t much left. I used quite a bit the night we danced.
I’ll have to procure the ingredients to manufacture another batch.
What is left should be enough if I am strategic with it.
All she must do is breathe it in… breathe in the essence of my longing…
and tomorrow evening, she will meet me in the quiet sanctum of her sleep…
But first, an exchange must be made… The darkness requires payment in the form of a sacrifice… And I’ve chosen pain.
Curling my fist around the vial, I hold it tightly against my chest and place my other wrist above the flame of the candle, just enough to feel the burn.
The suffering must be genuine, the offering sincere.
While heat licks at my skin, sharp and hungry, I grit my teeth against the pain and allow my words to cut through the silence of the cabin…
“By root and leaf, by blood and night,
Darkness aid me in this rite,
Mugwort for vision, for dream-bound sight,
Let her mind open and surrender its light.
No safe haven, no dawn’s release,
Only my shadow, her restless peace.
Through slumbers black veil, hear my secret plea,
And let her dream a little dream of me …”