Chapter 18
After Ray ran off, I sat with the gang at Illusion Square, who offered their comfort, and a really good whiskey. I stayed too long, claiming I wanted to be sure that a certain pesky, troublemaking vampire didn’t return. That’s what I said out loud.
But honestly, I hung out hoping Ray would come back.
Once the bottle drank itself, I began my stumble home.
The rain that had threatened all day let loose, so I stopped under an awning, staring at the button that would open my umbrella far longer than should have been necessary.
Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to press it.
Brute force didn’t work, so I wandered home with it at my side, sopping wet and fuzzy-brained.
Cecelia had a cup of tea waiting for me in my living room, which I ignored in favor of plopping myself onto the couch to stare at my fingers.
I was pretty sure I’d had five of them when I started the day.
Well, four of them and a thumb, if you want to get technical about it.
Now I had six. No, wait, seven. Or eight. Three?
That was damn good whiskey.
I wanted a nap, almost desperately. But no matter which direction I turned my head, my eyes refused to close. Even though keeping them open meant blinking a dozen times to keep anything in focus. When had I gotten a second TV?
I was cold to my bones. And restless. My mind reeled, wanting to relive every moment of my conversation with Ray.
And, worse, all the things we hadn’t said.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about his possessiveness, or his seeming lack of control over his wolf.
The Ray I’d known in our youth had a short fuse.
Since then, he’d shown me a more mature side.
But his wolf still behaved like we were hormonal teens. And not in a fun way.
Eventually, I rolled off the couch and onto the floor. My plan had been to stand up and walk to bed. Walking was good. Walking led to sleeping. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how. It had something to do with feet. Nina had backward feet. Feet were funny.
When I couldn’t figure it out, I gave up and crawled to the bathroom, one painstaking movement at a time.
Cecelia, bless her, started the shower. While a hot bath sounded like absolute heaven, I was thinking just straight enough to know I shouldn’t submerge myself in water, even with a sentient house standing guard.
But a shower? Nothing bad ever happened in a shower.
I sat on the tile floor, letting the high-pressure showerhead pelt me for what felt like an hour. You never ran out of hot water at the Magnolia. But even the mighty Cecelia couldn’t prevent my skin from pruning.
I felt slightly less drunk. Definitely not sober.
I’m not sure why the idea of doing yoga seemed appealing.
Mostly, I wanted to try and meditate. My brain just would not shut the hell up.
But on my best days, I was not at all good with the om stuff.
I felt like I had enough connection to the universe to last me a lifetime anyway.
Heck, I was connected to a dozen universes.
When meditation failed me, I studied the weight bench in my office/workout room combo.
Was I, in a half-sober state, actually considering a workout?
To feel better? In my twenties, it was all about looking lean and muscular.
And, okay, hot in whatever skimpy number I wore to da club.
But now, every activity I undertook held new meaning.
I’d never been one to hate my body, not really, but I’d never admired it either.
For a gal nearing fifty, I was doing pretty well. I usually didn’t feel “old” in a traditional way, either. Heck, I’d just started living. I could even recover from a half-naked workout late on a Sunday after a day of whiskey and mayhem as well as any twenty-one-year-old.
Totally.
In lieu of dropping weights on my head or pulling a back muscle, I dressed in my most comfortable sweatpants and a softer-than-satin T-shirt and meandered back into the living room. At least I was walking. Still restless, I racked the part of my brain still functioning for ideas on what to do.
Maybe I should read the codex. I was pretty sure I would be able to. I was back to only six fingers. Even if the words were blurry. I had questions for it, not the least of which was who would win in a fight: vampire or wolf shifter. “Shesheila, can I have codeckshes?”
It took a moment, as if Cecelia was debating the merits of me reading. Then two volumes appeared on the table. “You’re the besht, Shesheila.”
Uh-oh. I was still slurring.
Nachos would fix that. I would hex a dude for some nachos right about now. I went to the kitchen, bumping off the walls like I was in a pinball game.
“Let’s make nachos, Cee, Shee … Nachos.” I opened the fridge and stared into it. “And I should switch to tequila to go with it.”
Moments later, after some direction from me because I couldn’t picture anything in my head to save my life, a giant plate of nachoey goodness was ready for me to inhale. I carried it with both hands, holding it in front of me like a hair-trigger bomb, while I shuffled back to the living room.
Cecelia’s old-timey radio, the one she used when she wanted to communicate more complex concepts and emotions, appeared on the mantel. Some song I’d never heard was playing from it. It didn’t have lyrics, and the music was intense but slow.
“I don’t know that shong.” I lowered myself, and my nachos, onto the couch. Bits of chips and guacamole landed on either side of me. I fumbled for my phone, leaving smears of cheese sauce on it, and used one of those fancy apps to tell me what the song was.
Eating My Feelings.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little indul, um, endula …” I trailed off. Words were hard. “Anjoljuice? What’s that word?”
“Indulgence.” Gumbo materialized beside me, his weight sagging the cushions. A dollop of sour cream oozed off the plate and landed on his paw. He stared at it for a moment, then licked himself clean.
“Yes!” I fist-pumped. “If my body wants nachos and tequila, my body gets nachos. And tequila.”
“Or in my case, cream?” Gumbo lifted sad eyes to the ceiling. Cecelia placed a bowl of cream on a tray in front of him. It was the biggest bowl I’d ever seen.
“I wanna try that.” I dipped my finger into the cream and sucked on it. The flavor was intense, unlike anything I’d ever tasted. Like pure honey, dipped in ambrosia, sweetened with coconut. “This isn’t cow’s milk.”
“You’re quite right, Simone.” Gumbo lay down, resting his chin on the edge of the bowl. “This isn’t from our world.”
With that as the only explanation, he let his tongue lap at the cream. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Well, ate was a broad definition of what we were doing. And silence was a generous description. There was a lot of slurping and crunching and finger or paw licking involved. It wasn’t pretty.
I set my plate aside to nurse my tequila. Except I wasn’t a straight tequila drinker. Never had been. “You’re a margarita,” I whispered to my glass like it was my lover.
“Tell me how this happened.” I scritched Gumbo’s singular ear, sipping my tasty new marg. “Where’s your udder earr?”
“That’s a story for another time.” Gumbo ceased his slurping to look at me. Little white drops of cream dotted his muzzle and dripped off his whiskers.
“Okay.” I hiccuped. Oh God, was I gonna have hiccups? I hated hiccups. “Then tell me why you’ve been eating cream like it’s, hic, an endangered species.”
“Endangered species?” Gumbo frowned. My talking cat frowned. So cute. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Um, you know.” I hiccuped. Waited. “A natural thingy that’s gonna run out.” I waved my hand in the air and hiccuped. “The words are right there on my tongue.”
Gumbo blinked. He scanned me. With both eyes. “A finite resource?”
“Yeah!” I nudged him, laughing as he rolled sideways to give me access to his massive belly. I jiggled it. “Why is this getting so big?”
“Ah, yes.” Gumbo rose, turned in a circle, then curled himself into a ball next to me. “This is, I’m afraid, an unfortunate side effect of the Threadbinding. The Hem is fraying. It’s opened new doors that I simply can’t resist traveling through.”
“I had noticed the timelines matched up. What’s a Hem?” I hiccuped, trying like the dickens to focus my eyes on the table beside me. “Iwasgonnalookitup.”
“What’s that?”
“In the codex.” I finished my drink and let it fall to the ground before Cecelia could refill it again. “I was gonna look up if the thready weddy made you a chunky monkey.”
Despite Gumbo’s indignant grunt, I giggled. And hiccuped. I slid my hand along the table since I couldn’t seem to see it. “Where’d books go?”
Cecelia played a song. It struck a vaguely familiar cord, but I didn’t need to know it to understand her message as the lyrics were anything but subtle. Hands off.
“She won’t let me have my books,” I said to Gumbo, dropping my head back.
“Most likely, my dear, that’s because you have cheese on your fingers.” Gumbo let out a couch-rumbling fart.
I held my fingers in front of my face, waggling them. That was a mistake. My head swam. I could feel the earth rotating on its axis. My stomach did a long, slow roll from back to front. I hiccuped, covering my mouth as saliva built.
“I will not be sick.” Though my BMVTM wavered, it held. The way I saw it, a hangover was the price you paid for a night of too much drink. There had to be balance. Without it, all the scales would tip in one direction, and we’d all eat and drink until we exploded. I’d accept a hangover.
But vomiting was not on the table. And I definitely couldn’t vomit on the table. Cecelia would never forgive me.
“It’s just as well,” Gumbo said. He was purring, his voice lazy. “You can’t research your way into everything, Simone.”
“But the knowledge makes me know things.” I dropped my head back, eyes closing. “Pretty, pretty knowledge.”
“It only takes you so far.” How did Gumbo make it seem like I was the one purring? The vibrations softened my muscles. I was becoming very gooey. “Eventually, you just have to listen to your gut.”
I hiccuped. Gumbo farted. Listening to our guts did not seem like a good life choice.
“Why does he turn into an animal when I’m around?” My words were slurring, but not from drink. A stray tear trailed into my ear. I couldn’t wipe it away; my arms were too heavy. My heart felt the same. “Why is his wolf so unsettled when I’m near?”
“I think you know.” Gumbo re-situated himself, placing his head on my lap. “You’ve always known, Simone.”
“I don’t know anything.” But, for the first time in ages, my throat felt clogged at the statement. It wasn’t a truth, and my power wouldn’t allow me to state falsehoods. Even when I was shitfaced.
I’d have to think about that more. Later. My eyes closed, almost of their own accord, and I slipped into a restless sleep. At least my magic had been strong enough to keep me from getting sick.