Chapter Five
Five
Blasphemy
“Something the matter?”
Aoife blinked. Once. Twice. His hands were back on her hips, his shadow and ice eyes staring at her.
Everything is the matter. “Not at all.” Aoife stepped back. Away from him.
She had to think this through. Take a breather. She’d lost her head and thrown herself at him. Sure, it had been wonderful. Not just wonderful. Electrifying. But she needed to step back. Start making more rational choices.
“Let’s, maybe,” Aoife smiled, “have another drink.”
He didn’t smile back. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter.” Hadn’t she already said that? Aoife tried to smile wider as she reached for his hand. “Let’s have another drink.”
He stepped aside. Out of her reach.
“I said I only wanted to worship if it was true.” He stepped behind the bar, creating a chasm between them that extended far beyond the sliver of wood keeping Aoife from him.
“It is true, I just want another drink first.” His eyes focused on her shoulder. Or was it the air near her shoulder? Why was he staring at her shoulder? When he looked back at her, his eyes were distant. Unbelieving.
“I’m not lying,” she said. Despite the fact that she was lying.
“Is that why you’re really here?” His voice was sharp. Cold. “Trying to find out if I can see your lies?” He grabbed a rag and raked it down the bar, the pressure and ferocity putting him in danger of breaking the bar rather than cleaning it.
“What does that mea—”
“You’re an awful liar.” He slapped the rag onto the bar. “It’s written all over your face.”
Aoife touched her cheeks, her mouth, as if trying to wipe away a lie-stain. “What on Earth are you going on about?”
He laid both hands on the bar, looking her dead in the eye. “Did someone tell you I can see the Shadows?”
The darkness floated past her, and for a second she almost thought she heard it laughing at her. What had he meant by “see” the Shadows? Couldn’t everyone see the floating wisps of darkness?
Aoife stepped back, straightened her spine.
Something had gone terribly wrong between them, but she could fix this.
It was just a misunderstanding. They needed to take a break, have a drink, like she’d told him.
But before she could say anything more, he said, “Did someone hire you to find out? What was your price? I hope it was worth it.”
Aoife stood there. Frozen. Stunned. “Price … my price?” At that moment, the scientist in her fell to her feet, and the passion, the anger in her, reared to her head. Was he insinuating she’d been paid to come onto him? To sleep with him even? Was he saying…
“Are you calling me a whore?” Aoife couldn’t breathe.
She’d been treated like a whore more than once, thanks to online dating.
She’d had men offer to buy her purses or necklaces or pay her rent if she slept with them, no questions asked.
And she’d had certain types of men directly called her a whore if she said “thanks, no thanks.” But to have someone like this, someone she’d been so drawn to, so enamoured with, say it was just … was just …
“You came onto me, remember?” she snapped, stepping forward.
“A mistake. Clearly.” He leaned forward, as if challenging her to a fight, his body strung tighter than the strings on a guitar.
“You must think so highly of yourself,” she spat, “if you think someone would hire me to find out your secrets.” Aoife whipped around, her boots banging against the warped floorboards as she thundered to the door. “You’re not that special,” she said before escaping into the night.
~*~
Aoife wandered. She was cold. She was alone. She was lost.
The cat that had brought her here was nowhere to be found, leaving Aoife to walk faster and faster until she was running down the poverty-stricken streets, searching for a way to get … home? To the Gates?
Aoife didn’t know where she was trying to go.
She just needed to get somewhere. Her research questions bounced around in her mind, trying to give her comfort.
Direction. They did a poor job of it. At least she had an answer to her second question.
The Gates did not do as Eimear had said.
They had not brought her to her soulmate.
At least, that man hadn’t been him.
Aoife came to a part of town where the eyes of the people were less desperate, their souls less crushed by the weight of having nothing.
Or so it seemed from the outside. The crimson stars overhead mocked her, or guided her, she couldn’t say which.
Either way, she found herself standing in front of a place called the Night Keeper’s Inn.
A roaring fire inside could be seen from the window, promising warmth.
And hopefully a place for Aoife to get her thoughts together. Maybe even sleep.
The inn smelled of pine cones and sage as Aoife entered, crossing from blistering cold to sizzling warmth. It was going to be okay, she told herself. She was going to figure this out. One research question a time.
Shadows slunk past Aoife as she went to the inn’s small restaurant to the right of the entrance.
If she had been a real estate agent, she would have described the place as “quaint.” At this late hour, the only guest was an old man talking to himself as he devoured a beef pie.
There were long wooden tables with candles in the middle, the floor strewn with bits of hay and dirt.
A waitress in a long, once-crimson-now-nearly-black dress was cleaning one of the tables.
Aoife took a seat next to a window, looking out at the town.
Had any of that really happened? Was this happening now?
Aoife found herself wishing she truly were in a coma.
Or hallucinating. That none of this was real.
That the way the bartender had touched her, the passion that had pulsed through her, the need, the want, the wild lust … that it had all been fake.
It would be easier to swallow if it had been a lie.
Aoife moved closer to the window so no one could see the emotions speeding across her face, giving her whiplash. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have lost her head?
It was so unlike her.
Or rather, maybe it was like her. A part of her.
A part that believed in the magic of life.
In spontaneity and romance and the spirituality of a truly inspiring work of art.
But even if that part of her did exist, even if it were real and true and genuine, it was also unacceptable.
It had to be shoved down, down, down where no one could find it. Not even Aoife.
In that moment, like a forbidden secret, a single line from Eimear’s summoning ritual whispered in Aoife’s mind: “Let my body succumb to lust most grand, that I may know the other half of my soul even in a far away land.” Aoife certainly could have described what had happened to her as “succumbing to lust.” But he hadn’t been her soulmate. Right?
Maybe he had been. Maybe she’d just screwed up eternal happiness.
A deep pit of darkness welled in Aoife’s stomach.
She rubbed her palms into her eyes, trying to push the thoughts and feelings from her body.
That man wasn’t her soulmate. Of course he wasn’t.
Her soulmate would not have been a bartender.
He would have been in STEM. That was the kind of man her family would have approved of, which meant that was the right kind of man.
After all, Aoife never knew what was best for her.
Not when it came to her hobbies, not when it came to her career, and certainly not when it came to her love life.
On the other hand, her family, and Mum in particular, always did seem to know what was best. So, yes.
Her soulmate would be someone who won sciency awards and said things like “fast Fourier transform” in casual conversation.
“Did you want something?” The waitress with the once-crimson dress stood at Aoife’s table, looking her up and down like she was unconvinced Aoife could pay for food.
“Can I get a room for the night?” Aoife said. “And maybe something to eat?”
The waitress placed a hand on her hip, lips tight. “It’s two bronze pieces for a room. Four obsidians for the food.”
Aoife pulled the coins from her pocket. Laying them on the table, she picked out four black coins and two bronze ones.
“Is this right?” Aoife said.
The waitress relaxed. “Exactly right.” She scooped the coins into her hand. “But some people would kill for that gold coin. Be careful.” The waitress’s smile was soft, sympathetic, as if Aoife were a lost puppy trapped in a thunderstorm. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Was Aoife that obvious? “Not exactly.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m honest. I’ll be back with your food and your room key.”
Aoife thanked the waitress then quickly gathered up the rest of her coins.
She paused, noticing a blank piece of paper among the handful of coins.
Had that been there earlier when she’d checked the coins in the Knitting Widow?
Putting the money back in her pocket, Aoife flipped the paper over. On one side it said, “You’re welcome.”
You’re welcome? For what?
Maybe the message wasn’t meant for her. Maybe it was meant for someone else.
Aoife glanced at the dress and cloak she wore.
She still didn’t know how she’d come by them.
Did they belong to someone else? That strange woman in the town square had called her “Aoife Donmaire.” That wasn’t her name.
Not her last name, at least. A feeling of cold came over her.
Did the Gates, if they were real, perform some sort of consciousness-swapping? Did these clothes belong to the real Aoife Donmaire? Was the other Aoife back in Ireland living Aoife’s life? That was … Aoife didn’t want to begin sorting through the moral implications.