You drain the dregs of your martini in one long, bitter
swallow.
A vodka martini. Gin is for happier days.
You should be happy, you tell yourself. Your skills are in
high demand—translations and political advising and solving other people’s
problems with a little creative thinking. Your love for Alec is an ever-growing thing, steady and reassuring, a constant companion punctuated by text messages and date nights and
cheesy movies wrapped in the warmth of each other’s arms. You’ve met the fires
of your father’s rage and come out standing.
These are all accomplishments to
be proud of.
Despite Catarina’s urging, you have yet to open your
services to the warlock community, but the rest of the Downworld keeps you
occupied. Your people will have to wait.
They’re no longer your people.
The drink sitting in your stomach threatens to burn its way
back up, and only centuries of iron control keeps the reaction at bay. When
every movement of arms and fingers and torso directs a whirlwind of destructive
power, one learns to control every movement.
Such fine control is no longer
necessary. The magic is gone yet the instinct remains. It’s enough to
send the floodgates of your mind crashing open, to let the rush of thoughts
sweep you under.
Not a warlock, but not mundane either.
Like a sick taunt, you can still see vestiges of the Shadow
World. The runes on Alec’s skin. The towering walls of the Institute. The
warlocks and seelies that walk amongst the pulsing crowd of New Yorkers on busy
streets. The safe keyed to your magic whose contents will now remain sealed for
eternity. There’s the lingering horror of no longer being able to sense magic, but
you cling to what you have, pathetically grateful not to be left alone in the
dark.
Pushing yourself upright, you cross the room and pour
another drink. Vodka martini, straight up. Dry. No twist.
Experience says that it’s one drink more than you should rightfully
indulge in. That any major working of magic will be at risk due to the
impreciseness of your compromised motions and slower thinking.
“Well, that’s one problem solved,” you say, raising your cocktail
to empty space. The words are unnaturally loud in the silence as you drink deeply
from the crystal glass.
Silence has never been a friend, and so with a sway of hips you
walk to the ancient gramophone in its place of honor amongst the modern
conveniences. Picking an album at random, you settle on the couch and let the crooning,
distinctive tones of Eartha Kitt wash away the dead air. Something in your
chest eases.
If only it was more than a temporary reprieve.
The vibration of your phone is a much appreciated
interruption. Checking your texts reveals that a group of warlocks upstate want
you to be the keynote speaker on the evolution of offensive wards in seventeenth
century Russia. It’s a day trip and they’ve already offered arrangements to
provide a portal both ways.
The last parts stings but you can’t deny its necessity.
You toss your phone aside, the request unanswered. You’ve refused
to see warlocks for a reason. No need to stare directly into the abyss of everything
you’ve lost. No matter that you would make the exact same choice all over again
if needed. You won’t accept, but you’ll at least do them the courtesy of
refusing them sober.
With the distraction over, the thoughts come knocking at your
mind once again, a pesky neighbor who just won’t accept that some people don’t
actually keep sugar in their home.
What are you now?
What
good are you to anyone?
Where do you belong?
Questions you don’t dare ponder without the hazy warmth of a
few drinks in you. The mundane world holds no place for you, not knowing what you
know and having the enemies you have. But neither does the Shadow World, where the
mere sight and sound shines an unrelenting spotlight on every ragged and torn
out piece of you that’s best left hidden.
In the background, Eartha sings about the merits of drowning
sorrows in sweet lilac wine. How appropriate. You toast in the direction of the
gramophone and take another drink. Perhaps the vodka will fill the hollowness
that now lives in your bones.
You shake your head. That’s dramatic, even for you.
It’s been a while since you heard this particular song and
you’re reminded that what it’s truly about is the pain of lost love. For the
first time in a long time, it doesn’t strike a aching chord in your heart.
Instead, there’s a soft fluttering in your chest, punctuated by the sight of mystery novels on the far bookshelf, a spare thigh holster on the ornate coat
rack by the door, and two cups of coffee sitting empty on the kitchen table
from this morning. Photos dot every room in your home where before there was
nothing but impersonal art.
For all that you’ve lost, you’ve also gained. You have Alec.
Beautiful and strong, Alexander would raze the world to the ground if only you
would ask.
You will never ask.
Alec has shouldered enough of your burdens, enough of your
pain and sleepless nights. Alec, who has reached into the gaping chasm of your
chest and guarded your heart, raw and exposed as you flounder in your new world.
If this is your life now, it needs to be walked on your own two feet.
Putting down your drink, you reach for your phone and text
back an acceptance.
