"Brigid Ryan?" Stacy recovers, tilting her chin up. Her diamond tennis bracelet catches afternoon light as she adjusts the leather portfolio under her arm. "You look different."
The Morrigan stretches my vocal cords into an unfamiliar purr. "Do I?"
It’s not my voice. Not really. This sound slithers like a serpent.
Stacy’s scent clogs our nostrils—vanilla and desperation. She steps closer, heels tapping on the asphalt. "Your aunt said you’d finally taken the hint and left?" Her laugh tinkles like shattered stemware. "Wait, no—last I heard you were in the city, busy getting arrested for—"
"Your crown’s crooked."
The Morrigan reaches out. Stacy flinches but stands paralyzed as our shadow-stained fingers brush the filigree pin clipped to her platinum hair. Real gold, probably. Still warm from salon-styled hair.
Stop. Please.
My mental whisper dissolves against the Morrigan’s amusement.
Stacy slaps my hand away. "Don’t touch me." Pink blotches bloom across her throat. "I don’t know what trailer park makeover you’re trying here, but you’re still just—"
"—A freak?" The Morrigan tilts my head. My blackened nail traces the air beside Stacy’s temple. "Poor lamb. You’ve been telling yourself that story for so long you almost believe it."
Stacy’s nostrils flare. Her gaze darts to the agency windows where her mother stands silhouetted behind blinds. "Excuse me?"
"Like mother, like daughter." The words drip saccharine poison. "All that plotting to marry up. All that practice with men who never called back. And still you’re here. Selling split-levels to divorcees. Folding your prom queen sash under mothballs. Or do you take it out when you’ve had too much wine and pretend you’re still that girl?"
Stacy’s knuckles whiten around her portfolio. "You crazy bitch."
Three crows land on a nearby STOP sign. Their synchronized croaks slice through the night air.
No. I press against the edges of my consciousness.
The Morrigan smiles wider. "Tell me, Stacy. When you look in mirrors now, do you see how ugly you are? Do you see your true self?"
Black vines unfurl beneath my skin. I feel them threading through muscle, curling around bone. Stacy’s pupils dilate. She rubs her sternum.
"I’m calling the police." Her voice rises half an octave. She fumbles for her phone, a manicured thumb jabbing at the screen. "You’re clearly off your meds again. Everyone knows about your little breakdown."
"After you leaked those photos?" The Morrigan releases a laugh that vibrates in my teeth. "Such a small, pathetic attack. Let me show you how real queens play."
Shadows pool at our feet. Alive. Hungry.
Stacy’s phone slips from trembling fingers. Her breath comes in shallow sips as the darkness climbs her ankles.
That’s enough!I scream soundlessly.You’ve made your point!
The Morrigan pauses. For one fractured second, I glimpse Stacy at thirteen—laughing as she poured bleach on my gym clothes. Then Stacy at twenty-two—still laughing at me. Always laughing.
The Morrigan's satisfaction washes over me like warm honey, sweet and sticky. I want to resist, to push back against the rush of power, but it's so tempting to let go. To let her continue.
"What... what are you doing?" Stacy's voice quavers, her bravado crumbling. Her eyes, wide with terror, dart frantically between my face and the writhing shadows at her feet. "This isn't funny, Brigid. Stop it!"
The Morrigan's laughter bubbles up from my throat, rich and dark. "Oh, but it is funny, little one. Can't you see the joke?"
I feel the Morrigan pushing images towards Stacy’s mind, phantoms of her past failures, a torrent of dark energy that floods Stacy's mind with visions. I see them too, each one a knife twisting in Stacy's psyche.
Stacy staring at her reflection, pinching the flesh of her stomach and thighs. The mirror cracks, showing her distorted and monstrous.
Stacy watches helplessly as her mother's disappointment plays out in vivid detail, each pursed lip and sneer an indictment of her worth.
Stacy’s father, telling his daughter that her bright pink lipstick made her look like a whore.
