It had taken nearly two full teacups of Lilia’s stash of whisky at the shop to calm Vivienne enough to get the details of what concoction she had used on her hair. After several hours, when Lilia was done, Vivienne’s porcelain complexion was free of monster-green stains and her chicly spikeddowas her now trademark, electric fuchsia.
Vivienne had sworn love and loyalty to Lilia that day and even though that had been barely two years ago, it was as though they had been the best of friends for a lifetime.
Vivienne tapped the glass table with a perfectly manicured nail. “Ye’ve wandered away on me again, pet. I said we’ve some of those delightful cinnamon biscuits left from the preview party for the coconut oil line last night. Want I should reheat one for ye?”
“Believe it or not, I actually had a scone this morning.” Lilia drew in a deep breath, struggling against the darkness and stress squeezing her heart until she thought it would surely crumble. “Eliza seemed a bit more stable today so I had breakfast with her.”
“Oh. Well . . . that’s good then.” Vivienne paused; her mouth pursed downward in a sympathetic frown. “I am so sorry, lovie,” she whispered. Her deep brown eyes glistened with unshed tears. She cleared her throat and nervously fluffed her fingertips through her short, spiked hair.
Lilia took another sip of the strong black coffee. Vivienne’s unconscious habit of spiking her bright hair into an even wilder bush of abandon somehow consoled her. Vivienne only fiddled with her hair when extremely upset or royally pissed off. By the somber hue of her friend’s aura and the echo of sadness emanating from her, Vivienne was just as upset as she was about Eliza’s worsening condition.
“So, what are the tickets for?” If she didn’t change the subject, she and Vivienne would both be bawling. She saved the PowerPoint chart, then powered down the laptop. Enough planning for store three for one day.
Vivienne’s face lit up and she excitedly patted both hands on the table. “Ye know Fringe Festival starts tonight. And look—” She grabbed up the tickets, fanned them out, and waved them under Lilia’s nose “The Highland LARPers are putting on a special performance. The tickets were sold out in just under an hour but I scored three of them so you and I and Alberti can go and do a bit ofcovert surveillance.” Her voice had deepened to the deliciously wicked tone it always took whenever Vivienne was in full plotting mode. She excitedly bounced up and down in her chair as though prepping for liftoff. “We’ll totally win the competition against them later this fall. There’ll be no stopping us at the Grand Highland Games if we can study their bit of swordplay and horsemanship and plan our attack accordingly.” Vivienne pointed both index fingers at Lilia. “Ye could win the title of Grand Swordsmanship Champion two years straight! A pair of trophies would balance out a shelf quite nicely.” Vivienne squealed and patted the table again. “Wouldn’t that be banging hot?”
LARPing, or Live Action Role Playing, had been Lilia’s saving grace when, just over a year ago, she had nearly lost her constant battle against the crippling darkness of depression. Gifted—or cursed depending on the viewpoint—with prophetic visions and painfully, fine-tuned empathy, life got overwhelming fast.
Drugs hadn’t helped, and neither had therapy—especially when she couldn’t exactly be totally honest with the doctor when it came to her family history. If she had told the psychiatrist she was the youngest member of a family of time-traveling women, born in thirteenth-century Scotland, then whisked to the future by her grandmother to save her life, the doc would’ve surely locked her in a padded cell and thrown away the key.
But the intense physical workout and the strategic planning involved in their LARP war games and swordplay competitions had helped—that and Vivienne and Alberti’s close watchful care.
Vivienne had introduced Lilia to Alberti after the infamous screaming match she’d had with her former business partner David Sommers over some unexplainable entries in the company’s accounts. Vivienne had never trusted or liked David but as Granny would saythe man could charm a dog off a meat wagonand knew how to double-talk better than any politician. Whenever Lilia had lowered her shields and scanned David, she had never come up with any sense of guilt from him so she had liked him and taken him at his word. Of course, now she knew he never felt any guilt because the bastard hadn’t possessed a conscience.
But then Vivienne had brought in Alberti. She’d known him since college and anyone Vivienne recommended was fine in Lilia’s book. A savvy businessman, financial whiz, and even a licensed physical trainer on the side, Alberti had jumped at the chance to invest in Lilia’s beauty business—a business that for all intents and purposes should be thriving but, strangely enough, seemed to be losing money.
Thank the Fates for Vivienne and Alberti. Not just for being business partners but also for being non-judgy confidants and friends. They knew and unconditionally accepted the parts of her heritage she had risked sharing. And if not for those two, she would’ve gone off the deep end and drowned in her sorrow a long time ago.
A sharp clap startled Lilia back to the present.
“Ye are worse at yer wandering today, pet. Did ye not sleep last night? If ye are going to get lost in yer thoughts, snag a juicy moment of going up against the wall with some delicious hunk instead of that dark shit that puts the shadows ’neath yer eyes.” Vivienne scooped up the coveted tickets and waved them under Lilia’s nose again. “Come on, ducks. Ye know a bit a swordplay always cheers ye up. Say ye’ll come.”
Lilia plucked the tickets out of Vivienne’s hands, leaned back in the plush office chair, and slowly swiveled back and forth. “The Highland LARPers, huh?”
“Aye.” Vivienne patted her hands on the table in rapid-fire drumming. “We’ll have a grand evening of swords, archery, and horsemanship and then we’ll be off to the pub to toast our warmongering genius at strategizing the perfect coup for the upcoming battle this fall!”
“Have you told Alberti?”
“Has she told Alberti what?” Alberti, tall, slender, and attired in his usual state of impeccable fashion perfection, leaned through the partially opened office door. “What debacle has Vivienne embroiled us in this time?”
“Piss off, Berti.” Vivienne affectionately extended her middle finger with a casual flip of her hand. Only Vivienne could turn a rude hand gesture into a sign of endearment.
Alberti rolled his eyes, ignoring Vivienne with a sleek dark brow arched directly at Lilia. “Have you forgotten we have a meeting with the zoning commission today and—as heaven is my witness—please tell me that is not how you intend to wear your hair?”
Lilia fingered the heavy blonde braid hanging down the right side of her neck. The tethered tip of the long ponytail nearly brushed her lap. “What’s wrong with a braid? I just re-blonded everything so I’m trying not to stress it out by taking the flat iron to it.”
“Re-blonded? Seriously . . . ” Alberti smoothed a hand across his perfectly styled black hair with just enough graying at the temples to sex him up a notch. “Be that as it may, at least coil it into a neat chignon. Much more professional than a braid and a great deal less . . . ” Alberti waved a hand in the air, struggling to find the words. “A great deal less Viking opera or queen of the Valkyries.”
“Show him the tickets so he’ll get off my ass about my hair.” Lilia slid the tickets across the table toward Vivienne. She stiffly rose from the chair, stretching her arms high in the air and twisting from side to side. Damn, she had sat hunched over that computer too long.
“This’ll throw ye in a tizzy, Berti.” Vivienne skipped across the room in her spike heels, waving the tickets in the air. “Ye’ll have to leave work a bit early this afternoon to make sure they’ve sauced up our costumes good and proper. We canna go to a show like this in dreary old street clothes. After all—’tis the start of Fringe, ye ken?”
She popped the tickets into his hands, then hugged herself around his arm, excitedly bouncing them both with every word. With an innocent smile, she almost purred as she batted her false eyelashes up at him. “And this time could ye make certain my outfit is a bit less whorish?”
Alberti’s gaze slid from the tickets to Vivienne, his expression shifting frominterestedtoskepticalwith a twitch of a brow. “A bit less whorish?”
“Aye.” Vivienne bobbed her head.
“Have ye looked in the mirror today, dearie?” He wrinkled his nose, quietly emitting a disapprovinghmphas he took in Vivienne’s leopard print spike heels then swept up her black leather leggings to her extremely low-cut silky-white tunic. He leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice. “And ye have camel toe, lovie—I mean really, Vivienne.”
