When my first client sauntered in, with glowing skin and hair that resembled being engulfed in flames, the shock hit me afresh. Aside from the Twins, who I hadn’t seen since the board meeting, every other supernatural encounter had an aura of normality to it. Sure, someonecansaythey were a troll or dragon. But when they look human, it’s easier to believe that's part of the delusion.
I could rationalize Gumbo talking to me as part of my imagination. And the wolf from last night? That…
Nope. That one stayed in its mental box for now.
But there was no way I could pretend the female sitting across from me, who claimed to be a fire nymph by the name of Cindrette, was human. Despite my efforts to compartmentalize, flashes of the night before invaded my every thought.
The silver of her skin reflected the strange color I’d turned Jeff’s tongue.
She spoke in short bursts, afraid to let her words come out. Not unlike me.
And she wore no shoes, though her feet were blessedly free of vomit. In fact, they were clean and manicured, tucked underneath her legs. She’d chosen the chair, and that small win was enough to dissolve me into tears. I recovered. Eventually. And apologized. Profusely.
But it wasn’t the best first impression. And here I was, thirty minutes later, still dwelling on it rather than listening to her talk.
Oh, yeah. I’m nailing this therapy thing.
“I jolt awake in the middle of the night, terrified I’m still under her thrall. I’ve even awoken a few times half altered.” She dropped her voice, eyes darting from side to side as if someone might hear her and pounce. “I set one of the rooms in Bridge House on fire. In my sleep!”
“That must have been very stressful for you. How was that resolved?”
“Oh, you know Bridge House.” Cindrette shook her head. An actual tinder flitted from her hair, crackling as it popped out of existence. “Misty took care of it. It’s not the room that scared me. It’s that I hadn’t been aware I’d changed.”
I made a note in my notepad. Ididn’tknow about Bridge House. Or Misty. But my tour of the town had referenced the tiny island connected to Illusion Square by a bridge and the B&B run by a mermaid.
And it had the same air of familiarity to it I was growing used to. An annoying, but near-constant, sense of deja vu. I’ve seen this before. I’ve been across the bridge and onto the island. And something happened there.
Something I needed to pry out of its mental box. I pinched the spacebetween my thumb and forefinger again, reminding myself I was trying to be a good therapist.
“Let’s talk about the moments you feel safe, Cindrette. Can you recall any of them for me right now?”
“Safe?” Her dark orange brows furrowed low over eyes that glowed like embers.
“Yeah, you know, the moments you aren’t looking over your shoulder.”
She tilted her head, as if examining the strange woman asking questions in the hopes of understanding her. Good luck with that one, Cindy old gal, I barely understand myself.
“Is there something about my suggestion that is making you feel unsafe, Cindrette?”
“What? Oh, no!” Bless it, I could feel the wave of anxiety cascading through her. The people pleaser in me understood it completely. “It’s not that at all. I just thought…”
She waggled her fingers in the air. Try as I might, it was not a gesture I could interpret.
“I’m sorry, Cindrette. Can you communicate your concern to me?” I faked a smile. “I promise I won’t be upset, no matter what you say.”
Yuck. My stomach churned. I’d said something I didn’t mean, and my body didn’t like it. I kept the smile plastered on while Cindrette fidgeted in her chair. Finally, she cast her glance out the window.
“Don’t you want to hear about The Battle? Agatha always wanted me to talk about The Battle.”
I bit back an exhausted sigh. Several years ago, there’d been some sort of fight for Illusion Square. Several of my patients referenced it, giving their versions of how they’d participated. I understood the need for them to share the tragedy.
All of us who grew up in the area had a hurricane story. We used them when we met to gauge one another. Who’s your momma and can you make a roux, as the natives would say. Where were you for the big storm?
The Battle was Treater’s Way’s version of Katrina.I was in the Square when the fire started. I’d just left Explore Art before the shooting started. I worked with so-and-so and they…
It went on and on. The Battle mattered to the town, and I had torespect that. And those who’d fought in it had trauma galore. I was here to help them.
For a town with so much potential, too many of its residents dwelled on the past.
