I make a scoffing sound. “As if. No, I just figured a guy like you is probably a model or a thirst trap or something.” Why are my cheeks burning? Damn it, I hate this. I want to go home, not stand here making an idiot of myself.
Dorian Gray shakes his head slightly, with a faint chuckle.“You’re not what I expected to find.”
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all. I’ll be going now.”
But as I move past him, he catches my wrist.
I freeze, trying to remember the handful of self-defense classes I took with a couple friends back in Columbia. I’m blanking. Nothing in my head, nothing but the lines of those long, warm fingers pressing my flesh.
“Have dinner with me,” he says.
“Let go.”
His fingers loosen and slide along the underside of my wrist, grazing my palm before they part from my skin. I know it’s a calculated touch, but that knowledge doesn’t keep my stupid body from reacting.
I’m better than this, damn it.
“I wouldn’t have dinner with you if you were the last man on earth,” I snap.
“Ever been to Circa 1886?”
Oh…shit…
Circa 1886 is a fine-dining establishment in the old carriage house of the Wentworth Mansion, right down the street from my house. I’ve wanted to eat there since I moved to this city.
Dorian’s lashes dip, and he gives me a lazy, triumphant half smile.
That smirk gives me the strength I need.
“Fuck off.” I resume my jog down the sidewalk. My heart pounds with the half fear, half hope that he’ll follow me.
But instead he calls out, “Seven, tomorrow night. I’ll meet you there.”
By the time I get home, I’m seething. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the lock on my door.
“Hi, hon,” calls a voice from the corner of the second-floor balcony. Mrs. Dunwoody. Widowed, fifties. An attractive,comfortable-looking mom type. Southern Baptist. Gave me some little Jesus pamphlet the day I moved in.
“Hi, Mrs. Dunwoody,” I mumble, turning my key.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“I’m fine. Have a nice night.” I slip inside and close the door, locking itandputting on the dead bolt. But I can’t dead bolt my brain, and a certain pair of black-lashed, electric-blue eyes keep sparkling in my mind.
Familiar rituals usually settle me down: fiddling with my altar, burning some cleansing herbs, and making tea. I kneel on the padded stool in front of the altar, determined to center myself, to open my mind, to yield myself to peace. That’s what paganism means to me—being open to influence, freeing my mind to channel something brighter and broader than myself. Giving the forces of nature and the denizens of the spirit world a chance to speak.
Ever since I decided to take my paganism more seriously, I’ve felt drawn, not to the idea of some overarching, all-powerful goddess but to a distinct entity—a female presence with an artistic aura. A name enters my mind sometimes when I’m deeply receptive—Brigid. I’ve googled her a few times. She’s the Irish goddess of the arts, healing, creativity, and a list of other things…but to me she feels like the fire in my soul when I’m driven to create.
Tonight I have no space for Brigid’s strength and calm… There’s a different energy surging through my soul—ferocious, possessive, masculine. It’s not fire but water, a tidal wave crashing in my mind, then rising up to shatter itself again with eternal, lethal persistence. There’s something in it that calls to my blood, my very bones—a possessive hand clamped around my heart, dictating how I should honor it.
So far, my altar designs have been partly about my spiritual inclinations and partly about what I’ve seen on Pinterest. But at thismoment, I hate every charm and every crystal I’ve placed on the altar. I detest the color of the yarrow, the dried hydrangea is crumbling, and the tiny photo of Mom in its pewter frame only makes me more miserable. The sage-and-lavender incense blend reminds me of Dorian’s scent flooding my shop. Suddenly I can see a new altar in my mind as it should be designed, right down to the position of each object.
If another spiritual presence is manifesting himself to me, I should probably listen.
I hurry into the second bedroom and tear through a few of my half-unpacked boxes, compelled to find objects I haven’t touched in weeks. I carry them to the living room and drop them onto the couch. With a sweep of my arm, I clear the altar, tumbling its contents into a storage bin. My fingers fly, arranging the new items—first a silky blue handkerchief, then a chipped marble hand I found at a flea market. A huge conch shell of Aunt Jessie’s, several bits of jewel-toned sea glass, a handful of dried seaweed, some strands of twine. Beach grass from a vase. A stalk of dried eucalyptus. A necklace I inherited from Mom, set with a single real pearl. A candle that smells like the salty-fresh air of the beach.
Then I step back and survey my work.
It feels better, feels right, but it’s not enough. I need to draw something. Art is my truest worship, and I never feel closer to the divine than when I’m creating.
