Mother is blowing up my phone as I choke down a fistful of pills. Swiping the abandoned energy drink from the nightstand, I take a generous swig to wash down the last of my medication. It’s flat, but beggars can’t be choosers. The box fan hums, almost enough to drown out the persistent buzzing.
My scrawled notes lay scattered across my comforter, my laptop glows with illustrations patiently waiting to be examined. All night I’ve been working, researching until I find the missing piece. I know it’s here. By the third missed call, my focus is shot, and my stomach is starting to cramp. With a long-suffering sigh, I change it to silent; mourning my lost train of thought. Purple twilight has arrived, casting soft smoky shadows on the floor. It was the perfect time for casting spells, conjuring spirits, and making deals. Or in my case, grabbing a snack, getting baked, and studying old grimoires. In that order. Stretching wide with a groan, joints pop and crack in morning roll call. I feel like hell, and my new medical cocktail isn’t helping. I’m not interested in acknowledging my mother this early in the morning. Who calls at four in the morning?
Rolling off the bed with a groan, my toes sink into the thick black carpet covering the majority of the floor. It’s my special creation, a protection circle crafted from programming knot magic into the fibers as I crocheted. It had taken several tries to get the enchantments to stick, but the wrist pain was worth it for the results. The soft wool is just enough motivation to get up and head for the kitchen.
I slide on my glasses and tiptoe to the door. Passing my stand-up mirror, the foreign face wearing my boxer briefs and bra stare wide-eyed. I resisted the urge to throw on a sweatshirt. I was fine, I didn’t need to cover up if I didn’t want to. I was fine, the goosebumps would fade.
Clay wasn’t bothered by me walking around in boxer briefs and tiny tops. That was if he was even up. Opening the door, the rest of the apartment was cast in the same elongated shadows. Clay’s door across the room was shut, and lay still. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Despite living the past two months in one of the most secure places in the world, I was terrified of what lurked in its dark corners. My hand reached up for the layers of necklaces covering my throat and chest. Each one a layer of protection. I’m alright, I’m okay. There’s nothing in the shadows. A flick of a switch, and warm light floods the room, driving my fear away.
In the softly cast light of floor lamps and fairy lights, the apartment isn’t so sinister. It’s rather homey. With creaking wooden floorboards covered in old layered rugs, photos and paintings hung up on the walls, there was no shortage of charm. Within the apartment, my tongue tingled with the weight of magic from generations of family sharing these walls. Love and time were powerful things. Though admittedly, we’d reduced some of the homey appeal, with Clay’s work station now residing in the dining area and mine ever creeping from the guest room into the living room.
I stealth around a self-created obstacle course, cursing my past self between tilting stacks of books, scattered pieces of paper, and the occasional empty mug. Tripping over a rogue take out container, I windmilled my way to the kitchen, almost slamming my nose into the fridge. With a huff, I yanked open the door where, inside sat the object of all my desires.
“Come to mama.” I cooed, plucking my prize –chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding– from the fridge and heading out to the balcony where my smoke station was set up. My phone glowed with the notification of an incoming call, but my hands were conveniently full. I had no intentions of starting my day listening to the same old song.
The balcony was a small wrought iron platform, with a beautiful view of downtown. Clay and I had furnished it simply, setting up a little two-seater, and a chair tucked in the corner with a small table in the center. Under the cheap patio rug was a sigil enclosing the balcony in invisible, intangible walls to keep the elements out, as well as obscure anyone on it from view. It had taken Clay and I two years to eventually get it just right, we wanted to make sure that we could still feel the breeze in the summer and that when I hot boxed the place, no one saw a random smoke cube hanging on the side of a building.
I claimed my perch on the love seat, taking a large spoon full of pudding before setting my breakfast to the side. Opening the center compartment of the outdoor table, my gear laid neatly on the tray waiting for me. My fingers intuitively reached for the grinder, seeking the ritual of preparing fresh flower for a bowl. It was in need of a refill anyway. I had recently gotten some new Jack Herer, hoping it could help me refocus on my research. My brain fog had been getting worse since my medicine stopped working.
With practiced care, I lined up three bowls on my tray. Below, the earliest morning commuters began to trickle in, their rumble not quite enough to drown out the buzz of late summer insects and coos of mourning doves. Once all three bowls are prepped, I grab my mini beaker bong and settle into the cushions. With a flick of my thumb, flames ignite on the tip of my nail, the small thing whips about as I tip it and light the bowl. The first hit makes my heart jumps and a comforting weight sinks deeply in my chest. Holding it for a beat, just enough to reach that fuzzy feeling that makes my eyes roll, I let it go, watching the smoke dance above my head in soft curls. Already, my stomach starts to settle.
“Fuck, that’s it.” I mumble, already starting the next draw. My once restless limbs sink into the cushions, and–my phone lights up again. It’s mom. I flip the damn thing, but the screen seems to glow forever. The buzz of a new voicemail being received makes my nose wrinkle. It’s been a while since she last left a voice message, usually full of the same repetitive “come home” speech as before.
Come home Brigid. You’re embarrassing the family, Brigid. You’re wasting your potential, Brigid. Potential, ha! Ironic considering I can’t cast a damn spell. No, I am better off here, researching. That’s why I’m hiding my face. I’m tired of the flashing cameras and snide comments at family gatherings. I’m supposed to be an heiress, the eldest daughter to the eldest daughter of the Coven Leader. But instead, I’m an imposter hiding in my mother's large shadow.
It takes two more bowls to get far enough that my mother can’t catch me. The heavy draw of my eyelids and the way my limbs are stitched into the love seat make me hesitant to leave, but eventually I make it in without knocking anything over and remember to bring my delicious treat with me. But when I enter, I realize time has gotten away from me again. Not only do I find the apartment bathed in fat beams of sunlight, I am no longer the only one up.
Clay sits at his work bench tucked in the corner where there had once been a bulky ornate dining table. He didn’t bother wearing a glamour at home like I did. The mottled gray of his stone skin and wings easily give him away as a gargoyle. He had the breadth of a gargoyle, but Clay was shorter than average for his kind. Dainty gold circular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he looked through a magnifying lens, tinkering away in an old worn tank top and fuzzy slippers, his brass cane rested against the desk. The blue runes carved into the body glowed under the light from his overhead lamp.
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“Did I wake you?” I rasp, coughing into my elbow, and returning to the kitchen to eat.
“No, had a breakthrough.” Clay’s voice has the deep weight of heavy stones grinding together. I hear the familiar clicking of lenses adjusting as he fiddles through various combinations. Strong, nimble hands deftly move, pausing now and again to clench and flex the fingers with a wiggle.
I hummed in acknowledgement but let him focus, choosing instead to dig into my meal.
“You didn’t sleep?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“No, too restless.” I don’t tell him about the way my glamour makes my marrow burn. I’ll figure out a salve or potion to ease the pain. I don’t mention I’ve already started to forget what I looked like. I don’t want to worry him, I’m just adjusting. I signed up for this. I set down the pudding again to start preparing a pain relief tea, courtesy of my aunt’s apothecary.
Clay turns to face me, heavy brow drawn low. “Brig, it’s been three days.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have magic.”
I grimace. “I know.”
“Brig–”
“I know, Clay,” I sigh, filling the kettle with water. “Believe me, I know.” I switch it to boil, turning to lean against the counter. “Something’s up with my meds. The cramps are getting worse, and I’m feeling a bit foggy.”
“Shit,” He mumbles, rubbing his jaw. “Brig, have you considered, maybe…”
“I can’t,” Clay’s mouth tightens. “I won’t go see my aunt. I told myself when I left that I wouldn’t go running back when things got difficult.”
“This is your physical health. You’re not a failure for being sick.” He countered, but I shook my head.
“That’s not how my family sees it. Certainly not my mother or grandma.” I pour the water into two mugs and pass him one. For a moment, we’re quiet. I hate it when it’s quiet like this, it feels like maggots wriggling beneath my skin. I take a scalding sip of tea, the pain distracting enough to sharpen my focus. Clay’s eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest to lean back against the desk.
“When’s your next appointment.”
“In a month.” I stare into the mug. “It’s the soonest they could get me in.”
“Have you told–”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, pulse jumping wildly. “Since it’s nothing life-threatening, they advised me to double the dose until then.”
I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see the concern in his eyes. Just like his silence, his concern made me feel uncomfortable. The wriggling intensified, making my skin itch, and I gripped the mug a little tighter.
“My mom called,” I said instead, wanting to talk about literally anything else. “I ignored it.”
“What did she want?”
“How would I know? I didn’t pick up.” I snark, taking another burning gulp.
Clay rolls his dark eyes. “Did she leave a message? Send a text? She’s usually pretty persistent at getting her message across.”
I grumble some nonsense, swiping my phone to look at the notifications again. Four missed calls, two texts, and two emails. I was popular.
“Fucking hell,” I start browsing through the previews, careful to not open anything that would allow her to see me interact.
Mom: Call me back when you see this.
Mom: I know you’re awake Brigid, don’t be childish. Pick up.
“Anything?” I glance up at Clay, then back at my screen.
“Nothing from the texts.”
“There’s more?”
“Emails,”
“How touching.”
But the emails aren’t from my mother. It’s my aunt and grandmother’s names staring back at me. The edges of my vision blur, and I lean harder into the counter, digging into my hip enough to keep my footing. Now wouldn’t be a great time to look at those.
“Brig?” Clay’s voice is muffled, there’s a rushing in my ears that makes my head feel like it’s being juiced by a grumpy giant.
“M’ fine.” I mumble, setting the phone back on the counter. “Just got a bit light-headed.”
Clay softens, shoulders dropping. “Go sit, Briddy. I’ll bring your food.”
When Clay calls me Briddy, my insides get all soft and fuzzy. I don’t bother fussing since I had work later anyway. I could do some field research during my evening shift in the archives and compare it to the other test sites. I just had to hope my body didn’t give out on me before then.
My medicine giving out on me was frustratingly inconvenient. The stomach pains were more frequent and severe, and my brain fog had stolen precious time from my work. I was all for the gothic, brooding academic look –I’m a librarian living in the attic apartment of a castle for crying out loud– but at this rate I was more worried about damaging one of the magic items under my care. Loss of coordination is one of the first signs of inadequate sleep, and I tend to the precious magic items of the rich and famous in the archives. One imperfection and it’d be more than just my bank account on the chopping block.
Clay’s cane has converted into his wheelchair, rolling over the creaky floor with ease. He once mentioned the floors are enchanted to never wear down and to creak so no one can sneak about. I think it’s massively unfair when I’m attempting to sneak some ice cream at two in the morning.
Accepting the offered cup of pudding and tea with a soft thank you, I tuck back into the meal. Clay fills the silence with updates on his latest project idea. My eyes catch on his fidgeting hands. He’s put on his finger braces now, the golden bands supporting each joint. I think they make his hands look regal. Maybe I could surprise him with a fancy set, oh, even better would be a set with some pretty stones inlaid.
“Brig?” Clay asks, jarring me out of my scheming.
“Huh?”
His considering eyes freeze me in place. My skin starts to itch, but I take a sip of tea. “You’re scheduled to cover the Library and the Archives tonight, right?”
“Yeah, they needed someone to cover for the morning, so I’m pulling a double. Why?” Clay’s eyes aren’t quite gray or blue. They have a hardness to them, like steel. The gold rimmed glasses make them pop, various enchanted lenses tilted up to the sides.
“Why not call in? Take a night off, get some sleep.” He’s fidgeting more, but his gaze never lets me go. I reach, halting his fidgeting.
“Clay, I’m alright. Besides, the Archives is the most enjoyable part of my shift.”
He smirks, “I thought that was me.” I shove his hand away with a scoff, only making him laugh. I like it when Clay laughs. Almost as much as I like it when he brings me food and calls me Briddy.