Through A Glass Darkly

Through A Glass Darkly (Closed)

The red neon sign cut through the steady patter of the rain and Donald's fuzzy head. It flashed Fortune's Told. Below it was a large wooden palm, swaying in the cold breeze. Donald pulled his the collar of his long coat tighter around his slender frame, wishing he was back at home, with Darla. All that was finished now. She had kicked him out and kept his dog. Right now the future did not look so bright and the neon sign seemed a joke. His fortunes were slim and growing slimmer by the second.

He nursed his cigarette between his shaking lips, cupping it against the rain. The nicotine filled his lungs, bringing a slow and lingering death closer, but not quickly enough to suit his mood. If he had a gun in his hands at that moment, instead of a fag, he wasn't sure what he would do next.

Taking the last sawbuck from his wallet he stepped up to the cut-glass door and pushed it open. Surely it was worth the money to get in from the cold, even for a short period of time. Besides which, it was going to be a long lonely night and he craved the sound of someone's voice, even if he had to pay for it. The pain of the break up still tore at his heart and soul. Maybe this fortune teller would have the answer he needed, or maybe not.

He pushed his shaggy brown hair up off of his clean cut face and looked around the establishment. In the front was simply a counter, covered in a purple satin sheath. A single silver bell stood on the counter. He nervously pushed his hand down on it, listening to the single sterile ding. Overhead neon lights dimly lit up dark walls, covered with astrological and mystical symbols.

As he waited Darla's pretty, heart-shaped face flitted through his mind. He could not believe that she had been cheating on him with his own brother. He could not believe that she was kicking him out, after what she had done. Her emerald eyes flashed at him in anger as she yelled at him, again and again, in his memories, telling him he had never cared about her needs, either emotionally or sexually. How could she have said that when he loved her with all of his heart?

He stripped off his soaking coat and laid it across one of the wooden waiting room chairs. His football jersey and jeans had seen better days, but then he had only been down to the pub having a drink. He had not expected to end up on the street, as she threw his clothing from the window of their flat, ruining it the downpour, which was only now trickling off into light fingertips of water on the world. He pulled the still burning butt out of his mouth and smothered in a nearby ash tray. The dead butt seemed to be a symbol for his existence.

OCC: This thread is closed.

As the rain came down outside, she let out a low whistle.

“Looks nasty, hm?”

At her feet, a sleek gray and white saluki lifted its head and wagged its tail, before lowering its head again. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she stretched her arms over head before yawning. She was sitting at a small table, covered in a red and gold tablecloth, in a little cubby of a room. In front of her sat a half-drunk cup of tea, steam lazily wafting from the depths. Bookshelves framed three of the four walls, covered with books, crystals, geodes, statutes of various gods and goddesses. The fourth wall gave way to a doorway, covered by a beaded curtain in shades of purple and red.

Business was slow. But then again, it usually was, rain or shine. No one took much stock in fortune tellers. Sure, she had her regulars and the occasional passerby, but no one would really call her place “booming.” Still, it helped pay her rent and keep her skills sharp, so she supposed she shouldn’t complain that much. And the shop was designed the way she wanted it to - muted golds, purples, and reds. A faint hint of Turkey and Morocco in the decor, always lingering with the smell of heady incense and roses. Strange, really - considering that the place got little to no natural light and nothing green graced the interior.

“So, Hathor, do you think we should close early?” Hearing her name, the saluki wagged her tail again, before letting out a high pitched yawn. In the front of the shop, the door opened and closed. Hathor’s ears pricked, and she slipped from under the table, her sleek body going rigid. The woman looked up from under the table, and stood. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, feeling it enter cooly through her body. Holding it, she felt it gather in her stomach. Coiling in, intertwining in on itself, she let it guide her.

Her guest was a man.

Sad.

Wet.

Cold.

Her breath slipped from her, sparkling faintly in the buttery light. Huh.

Across the distance, the bell chimed, and she grinned, looking down at Hathor. Running a hand down the dog’s slender back, she grabbed a towel from the table and slipped through the curtains. Cautiously, Hathor trailed behind her.

If he hadn’t been paying attention, she seemed to have just appeared, from nowhere, behind the counter. With a knowing smile, she held out the towel to him. Rows of silver bracelets clanked musically together with the motion.

It was hard to tell how old she really was. She appeared to be a head or so shorter than him behind the counter, and was dressed in a tight off the shoulder white blouse. Her throat was bare, and her cinnamon colored flesh looked smooth against the fabric. In her ears swung heavy silver earrings, and her long, chocolate colored dreadlocks were held back by a red scarf. Her face was angular, reminiscent of a fox. Her lips were full with a seeming perpetual upward lift, as if she was constantly remembering something amusing and trying not to laugh. She wore no makeup, save a heavy black line around her eyes to emphasize them, and a sheer gloss on her lips. In her left nostril was an ornate silver lotus blossom piercing, a pearl set in the middle of the petals. Her eyes were heavily lidded - but her eye color was startling. Rather than the expected dark brown, they were a vivid lavender. Because of the counter, it was impossible to see what she had on below the waist, but the faint swishing of fabric suggested a long skirt.

“My name is Cassandra,” she said, and in her words there was a faint West Indies accent. “Yes, the irony of my name and telling fortunes doesn’t escape me,” and she laughed lightly. “Here, dry yourself. Would you like some tea?”

Donald dried his hair out as his brown mop turned frizzy. His hazel eyes eyes took in Cassandra for a moment, before he looked away. "A cupa would be lovely. My name's Donny." He held out his hand awkwardly, unsure of the etiquette of the fortune teller's trade. She was offering tea and making jokes, so he did not suppose she was in any hurry to read his palm or gaze into her crystal ball, and collect her money. She seemed rather down to Earth and nice, truth be told, despite her exotic appearance.

She was not at all what he expected a fortune teller to look like either. She was lovely and not at all old gypsy womanish. He had expected someone with an thick accent, steel gray hair and gold rings on every ancient finger.

With one hand held out, his other hand clutched the damp towel, unsure of what to do with it. He smiled at her, but his smile did not reach his eyes. Usually his laugh lines were evident, even though he was only in his late twenties, but today he looked mournful. He sniffed his aquiline nose experimentally. "You wouldn't have a tissue about, would you. Sorry to ask, but I seem to be catching something.

He had been with Darla for three years now, ever since he had picked her up at a local dance club. He was not usually in the business of picking birds up mind you, but something about her drew him in. The truth was he had never been what you call fast. Still, within hours they were in each others' arms, in his bed, and the next week she was moving into what had been, until an hour ago, his flat. He still was not sure how a fellow could be kicked out of his own flat. Now that he was thinking a bit clearer he realized he would have to go around to see the renter tomorrow, and possibly the police, to work things out. When Darla made a decision, whether it was sleeping with him on their first night together, moving in with him the following week, adopting a dog with him, or kicking him out, she never looked back.

Donald had always appreciated that about her. She was Italian, and exciting to be around. Her moods where passionate mercurial. She was so unlike the quiet English girls he was used to dating. Besides that, with her heart shaped face, black curls and almond shaped eyes, she was a stunner. He always felt good with her on his arm, like he had traded up or something. Others looked at him with wonder, that he had landed such a dish, and it had rather gone to his head at first.

In the end though, it was not about her physical appearance, or about her up and down moods. It was about her herself. He loved her with all of his heart, and assumed that they would always be together. He had been visiting jewelers, and saving up ever last bit of money, in hopes of buying just the right ring to pop the question. He had almost bought the ring that very morning, and was glad he now had not. With their account in both of their names, he was unsure where he stood financially. Had she already drained the account, like she had drained the blood from his heart?

“ ‘Tis lovely to meet you, Donny.” Her accent was heavier on certain words. It was clear she’d been living there for some time, but not quite long enough to erase the strains of her original speech patterns. She took his hand and shook it, her grip cool and firm. Though she may not have been ancient, she had quite a few silver rings on her fingers, smooth against his hand.

Breakup.

Thrown out.

Swift moving.

Love.


All was felt in the time it took for her to languidly blink her eyes. She maintained an almost un-nerving eye contact with him, her eyes steadily on his without being violating.

“I think I can handle a tissue for you,” she said as she slid from behind the counter. Her voice was low, almost a throaty purr. It was self-confident without being arrogant, kindly without being patronizing. The swish of skirts accompanied her movement. Her blouse ended beneath her breasts, exposing her stomach. She was fit, but had a roundness to her that implied that she wasn’t entirely wrapped up in spending her spare time at the gym. Her skirts were of sheer blue and green, a stark contrast to the warm colors of the room. Beneath the scalloped edge of her skirt, her bare feet peeked out, the occasional chime of ankle bells following her movements.

Stepping in front of him, she took the damp towel from him, deftly folding it between her hands. Curious by the arrival of the late visitor, Hathor peeked from behind the counter, her plumed tail cautiously waving behind her. She looked up at Cassandra with a curious expression. “It’s okay, Hathor. This is Donny.” The dog seemed calmed by the introduction, and padded over to Donny. She sniffed at him curiously, her narrow muzzle wiggling. Under the flickering lights of the room, she appeared to be a ghost.

Cassandra smiled, and slipped behind another beaded curtain to the right of the counter. This curtain was a seven-colored rainbow, and rattled as she slipped into it. Stepping out of it again, she handed him a tissue. “There you are. I’m sure some tea will help with that as well. There's a small bathroom in there if you'd like. And yes, there's a door behind the curtain. I wouldn't want people thinking I was some sort of tosser that enjoyed watching them go." She smiled again at him, her eyes curving up at the corners.

When she moved, a spicy perfume followed her. Rather than being a cloud, it seemed to emanate from her skin. It lingered on his hands, the towel. Now that he was inside, the place seemed...brighter. The humble butter light had brightened to make the room seem like it was lit by a massive fire place. Shadows flickered, the room grew warmer. Behind the counter, a dark staircase was thrown into the light. Odd - considering that there appeared to be no overhead lights. The little flat grew in perception - things became clearer. The front of the shop was just the bottom floor of the building - the staircase lead into darker places. Though the room that they stood in was small, the room was big enough for the smaller cubby of a room and to stretch into a smaller space that had been turned into a bathroom.

“Now, Donny, what kind of tea would you be desirin’? I'll have to go upstairs to get it."

The strange looking hound was growing demanding now. Donald had scratched it under the chin as it came out from behind the counter to sniff at his feet. He wasn't sure if Hathor was a boy's name or not and felt foolish. For that matter he felt foolish for not knowing the various sorts of tea. Tea was something one's mum made when you visited, or when you were sick, but not, in his experience, a drink with flavors beyond cream and two lumps.

For that matter, what was he doing consulting a soothsayer? Why wasn't he down the pub throwing back another pint? It was because he was his mum's first born; the responsible one, who did not pick up women, smoke marijuana or get drunk and end up sleeping down some dark alley. All in all having tea with a cute mystic was definitely the course his mum would approve of. She always did love the mind reader Barry Marker, from the telly.

Hathor was picking uo his hand with it's nose now, urging him to give it a good pet. It almost made him blupper, but he controlled himself. He missed Mr. Pips something fierce, even though it had only been an hour since he had seen him. The mangy bulldog was nothing like this gorgeous creature, but still it reminded him of his loss.

"What ever you think best love." He forced a smile into his voice. "I'll just wait here, shall I?" He realized she was not likely to serve him a cupa, standing about her waiting room, but he felt awkward invading her world without invitation. Surely there would be a round table with a crystal ball. Maybe she would serve him there.

Cassandra paused, a brow raised as she watched Hathor butt his hand for more pets. “I’ve never seen her take to anyone like that. You must be something special,” and it was said without a hint of irony. Cassandra watched the graceful dog snuggle to Donny, and for a quick moment, she gave the creature a side-eye, like it was up to something that she didn’t agree with.

“I’ll be gettin’ your tea, then,” and in a swish of fabric and the chime of anklets, walked up the stairs.
______

Minutes later, she came back down the stairs, a steaming mug in her hands. Hathor, who had settled herself comfortably near Donny, wagged her long tail at Cassandra and instantly trotted to her side as if she had been called. Again, Cassandra gave that strange look to the dog, before letting out a soft sigh. “Hathor, you’re a flirt.”

“Now, Donny,” and she held out the cup of tea to him. “Why don’t you join me in this room.” She gestured to the red and purple beaded curtain. “I’m sure you came in here for more than tea and a place out of the rain.”

Her voice, again, was self-confident without being arrogant, knowing without being un-nerving. Everything was comforting about her, despite the strangeness of the situation. She seemed to be a relic of a time long past, perhaps a wall painting that, on a whim, had been granted life. Only the coming and going of her accent and her occasional use of slang marked her as a creature of the current times.

She held open the curtain for him, gesturing for him to follow her. The cup of tea in his hand was warm and fragrant, the color a creamy red instead of the usual brown. Tendrils of sweetness and spice curled from the cup.

Donald looked over at Hathor and tried to smile. "Hathor was most accommodating. He finally bit his lip and asked the question. "I know this may sound quite the foolish question, but is Hathor a male or a female?" The name sounded like a god, or a goddess, or something like that. He supposed that it must be. It sounded rather Egyptian, truth be told, like Ra and such. The amount he knew about the occult could fill a match book.

"He reached out at took the steaming mug from her. Something about the fragrance was immediately soothing, even though he had not tasted it yet. He walked carefully forward, not wishing to spill the full mug. It was comforting to have a mug of tea as well. His mother always used a proper tea cup. He expected it had something to do with Cassandra being from the Islands, or where ever she was from. Customs there must be very different.

Outside the rain was slowly petering out. The night walkers all started to come back out, ready for more adventures. Some were selling themselves, though not so openly as in the East End and some were buying. Others were on the prowl for a pub and someone to spend the night with, or out to have a good time with friends. All of them came alive at night. The spirit of the theatre district changed as drag queens and discrete drug dealers returned to the corners of the streets.

As he pushed through the curtain, it fell around him like a beaded waterfall, coming over his shoulders and back. The room was rather dark, except for some candles, so it took time for his eyes to adjust, but as they did he took in the furniture and occult paraphernalia.

"No, indeed I am not hear for the tea alone, though I am grateful for it." He found and chair and sat. "Nor was I merely looking to get out of the rain." He paused for a long moment and then took a sip of the tea. It filled him with a warmth and a creamy barkish taste, though it was not at all unpleasant. He wondered what it was. He wondered why he was here.

"Where to begin... I suppose." His voice faltered. "I supposed that I have come to an ending, of a sort, in my life and I am unsure of where to go. Most people would probably talk to their vicar, but we aren't really on speaking terms. I certainly do not wish to hear my mum's advice right now. I guess I am looking form some... direction."

“Hathor’s a girl. A very...finicky girl, but a girl nonetheless,” she spoke as she moved to sit, pulling the chair out from the table with little sound. Across from her was an empty chair, clearly for a guest. She gestured for him to sit across from her. Crossing her legs, Hathor padded to her side before settling down. Folding her front paws one over the other, she laid her long face down on them, and let out a soft sigh.

“Not that I would fault you for coming in from the rain. It really was coming down out there, yeah. But it’s usually heartbreak that leads people to me.” She leaned back in the chair, picking up her own cup of tea from the table. Cradling it in her hands, she settled her violet gaze on him. “Direction can come in the way of advice, not by having a fortune told,” and she smiled.

“If you wish, I can tell your fortune, see the future, but I think you need more help with the present, yeah. Finish your tea, and focus on what it is that you need help with. The things that have caused you to be here. What you want. We can go from there. But take your time. There is no need to hurry here; I don’t charge by the hour,” and her smile with impish behind the lip of the mug.

As the rain slowed down outside, she took a small sip of her tea and looked out the window. The light painted human figures in long shadows, flickering in and out of alleyways. No, it wasn’t the best neighborhood in the world, but for all of the crime and dirt around it, the little shop remained untouched. It was an anachronism; the red brick hinting back to pre-war sensibilities.

The silence that sat between them wasn’t uncomfortable by any means. In the short time that he’d been there, the place seemed to swell and warm around him, molding itself to his presence. There was no pressure from her for him to speak. Despite the lack of light in the front room, this one was lit by the light of candles, stacked carefully on another table in front of one of the bookshelves. Judging by the long pools of wax beneath them, they had been there for ages. Sparkling from the shelves, various crystals caught the light and sent it across the room in scatters of rainbow.

"Yes, the tea is lovely. Thank you." At the mention of heartbreak his heart raced. Surely he was not ready to share that with a complete stranger, and yet who better. Part of him was tempted to ask her to tell him what his problems were, if she were really psychic, but then again he did not care if she was or not. She was here now, willing to listen and God only knew that was what he needed. That and a good cry. Real men did not cry though, or so his father had always said.

"I suppose it is heartbreak. My girlfriend threw me over tonight, for... well it doesn't matter who. He's dead to me now." He stopped talking as he choked back tears. He took Cassandra at her word and simply sat for a long few moments, before downing the few remaining drops of tea.

"I was going... we were... I thought we could... get married. I was this close to buying the ring." Suddenly he found tears coming down his cheeks and choked them back again. He wanted to say that she was a bitch and that he was better of without him. It was not true though. She was lovely both inside and out. She just did not love him. Maybe she had never loved him the way he loved her. Maybe Mark could make her happy. Maybe he should forgive Mark? No, never.

"My whole life has revolved around Darla... that's her name, for three years now. Work is just work. Friends are just friends. She is... was my life. What do I." He felt sent as another fit of crying tried to overtake him. Maybe getting good and drunk would have numbed the pain, but he would not be like his father, using alchohol to numb the pain of a useless life and a loveless marriage.

“There’s the problem right there,” and it came out in a long sigh. She was too professional to express annoyance in his problem, but it wasn’t the first time she’d heard. She doubted it’d be the last. Love was such a deadly thing - created such an odd sense of entitlement. Not that she had been entirely free of its grasp, but it was something that she rarely encountered - something she had nimbly danced around. Of course, there was that slight sting of rejection when amorous advances never came her way...

“My advice - never wrap your entire world around one person.” Her eyes seemed to glow twilight in the dim room. Her words were not just air formed by her lips, but no, like a hand across his forehead, his shoulders. “Think of it this way: a relationship consists of two people. Just because there is emotion exchanged, two people don’t magically become one. You are still Donny, she is still who she is. A relationship doesn’t eradicate the individual. I do wish that movies and the like would stop preaching that rot.” Though her words may have had bite to them, she still spoke in her unflappably calm and soothing voice.

“But, realistically, how can she throw you out if she was the one in the wrong? I don’t understand that.” As he struggled to hold back his tears, Hathor crept to his side under the table, and laid her long face on his knee, looking up at him. Cassandra leaned over, and gently took the cup of tea from his hands. At the bottom of it lay an intricate galaxy of tea leaves. Glancing down for a moment at them, her brows knit and the corners of her mouth turned down. She’d clearly seen something that she did not like or disagreed with. It took her mere moments to compose herself again, but her look was haunted.

“Donny, who are you?” Her voice pulled at him again, worked into his blood, warmed him. “Don’t answer me right away. But who are you? Do you define yourself by what you do, or how others perceive you?” For long moments, her eyes bored into his. It was not the usual gentle gaze that she held, but a look of such intensity that he could nearly feel the heat radiating from her body.

She looked down into her own tea cup, realizing that her gaze had gotten a lot more intense then she had wanted it to. There was something that could be entirely unsettling with how she looked at people; she tried to avoid it whenever she could. Times like this, when she had heard the same story over and over, it got a bit harder to keep her temper in check. Of course, he had no indication that she was irritated.

How had he defined himself before Darla? He was Donny the dutiful son. Donny the hard worker who was always on time and never milked the clock. Donny watch out for your sisters, and he did. Donny set a good example for your brother and he did. He never had many interests apart from having a pint with his mates and watching the football match. With Darla though, he had grow. He had discovered new things about himself, like a love of cooking and even a like for the operas she listened to.

"I suppose I define myself by who I am to others. I am a good mate. A hard worker. An oldest sibling. A solid worker at the warehouse. With Darla I was more though, I thought..." He had tied his world around her. He could see it now. He had always done what he had to to please everyone. He had pleased everyone but his father and apparently Darla. Was that the problem? Was he supposed to please himself or something. Donald felt at a loss. He was unsure of what to say next, or to think next. All that came to mind was a inkling that he would enjoy going to a cooking school. He had even shared it with Darla once, but she reminded him that he had benefits and seniority at the warehouse. She had been right, but still.

Unsure of what to do or say next he simply sat for awhile. Something about Cassandra's presence allowed that. Finally he spoke again. "I guess I figured that I had failed her. I did not give her what she needed and she turned... to Mark." He realized now how foolish his own words sounded. She had never said he was not meeting her needs. She had never given him a chance to change! Again he realized that he was defining himself based on who others thought Donny should be. Some how he suspected Cassandra would not put up with that for long.

The smoking candles filled the room with a soft, safe light, as did Cassandra's words. She really did care, even if her words seemed harsh as he took them to heart. "I guess I'm looking for my center, or something. I am not sure how to define myself outside of who I am to others."

Cassandra leaned back further in her chair as Donny spoke. “Perhaps she didn’t know what she needed, or if she even needed it. It’s not your job in a relationship to fix the other person. People are not projects and need some sense of accountability. If we did what we pleased, no matter what, without a second thought, well, we’d be in a bit of a spot now wouldn’t we, yeah?”

Reaching across the table, she took both of his hands in hers. “So, let’s begin.” Turning his hands palms up within hers, her thumbs gently ran across the rough flesh. On each thumb sat a wide silver band. Each came to a subtle point, faintly resembling a guitar pick. Her fingers were cool, despite the warmth of the room. Closing her illuminating eyes, she inhaled slowly.

When most people describe coming in contact with magic, they make it sound as some sudden rush of power, power that they could not see, but that they could feel. There was none of that bolt out of the blue feeling when she took his hands. It was more like feeling static electricity - the fine hairs on the backs of his hands and along his arms rose, nearly imperceptibly. From her touch, she did her information gathering. His mind mulling over her questions, she pulled the answers from him, silently. In a few moments, she knew most of what there was to know about him. She never, ever, prodded more deeply than she needed to; the result would be someone that felt intimately violated, and she’d have a headache for days afterwards. No, rather than looking for particular phrases or details, she probed him in a sense of colors. She looked for very vague things, for very open feelings. From there, it was just a matter of using what he said and a little brain power to put the two together in a satisfactory way.

Besides, part of the deal was that she could not know that much about the past - just a little about the present, and the most about the future. The funny thing about the future was that it was always changing. A sneeze today could mean a promotion tomorrow. So, truthfully, she was wading just the same as anyone. Her thumbs pressed a little firmer into his flesh, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

If anything, she was scared.

There had to be something in his hands, in him, that would refute what she saw in the tea leaves. And as she pressed and scanned, her fingers tender over his, her dread grew. All she got was the reaffirmation of what she thought. Ah. There could be no avoiding it, then. It wasn’t chance that lead him to her door. No wonder Hathor had been so friendly to him, the little bitch.

Ah. Focus. He was probably waiting on her to say something. And she’d yet to release the breath she’d taken, seeming all the world for a cold, still statue. If her hands hadn’t kept moving across his, it would have seemed that she was almost dead. Her breath escaped her, glittering with a faint energy before it curled and drifted away.

“I can’t define you, Donald - only you can.” The “you” in her sentence fell on him, an invisible embrace. “The funny thing is,” and the smile was apparent in her voice, “is that you already have begun to. This was just the first step. It’s painful now, but something...exciting is waiting for you. You just have to keep going forward. Think of yourself. Who is it that you want to be? What is it that you want to do? What is it that you are running towards in life? Is it love? You are already loved, Donny, beyond what I can tell you here. It surrounds you; radiates from you. You are love and you are loved. Let this be your guide. It will lead you to dark places, through mountains and thorns, through hardships, but it will be your reward as well.”

She paused in the slow rubbing of his palms to look into his face. To her, he was weary, heartbroken, a lost child. A part of her throbbed, ached for him. The other, used to decades of restraint, sighed.

“It has lead you to my doors, when none other are open to you. And as I don’t believe in coincidence, you are free to stay the night with me. This, mind you, isn’t an invitation to lewd and salacious behavior.” The last was said with a faint chuckle to reassure him that she did not think that he would attack her or do anything untoward.

As his palms were read Donald had odd prickling sensations along his spin. He could not help put see the expressions pass across Cassandra's face, since he was gazing at it the whole of the time. It was a good, comforting face, but some of those expressions, subtle was they were, were not so promising.

When she told him that there was something exciting in his future, he almost pressed her for more details. Surely it was easy to speak in generalities, so that it would seem to come to pass. Still, she seemed sincere. He did not get the feeling that she was reading him a script. In fact, it felt like he was actually being read. It was a somewhat scary feeling.

As she told him that he had to define himself, he knew it to be true. He already knew that he needed to make a move toward a cooking school. Only when he was cooking did he feel truly alive and happy. He had never cooked before Darla, because it was women's work. His father would have slapped him if he could see him actually cooking for a woman. Still, maybe it was not Darla that made him feel alive, but cooking for Darla. Maybe it was the cooking itself and not who he was cooking for.

When Cassandra told him he was loved and was love, he was mystified. He certainly did not feel loved tonight. If anything he felt the opposite. True, his family still loved him he supposed. Even his father, in his own way, could sometimes show love. He was not sure that he loved himself at times. What did she mean exactly? He decided put that aside for now, as her offer to stay the night came.

"That's... that would be lovely. The truth is I have no where else to go and little money to go there." The real truth was, he could go home, but that would mean admitting his failure to his family, and especially his father. Father really liked Darla. Being with Darla had earned him so rare moments of praise.

"Of course I don't think you meant it any other way that as a kindness to a stranger, but seeing as I am a beggar to God, right now, I accept." He could almost imagine kissing her though. It was not a lustful thought, but one of another sort which he could not define. They had shared something when she did his reading, he thought, and he felt a compulsion to kiss her cheek, but did not give into it. Instead he spoke.

"Thank you so much for the reading and your offer. This time together has been most... helpful." He pulled the last twenty from his wallet and laid it on the table.

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Of course you have somewhere to go. You always have somewhere to go. The question is, do you want to go there? The answer clearly appears to be ‘no,’ so you’re fine staying here.” Her fingers slipping from his, she gave him a wry smile as she stood up. “Keep your money.” She slid the bill back to him.

How many times had she turned down money? Well, not often. Actually, the was the first time. It felt...peculiar. But she felt compelled to. There was really no better way to put it. She rubbed her fingertips together, studying them for a few moments. He had an energy about him; there was no denying that. But to look at him, it made no sense. What trick did the stars have in store by leading such a broken man to her doorstep? He really had thought that he’d lost everything. Funny how that worked. Few people that came to her had actually, truly, lost everything.

Had she?

Times like this, she found it hard to deal with her...”powers.” There was a duality there that, even now, after all these years, she struggled with. There was who she was, and then there was who the powers told her to be. While she saw a bedraggled, besotted young man, her powers saw someone else that had a power that she couldn’t determine. The vision she saw wasn’t positive - and that didn’t bode well with her. Perhaps he was a test laid at her feet. Sensing her pensive mood, Hathor stood and paced next to her side, looking up at Cassandra, waving her plumed tail. Cassandra looked down at the dog, and gave her a look. The dog made a noise - a muffled whimper that for a moment, sounded like a smug chuckle.

“As you can imagine,” she was speaking to Donny, “the parlour’s really no place for you to sleep. If you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you where you can change. I believe I’ve a robe that should fit you.” When she turned her piercing gaze on him again, it was as if someone had taken the blinders off. She looked at him steadily now, as if she could see through his clothes and was making mental notes; measuring. It was probing, and not affectionately. But, at least by its extreme disinterest, it wasn’t in a sexual manner, either.

She left their cups of tea on the table. Perhaps, with fresh light and fresh eyes, she could redo the reading.
_______

The staircase, though old, was silent as she lead him up it. Though the staircase was plunged in darkness, as she moved, the stairs lit up with a dull yellow glow, as if candles were being lit and blown out. As they drew to the top of the staircase, the wood poured into a spacious room. To his left, there was a mid-sized kitchen, and across from it, to his right, was a couch draped in rich red blankets. There was no T.V. to be seen - only more shelves of books. Much like downstairs, the area was notable for its lack of living creatures; there were no house plants or windows to be seen. But rather than being claustrophobic, the little area felt like a treasured childhood memory, like playing in a backyard or being lost in comic books in an attic.

From the living room, there was a narrow hallway that lead to doorway barred by long strips of violet and scarlet silks. “The bathroom is next to my bedroom,” and she gestured to the only opening that had a clear door. “I haven’t quite gotten around to putting in a curtain for it, yeah, so it actually has a door. There should be a robe in there. Are you hungry?”

Donald followed her up the stairs thinking how odd it felt to be doing so. He certainly read nothing sexual in her invitation, but it was an intimate thing indeed to invite a stranger to stay the night. He wondered at her motivation. If broken hearted folk showed up all the time, surely she did not take them all in. Or, perhaps she did. What did he know of her beyond her name and her figure.

He glance about him as they climbed the stairs. He did not see any family photos about. How odd. Instead figures of Chinese and Hindu gods and goddesses meet his gaze. He avoided watching the sway of her hips as she climbed.

Upon reaching the room upstairs he immediately felt at home. There was something comforting about it, like a tree house. It felt like a secluded refuge from the world. He glanced at the shelves and was unsurprised to find that many of them were occult in nature, but not all of them. Before he could pour over her shelves fully, Cassandra was showing him the rest of the small house and offering him food.

"No, I had some chips down the pub and their not sitting to well in my stomach." She disappeared into her room and came out with a red cloth robe. In the bathroom he took time stripping off his somewhat damp clothing. He stood staring at himself in the mirror. His pale body had long, lean muscle, despite his slender build; the results of his job at the warehouse. A single trinity symbol was on his left shoulder and a small Celtic cross on his right.

He felt numb. He felt as if someone had died, though he could not say who. Mostly he felt tired and in need of a nonexistent fag. He did not take Cassandra for a smoker either. There were times when he regretted taking up his first cigarette. It had seemed so cool at the time. Now he could not go more than a few hours without one.

With a sigh he pulled on the robe, covering himself. It fit him, but was obviously meant for someone shorter, as his knobby knees almost showed. Maybe things would be brighter by the light of dawn. He could not hide in the bathroom for ever, so he exited to find Cassandra waiting. He mostly felt foolish. He had poured out his heart to a stranger and had been asked to spend the night, like a child who could not look after himself. She must pity him, he thought. He hated that feeling.

The dog was curled up in the middle of the floor, staring at him. There was something odd about the best, like it knew more than it told. He stared back for a moment and then glanced at Cassandra. "Thank you for this. You've been most kind."

Waiting until he was out of the bathroom, she quietly stepped in to retrieve his discarded clothes. “I’ll be puttin’ these in the wash, yeah.” Not that the clothes were particularly dirty by any means, but fresh clothes did something to the wearer - perhaps they’d help him see that not everything was as terrible as it seemed. Gliding across the floor, her skirts barely rustled as she walked past the kitchen into another side room. He could hear her banging and knocking about as she got the washing machine ready for his clothes.

Hathor, curled up in a ball in the middle of the living room, eyed him before settling her face on her paws as she laid down. It was clear that she had taken up residence in the living room, and wouldn’t leave his side. If it was meant as an endearing gesture or a cautionary measure, well, that was still up in the air.

As she slipped from the laundry room, Cassandra went straight to the kitchen and grabbed two green bottles. Opening them both with a deft pop, she took a long draught from one and held out the other to him. “It’s ginger beer. Ginger’s good for your stomach. Drink that, and make yourself at home.” In front of the couch was a small table, covered with books, crystals, and a particularly brooding crystal skull lovingly carved from rose quartz. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any clothes for men, so I hope you don’t mind sleeping in the robe. The blankets should be plenty warm.”

Silence settled between them as she continued to sip at her bottle. The sweet, spicy taste of the soda always tickled her nose. She couldn’t shake this...feeling in the pit of her stomach. Dread, maybe, or excitement, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it was palatable in the air. Enough so that she got the sense that he could pick up on it as well. She was still trying to decide if it was a bad thing or not.

Finishing her bottle, she set it down on the counter. “When you’re done, just set it here. I’ll put it in the bin tomorrow.” Everything was “tomorrow” or “later” with her. Rarely did she do something right then and there. It’d be easy to mistake her for lazy, but since he was close to her, it truly seemed more of “preoccupation.” Her mind, for the most part, wasn’t on what was happening in front of her. And thus, despite her warm voice and gestures, it made her seem distant.

“Sleep well, then. Please have a care not to fiddle with the books. They’re quite...old.” There was an unspoken threat in her soft voice. But, truly, the books that were strewn about her flat were old. It didn’t take a genius to see that. Slipping back into her room, she left him in the quiet of the living room.

Donald did not have time to wish her a good night before he found himself alone with the dog. "Just you and me then, old girl?" Sensibly, Hathor did not respond. Donald lay down on the comfortable couch and drew the blankets around him. Refusing to cry, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed of Mark making love to Darla. Her perfect body moved under Mark as he drove her to climax. As he watched, with his mother, Mark feasted on Darla's breast and soft bush. His mother sighed and patted his hands lovingly. "Don't worry about it dear. Nothing good will come of this." Mark was in Darla now, moving in a slow and rhythmic manner. Darla stared over at him as Mark plowed her fertile field.

"I had to fake it you know, to keep you happ..." A scream cut off her words as an orgasm overtook her. Her chest was heaving and she reached up for Mark. Mark looked over at him.

"She did mate. She told me so herself." He leaned forward and flickered his tongue over Darla's nipples.

He slide backwards through the air as he look on at the love making. Hathor was there now, growling at something in the darkness. Mr. Pips was with her, but sound asleep. "What's out there girl?" Her growling grew louder.

A feeling of dread came over him as he stared out into the darkness, Mark fucking Darla no longer mattered. There was something nasty out there, staring at him.

He woke to the darkness of the room and Hathor indeed growling low in her throat. "What is wrong girl? Did you hear thunder? As an answer a peel of thunder echoed through the room. The hard patter of rain fell against the windows.

" Don't be afraid girl. Nothing can hurt you." Hathor backed away again whined.

Hathor’s growling came from deep within her, a rumble that seemed to shake the delicate chest. When Donny spoke, she shrunk away, her tail wagging slowly from side to side. It seemed that she was trying to show that she recognized him, was still friendly, but something was truly bothering her. As the rain spattered across the window, she snorted, the hair still raised on the back of her neck. She slowly started to pace, her gaze going to the window on occasion as she growled.
________

Cassandra slept.

Or it could be called “sleeping”. Cassandra rested in the sense that her eyes were closed and for the most part, her body wasn’t as responsive as it was when her eyes were open. But sleep? True sleep? That wasn’t something that she got to experience. In her “dreams”, everything whirled past her. She saw details, images - like watching the movie of someone else’s life continually. One film would be in Ancient Greece; another in China, and still another in colonial America. She wasn’t sure which were actually hers, or if she was cycling through the lives of others, or sulking spirits that were drawn to her.

The leaves.

They collected.

Fell.

Were gathered.

Fed through her fingertips, they lead her to...strange. Strange. It made her stomach turn. Tickled her nerves until her eyelids snapped open. Sitting up, she ran a hand through her long locks and turned to face the window. Normally, her place seemed to be walled up; the only real “windows” were on the bottom floor for the parlor. However, upstairs in her room, one of the walls seemed to be entirely made out of a window. The rain fell in long sheets against the window. She watched it, trying to be soothed by the steady flow of water.

She wiggled from under the sheets. Even with the stranger in the next room, she slept nude. Reaching to the floor, she picked up a short kimono in purples and reds and wrapped it around her. Perhaps something to drink would help soothe her nerves. Maybe another cup of tea.

Slipping out of her room silently, she walked lightly across the wooden floor into the living room. Sensing her, Hathor's ears perked, and she whimpered softly.