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Trine
Iresist the urge to play with my earrings as this priest looks into my eyes. It’s what I do when I’m nervous and they’ll be able to figure that out immediately. They all seem like smart men in their own ways. I don’t want them to know that I’m starting to buy into their narrative, but I’m growing progressively more concerned.
Because this isn’t providing me with any clarity. If anything, it’s confusing me even more. Before this whole meet-up, I was almost ninety percent sure that I’d been through some sort of drug-induced manic episode, but these men don’t seem delusional.
Then again, I guess no one looks delusional when you first meet them.
Still, this has gone on for too long. I did what they wanted me to, I didn’t get my answers, and I’m not going to let them prod at my psyche any longer. I’m just going to eat my expensive food, and then go home. I’ll go home and forget about all this.
I don’t want to think about the priest; the way he’s looking at me, the glimmer in his eye.
"So do you still work at the gas station?" Rei asks. I glance down at the desk and immediately feel grateful that he’s no longer taking notes, though I can’t bring myself to think of it as him simply making conversation.
I take a sip of my drink, something fruity and sweet. Not a rum and coke. Something tropical and expensive.Thanks, Chelsea.
"No," I say. "Remember that band I’m part of? Yeah, Johnny Baskets kind of blew up after the whole thing, so I don’t have to work at the gas station anymore. We’re actually playing at RockPit Brewing on Saturday, if you guys want to come."
"Punk isn’t my scene," Luke says, his hand immediately going to his collar. My eyes widen, but when I see the smile on the doctor’s face, I realize he’s joking. It’s good. It makes me laugh.
"We’re not here for long, Trine," Mikhail says. "I don’t know if we’ll be able to go to one of your shows."
"Just say you’re the exorcists and I’ll get the door to waive your cover."
Mikhail and Luke exchange a look. Rei watches me with interest, but he says nothing about it. I probably won’t see any of them at my show, but whatever. At least we’re not talking about the exorcism anymore.
"What about the dreams?" Rei asks, straightening his glasses. A ray of sunshine catches in them, and I look down at his glass. He’s only drinking water with lemon, nothing alcoholic. I wonder if he’s straightedge.
I clear my throat. I’m not sure why, but I feel like he’s talking about the dreams of the man I’ve never met, the one with Mikhail’s mirror tattoo. But he’s not asking about that. He’s asking about dreams.
Non-specific dreams. "What about them?" I ask, picking my head up to look into his eyes.
"Are you still having them?"
"Are you asking me if I dream?" I say, taking another sip from my cocktail. "I mean, of course I dream."
"No, I’m asking about specific dreams," he says.
He inches closer to me, and I narrow my eyes as I stare back at him. "What kind of doctor are you?" I ask. "What kind of doctor assists during exorcisms?"
Rei tilts his head as he smiles. He’s not handsome in the way the men he’s sitting with are. Luke and Mikhail both look rough, their style a little more alternative. Weird for the priest, but it really works for the demonhunter.
This man, the doctor, he doesn’t have that. He shops couture. He moisturizes every single day of his life.
His nails are short and immaculately clean and the skin on the back of his hand looks very, very soft. "What kind of doctor do you think I am?" he asks, tipping the glass of lemon water against his lips.
"I don’t know. Something fancy. Theology? Demonology? Can you be a PhD in Demonology?"
He cocks his head a little. "I don’t think it’s a recognized discipline," he says. "But I’m not. I’m a psychiatrist; I…"
I stop listening when something happens at the hostess’ station. It’s something subtle and I can only see it from the corner of my eye, but it’s definitely bad. I resist the urge to close my eyes or throw my hands in front of my face, somehow knowing what’s about to happen.
That’s when the hanging lamp above the station collapses on Chelsea’s head, knocking her to the ground.
She catches the corner of a desk with the back of her head, and there’s a yelp coming from somewhere; words I can’t discern as the rest of the staff huddles around her lifeless body.
I’m not sure why, or how, I know this, but I’m certain the hostess is dead.
I stand up—as if that’s going to help—and walk over to her, and when I blink, it takes a second for my brain to process what’s happening.
