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6
Maggie wasn’tsure how long she sat there before she felt someone settle down at her side. She ignored them for a long moment. It was probably Rinaldo. How her stalker just kept finding her, she didn’t know.
Maybe the Vatican had cellphone tracking technology.
No. No. This bullshit story isn’t real. He’s just a nutjob like me, just with…I don’t know. Creativity.
The person sitting next to her didn’t say anything. Suddenly, she really hoped it wasn’t a hobo. Finally, not being able to take the awkward moment anymore, she lifted her head and wiped her tears from her face.
A pair of long legs in black dress pants was the first thing she noticed. She blinked in surprise. Gideon was sitting with his back against the tree, his head resting against it as well, his eyes shut. His vulture-headed cane was on the ground next to him. The lines of his face were smoothed, as if he were merely enjoying the early summer air.
She got stuck staring at him for a moment. He was sharp lines and carefully tailored perfection. His suit, which had to be custom made, fit him flawlessly. His pure white hair with a few strands left to fall over his eyes was the only rakish thing about him, and she was certain it was that way on purpose. His hands, which were clasped over his stomach, showed off the eight or nine silver rings that he wore on various digits. He smelled a little like cigars and crisp cologne. It was a particular mix of something earthy and sharp. It wasn’t unpleasant. Anything but. She found herself wanting to lean closer to him.
She didn’t know many therapists—or at least, she couldn’t remember knowing many—but she had a hard time figuring that they generally looked anything like him. Dr. Gideon Raithe was…clearly eccentric.
And handsome.
Shaking her head, she looked away from him and out to the bustling street. He’s my therapist. This is awkward and wrong. She chewed on her lip for a second. Speaking of awkward, why was he just…sitting there? Was she having another hallucination?
Before she could tamp down the urge, she turned to him and poked him in the arm. Nope. Not a hallucination. He was real. Yay, progress! Gideon opened one eye to glance at her briefly before shutting it again. He smirked and, reaching out to the grass on the other side of him from where she was sitting, plucked up a full iced coffee and held it out to her without looking.
After a moment’s hesitation, she took it, and found herself staring at it quizzically. It was a medium—not grande, she would never accept something so pretentious—iced regular coffee with cream, no sugar. It was what she always got. “How do you know how I take my coffee?” Is everyone stalking me now?
“It’s what you bring to our sessions now and then. I noticed the writing on the side.”
“Oh.” Now she felt stupid. She sipped it. “I guess I never pay attention to how people take their coffee.”
“I enjoy observing people. Call it part of my profession.” He smirked.
“How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.” He lifted his own cup from the grass. His was hot coffee. Dropping his voice dramatically to a gruff rumble, he muttered into the lip of the cover. “Like my soul.”
She laughed. He grinned.
“Well, thank you for the coffee.” The Central Burying Ground was right across the street from Gideon’s office. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he had seen her.
As if hearing her thought, he confirmed it. “I came out to get some for myself, saw you sitting here, and figured…well, it’s a lovely day. We might as well have our session outside.” His accent was always interesting to her. It wasn’t really from anywhere that she could identify. Not quite American, not quite English, not quite German. Just not quite casual, either. The closest thing she could compare it to was Transatlantic. That weird, not-really-an-accent voice that movie and radio actors used back in the day. But it suited him all the same.
“You mean you saw me out here crying, and you figured you should bring the sad lunatic some coffee to cheer her up.” She sighed and turned her attention back out to the street. Somebody leaned on their horn about something that offended them. Nobody cared.
“Fundamentally? Yes.”
She chuckled and sipped her coffee. “Thanks.”
“Dare I ask what is wrong?”
She shook her head. She wanted to say nothing new, but…that wasn’t true. Her current situation was pretty goddamn novel. Getting stalked by a still-might-not-actually-exist Vatican priest making wild claims about her therapist being a necromancer and her being…a corpse he raised? Secretly dead?
She didn’t know what Rinaldo was claiming she was. Something other. And that Gideon was responsible for her lack of memories and weird hallucinations.
But it was all a lie. All of it. None of it was true, nor could it be. She sipped her coffee as she thought. It was tempting to lean into the psychopath’s theory. If Rinaldo was right, then she wasn’t insane. She was just a reanimated corpse brought back by a powerful necromancer-turned-therapist, who in the process of reanimating her, broke her brain.
Or something like that.
She laughed. It was sad, sarcastic, and defeated, but it was a laugh all the same.
“What?”
