Dimitri was psychotic. It was the only explanation that I could come up with that made sense of his behaviour. He couldn’t stand me - he had made that clear on numerous occasions. And yet the night of the charity gala, it was as if he didn’t want me engaging with anyone else either. He probably thought that because I was contracted to him, that it meant I wouldn’t talk to anyone else outside of his organisation while I was here - even if that meant his hands on my thigh served as the distraction from all others.
Dimitri’s house was an insular bubble away from the world, away from societal pressure, and my mother’s continued pestering. She was currently on a trip to Bora Bora, and I have never been more grateful to not have her calling me daily, questioning me about whether I’ve had a luncheon with so-and-so, or did I hear that Aria had fled the country, or that Paige just got engaged. With everything that was going on here, I didn’t think I had the temperament to handle my mother as well.
It had been three days since the charity dinner and Dimitri and I seemed to be living past each other in the same house. It didn’t mean that I wasn’t aware of his movements when he was around, simply that I was ignoring them. It irked me that the simple act of him resting his hand on my thigh over the fabric of my dress managed to spark more desire within me than the hundred-or-so conversations I had had with Andrew. What was wrong with me? I had seen what Dimitri was capable of and I was still here. I didn’t even know why I hadn’t left yet - these were unsavoury people and leagues away from the life I was accustomed to.
But that wasn’t entirely true either, I was remaining, stuck like a deer caught in the headlights because as soon as I left Dimitri - as soon as I left this job - I would have to start the difficult process of removing myself from the Club in lieu of my father’s company. And I wasn’t quite ready to give that up yet - I didn’t know if I would ever be ready. So instead, I remained in the care of a murderer - because that was exactly what Dimitri was. He may not be an assassin, and sure, he wasn’t the one who flung Olek into the grain silo, but it had all been orchestrated by his design.
Despite the question of morality that seemed to hang over my head daily, being here was actually quite similar to my time at Summer Camp growing up. I felt free, somehow able to dress however I chose - regardless of expectations. Did I care what Dimitri thought of me? I’d be a liar if I said no, but I didn’t feel that inane pressure to dress to perfection - all stifled and formal, and I certainly did not feel that same pressure to speak in an aloof manner, keeping him at arm's length. No, the man had a way of getting under my skin and infuriating me. I mean, I stomped my foot, for god sake! That act alone was embarrassing, I mean, what grown woman stomped her feet at the first sign of resistance. My mother would have been appalled.
My days had been spent consuming tea, looking to my cards for readings, and conducting a few wealth and prosperity spells for Dimitri’s organisation - although, judging by his multiple business interests and the sheer size of his house, I didn’t think he needed it. But, it wasn’t up to me to judge if he was simply being greedy because I didn’t know the intricacies of his business or how many people were in his employ.
Marie had sent me a few texts - mostly picturesque images of the French Alps. She was currently in France for a funeral and despite the depressing reason for actually being there, she seemed to be making the most of her time. She was also constantly sending me recipes that incorporated spellwork as well as herbal remedies. It was as if she thought that by sending me numerous recipes which she had added her own spellwork to, I would somehow Magickally become a renowned chef overnight. But, Magick wasn’t like that - it wasn’t as simple as waving a wand or rubbing a lamp. It was the channeling of energy - the channeling of intention, and I was simply unable to channel any sort of intentions into food, not when I was stressing about burning whatever I was attempting. My mind was too distracted, too filled with following a recipe to the precise measurements.
Watching Marie in the kitchen was something to behold - the air seemed to dance and shimmy around her as she moved, and I swear, that girl was even able to make plain old tap water somehow taste enchanting. Anything she fed you somehow became a sensory experience. If Magick didn’t work out for her, she needed to open a restaurant.
I lounged in the conservatory, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and denim shorts, content to sit somewhere that was sunny and peaceful and read my book. Reading helped me escape the pressure of my reality. I knew that what I was doing wasn’t really sustainable. I was living a double life - I had been living this way for a long time, and I knew that the time was coming where they both collided. It would probably be a nasty head-on collision, leaving my life in pieces, but I didn’t know how to manage the situation. It wasn’t as if I could simply sit my parents down and explain to them that Magick was where my true skill set was, and that being a Tarot reader and working Witch was my choice of career. They would disown me, and I think what was possibly worse than that was the fact that I knew how the members of our circle enjoyed a good story to latch on to. My mother would not be able to show her face in that society, she would be shunned for weeks - if not months, on end. I did not know what an Emily Rand that was shunned would look like, and I did not want to find out. She would probably have a mental breakdown - and naturally, she would refuse help. So, for no other reason, this was why I stayed. I was stuck, unable to move forward in any one direction. My mother knew how to increase the pressure, arranging blind dates with all of her friends who had a son of maritable age, insisting that I attend an array of gala events and charity functions as a representative of the family, only to arrive and realise that I was conveniently seated next to a young, single politician or businessman who always ended up admitting that Emily Rand had bent his arm, insisting that he should meet me. And, her most recent tactic was to inform me of every childhood friend who was now either engaged, married, or having babies.
It was exhausting. Emily Rand was exhausting. Keeping up the lies was exhausting. Additionally, my father was placing his own kind of pressure on me - insisting that I become a ‘business consultant’ for his company. And if I gave into them - into this life that I didn’t even fit into, then I had to say goodbye to the Magick. I mean sure, I could do spellwork for myself, but the readings, the connections I made with other people, and the overwhelming sense of belonging when I was able to help people - those were the things I would be giving up. Charl knew of course - we had been skirting around this topic for ages. Disappointment weighed upon me as I had begun to accept that I would ultimately settle down with someone hand-picked by my mother and live the same life as my parents. And yet, as the Magick skittered beneath my skin, throbbing in my very veins, I knew that there was more to everything than this. It was with that belief that I had refused to settle for one of those men who droned on and on about the stock market, and why I could not walk away from Charl and the Tarot Club. I had to see this out for myself - even if it ended disastrously, I had to at least try. But even that notion was slowly being taken away from me. While I wouldn’t be pushed into some stuffy relationship of my mother’s choosing, I did need to join the working world and I couldn’t exactly inform my parents that I was in the business of Magic. I was stuck, unable to follow the path that I was on indefinitely, but I also didn’t love the idea of working with my father.
This was bound to end in heartbreak because I knew that once I left the club, I wouldn’t be the same again.
I quickly snapped an image of all the greenery in the conservatory and sent it to Zoey, knowing that she’d get a kick out of it before settling in and opening my book. It was easy to flee from the thoughts and realities that plagued me into a tale. Easier still when that tale centred on disgustingly good looking triplets - all interested in the same girl. Whilst I may have been innocent in the physicality of matters in the bedroom, I still devoured romance novels as if I were breathing air. Good Little Addict was turning out to be a winner, spiralling me down into its pages and world. I was so engrossed in the story that hinted at the triplets being part of a gang, that I didn’t notice Arlo standing there until he cleared his throat. My eyes darted to his, and without meaning to, I blushed. The cover of the book was discreet enough, but still - the last thing I needed was Dimitri’s grandfather knowing that I was reading the beginning of a reverse harem novel. A lot of the girls within the Club were far more sexually active than I was, exploring an array of things that I had only read about. Supposedly, we could channel Sex Magick whilst orgasiming, but being the innocent that I was, I hadn’t tried it. Sometimes this innocence felt like a burden, and I often wondered if I shouldn’t just get drunk at a seedy bar downtown and give it up to some guy, because the longer I waited, the more pressure there seemed to be. But, my prudish morals wouldn’t allow for that. I just couldn’t hook up with someone I didn’t really know. It seemed, even when drunk, Emily Rand’s voice berated me mentally for such thoughts.
“May I join you for tea?” Arlo’s voice, once again, cut through my thoughts.
I didn’t really know Arlo - even if he was the one who supposedly hired me, he seemed to keep himself at arms length, content to allow Dimitri to engage with me. In fact, at times it felt as if he was encouraging those interactions, always pulling away from us, which only made the whole situation with Dimitri feel more intimate. It was uncomfortable, and despite his grandfatherly nature, I didn’t entirely trust him.
“Um, sure,” I offered. It was his house after all, and he was the client.
He sat down with ease, shooting a smile my way that was filled with chagrin, and I had to remind myself that this was Arlo’s talent. His easy demeanor with people - despite what was going on around him - was probably how the man obtained the bulk of his information. He seemed to have a way about him that made you forget who exactly you were talking to. He was mercurial, shifting in and out of conversation with ease, diving into different class categories - and he was very, very, dangerous.
“I normally take my morning tea in the conservatory,” he opened the conversation, as I knew he would. Smiling back at him, I closed my book, pressing it upon the table.
“Are you well?” His inquisitive gaze lingered on mine, and I fought the urge not to squirm under his scrutiny, “After that messy affair with Olek?”
He managed to sound so calm - so at ease, as if Olek’s death was only mildly displeasing. My hands felt clammy at the mention of his name, at the memory of the dream connection I had experienced with him. He had to be wondering why I hadn't yet fled. Shit, did he think because I hadn’t fled - hadn’t told them all to get knotted - that I somehow condoned their actions?
I pocketed away that thought for later, content to conduct my own reading on the situation - it was all too confusing.
“Yes,” I blew out, refusing to show him how unsettled I truly was. “Have you heard from Jeanette?”
It was the one piece of the puzzle I couldn’t let go. Did she follow Olek’s plan? Had she fled? Or had she doomed her own fate by staying - by fighting?
“No,” Arlo shook his head even before the words left his lips, “it seems that she and Olek’s father have fled, slipping under our radar.”
He took a meticulous sip of his tea, his manners as fine as any debutante I had been around.
“Probably for the best,” he continued conversationally as if they were just a loose string to be dealt with.
And in this world, they were.
“They could hardly remain here and continue with their lives.”
The silence hung over us, the threat apparent, a noose threatening to throttle me should I misstep. It was difficult to know what the correct way to act in this setting was. Normally, I would be horrified - show that I was horrified, and perhaps even offer words of resentment, disgust even. But now? I wasn’t sure how to act. Did I pretend like it didn’t affect me? Were they expecting that? Or did they want me to break down? Need me to show that I wasn’t like them?
Dread pooled in my stomach as I understood that staying here might have served as a reprieve from having to make any sort of decision around my father’s business and the Club, but that it also very well might have been a mistake.
I should have channelled guidance for myself - acknowledged Arlo and Dimitri for the threats they were, but wasn’t that the way it always was? I would exhaust myself conducting all sorts of Magick and readings for everyone else, but when it came to myself, I somehow felt as if it was too much effort. The shoemaker's children never had any shoes. An apt phrase if there ever was one.