by Morgana Best
I shrugged and took the opportunity to disappear into the bathroom. I felt like I was thirteen again and in the midst of schoolgirl intrigues. Brandon was driving me quite crazy. I turned on the shower and let the hot water run over the back of my neck. I stood like that for some time, and then finally lathered myself up with lavender and lemongrass shower gel. The hot water’s cascading effect was soothing, and took away some of the tension I was holding.
I quickly towelled myself dry and rustled through my cosmetics bag for my white sage smudge stick. I lit it, and when it was smoking nicely, waved it all around me, even under my feet. There’s nothing like white sage to cleanse one’s aura. I loved the smell too.
I wrapped a fluffy blue towel around myself and headed for the bedroom, after poking my head around the door to steal a quick glance at the sofa. Brandon was still there, looking aghast at Merlin, who was coughing up a fur ball. It looked like I would have to have another conversation about Fred.
I changed into jeans and a shirt and dabbed some Fiery Wall of Protection Oil on my wrists and on the back of my neck. I had set up part of my desk as an altar of sorts, and had an incense holder next to some candles. I lit some Dragons Blood as well as Frankincense and Myrrh incense, and felt better once it wafted around the room.
When I went back to my bedroom, I saw the stockings and suspenders, as well as the frilly undies Aunty June had bought me. I burst out laughing. Where would I ever wear bright red undies with rows of frills, bright red stockings, and bright red suspenders? I chuckled once more. The only place they would look good would be in a brothel. What was Aunty June thinking? Still, it was kind of her to buy them for me.
In a moment of fancy, I decided to try them on. I pulled on the voluminous red undies with all the rows of frills—it reminded me of a ballerina’s tu-tu gone wrong, horribly wrong—and the red stockings. It took me ages to figure out how to work the suspender belt, but finally I did it, although I couldn't quite close two of the clasps. If I ever intended to wear the suspender belt again I would return it as the clasps were faulty, but I wasn't going to use it at all.
It was just like one of those gifts an eccentric relative gives someone who puts it in a prominent place every time the relative visits, but hides it in a dark, secret cupboard for the rest of the year.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror and burst into a fresh bout of laughter. I decided to wear a dress over the top to see how it would look. I pulled on a loose dress, but the ruffles on the undies were so large they made the dress flounce out like an A Line skirt. I twirled in front of the mirror.
I took off the right stocking and threw it on the bed when I heard a knock at the door—not my bedroom door, but the door to the house. I opened my bedroom door just in time to see Brandon opening the front door.
I was in a good vantage spot to see his face. His expression was one of extreme shock.
The extreme shock on Brandon’s face was followed by great pleasure. Brandon turned to me and mouthed, ‘Fred.’ Not very subtle, Brandon, I thought, Fred would have seen you do that. I sincerely hoped that Fred was indeed gay and that he would profess undying love to Brandon. If not, the rest of my stay would be taken up with more lengthy, “He said, I said,” conversations.
I popped into the hallway to meet Fred.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move. There, standing in front of me, was John.
I was mortified that John was there when I was wearing the frilly undies. At least he couldn't see them, but I was only wearing one stocking. Whatever would he think? I started to back away, when John suddenly exclaimed, "Brandon, you've left a red sock on the ground."
John bent down and with all his might picked up the sock, only it wasn't a sock. Unbeknownst to me, the other stocking had fallen from its faulty clasps and had continued its fall down to my ankle. John, seeing the red pool of material on the ground around my ankle obviously thought it was a wayward sock next to my foot.
I flew backwards, landing on the ground hard. I opened one eye to see John looming over me, his face filled with concern. In one hand he was holding the red stocking.
I moved my head ever so slightly to see Brandon. Both palms were pressed into his cheeks and his mouth formed an oval. "Oh my goodness. Those knickers are a crime against humanity!" he breathed.
I looked down to see the bottom of my dress sitting on my waist and beyond it were rows of red frills bobbing and wobbling.
"Are you hurt?" John said, his voice filled with concern.
"I'm sure her pride is hurt," Brandon offered. “I know mine would be.”
John helped me to my feet and immediately enveloped me in a warm hug. I was just as taken aback to be hugged by John as I was to see him. I tried not to return his hug too enthusiastically with Brandon as an audience. I looked over John’s shoulder at Brandon. His face was registering disbelief, shock, and hurt all at the same time.
John let me go and turned to face Brandon. “Hi, Brandon. Nice to see you again.”
Brandon simply said, “Are you two friends?”
John and I exchanged glances.
Before anyone could speak, Brandon said, “I have to go.”
I laid my hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off and hurried out the door.
“What was that all about?”
I didn’t want to betray Brandon’s confidence, so I answered his question with a question. “What are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were in the country.” I hurried to add, “Aunty June bought those undies for me. Oh, and the suspenders.”
John did not respond. Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him of my underwear. I continued, asking the question that had been plaguing me for some time. “Douglas told me that your organization is called SI7. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Douglas!” I could practically see the steam coming out of John’s ears. “You’ve spoken to Douglas?”
I simply narrowed my eyes and glared at him.
John sighed. “We need to talk but not here. Brandon might come back and he can’t know about this. Let’s go for a walk.”
“I have to get changed first.” I grabbed the red stocking from John and sprinted to my room.
When I was dressed in jeans and a shirt, neither of them red or with frills, John and I walked outside and headed west down the street. It was quite deserted. We only saw a few people walking their dogs. John smelt faintly of musk and leaves, all woodsy.
John broke the silence. “I wasn’t allowed to tell you the name of the organization.”
I stopped mid-stride and turned to him. “Why not?”
“I really don’t know, but orders are orders.”
I digested his words, but before I could ask another question, John questioned me. “Now, please tell me about Douglas. When did you see him? What did he say?”
I could see that John was tensing up. “He came to work one afternoon when I wasn’t there and the next day he was waiting for me outside the building when I went out for lunch. I had lunch with him, and he told me that the group I’ve always called the Society is actually called The Orpheans, and that he is my contact there.” I said it all without drawing breath.
John came to a stop and turned to face me. “Lies, absolute lies. Douglas works for the Black Lodge. He has nothing to do with your society.”
“He said he’s a double agent, that The Orpheans sent him as my contact.”
John shook his head. “Misty, please don’t trust him. I’ve read his file. He has nothing to do with The Orpheans.”
“Well, at least he told me the Society’s real name. You didn’t,” I said in a tone that I realised was childlike as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
John clearly chose to ignore my remark. “Tell me what else he said.”
We started walking again. “He turned up here,” I said, then put my hand to my mouth. “John, he’s here, in town. I was having coffee at a café this morning and he turned up out of nowhere.”
“What did he want?�
��
“He told me to go out to Bakers Creek Falls and get the name of the evil entity and tell him. He said that was my assignment from The Orpheans.” I held up my hand. “Now, before you say anymore, I didn’t trust him of course.”
“I’m really concerned about that. I don’t like him anywhere near you,” he said quietly. “You know, I haven’t said this to you before, but I’m worried that you took this job with our organization. Now don’t go all ballistic-feminist on me, it’s just that I worry about you.”
I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended, yet his concern set my heart fluttering. “Well, I don’t have much choice,” I said, keeping my voice even. “My boss cut my hours at work. I have bills and all that. I might have thought twice about it, though, if I’d known at the time how dangerous it was going to be.”
John stopped walking and spun around to face me once more. “Dangerous? What do you mean? Misty, tell me exactly what you mean.”
I sighed deeply in resignation, and then told him the whole story right from when I arrived at Bakers Creek Falls, to my visit to the hospital after someone had drugged my water, right up to the time he arrived.
By the time I had finished recounting the day’s events, we were back at Brandon’s. Brandon’s car was nowhere to be seen, and I was grateful for that, although I felt sorry for him.
As soon as we were inside the house, John turned to me. “You can’t go back out there. I’m serious. You’ve attracted the attention of the murderer, and you can’t go back.”
“But John, it’s my assignment.”
John folded his arms across his chest. “Your assignment was supposed to be research. It wasn’t supposed to put you in physical danger. Perhaps you should resign.”
I was surprised by his tone. John was usually reserved. “John, I have a mortgage and heaps of bills! I can’t survive just on part time work at the magazine.”
John shook his head. “You could have been killed. It’s far too dangerous.”
“It’s not just that. I realised sometime today that I don’t know who I am. The Orpheans have made no attempt to contact me, but I’m the Keeper. It makes no sense that they haven’t contacted me yet.”
John nodded, but looked puzzled. I clearly wasn’t explaining myself too well.
“I’m kind of conflicted,” I continued. “I need to use my gift for good. I know that sounds corny, but there’s a selfish reason too. Douglas said The Orpheans are from a long line of Welsh Druids. With the research I’ve done, that explains why I can now see or sense ghosts. If I use what I can do, that is to see ghosts, then that is what I want to be doing with my life. I don’t want to be a journalist. I want to be me, the authentic me, who I really am. And the way it looks to me now is that working for SI7 is the only way that can happen.”
“Dinner tonight?” was John’s response.
I stared at him with my mouth open, and it wasn’t just the rapid change of subject. Was this a date? Or simply two colleagues having dinner?
Chapter 17
I was a bundle of nerves when John called for me to take me to the restaurant, and we made small talk on the way. I had no idea if this was a date or not. I figured it wasn’t a date, as that seemed too good to be true; any thought of a date was just my wishful thinking. I’d harboured a crush on John Smith since my time in England.
Nevertheless, I had been sure to put on my strongest shapewear. Not a single bulge was going to escape this armour. I was lucky I could breathe. When he’d called for me, John had said I looked lovely, but I didn’t know if he was simply being polite.
We were shown to our table and I reminded myself to look out for any clues that would tip me off as to whether this was a date, or rather, simply a dinner between colleagues. I noted at once that the atmosphere was intimate, with the diffuse lighting offering little more than candle glow. The tables were not close together, allowing patrons more privacy. It certainly seemed a romantic setting.
I picked apart my dinner roll. It looked delicious, crusty on the outside while soft and fluffy on the inside, but my stomach was churning so much that I’d lost my appetite. The waiter wasted no time appearing next to our table. I quickly scrolled my eyes down the menu. There appeared to be only one vegetarian option, green asparagus with black olives and burrata. Burrata was my favourite cheese, and I had never bought it for myself, as it was too expensive on my meagre journalist’s wage. I loved the soft, creamy centre and the hard mozzarella shell, and I smiled to myself as I realised that I could now afford to buy it.
For the main, I could also only see one dish that appeared to be vegetarian: a creamy polenta and gremolata with sautéed mushrooms and mascarpone. I wasn’t terribly sure what gremolata was, call me uncultured, so I got around that by asking the waiter if the dish was vegetarian. He affirmed that it was, so I ordered it.
For his entrée, John ordered Minchet Abish, described on the menu as finely ground beef with fenugreek, cottage cheese, and spinach, and for the main, char grilled scotch fillet steak with truffled mash and béarnaise sauce.
I hadn’t taken much notice of the exchange between John and the wine waiter, so I was surprised when a bottle of Bollinger arrived on the table.
“Bollinger,” I blurted, and then at once wished I hadn’t spoken.
John looked concerned. “You don’t like champagne?”
Yes, I thought, I love champagne, especially expensive champagne like Bollinger. Aloud I said, “I really like it.” My thoughts were tumbling over each other. We weren’t celebrating anything. I hadn’t solved the case, so surely champagne meant that this was a date?
“So, what got you into,” I hesitated, “your line of business?”
John smiled. “It was straight out of Cambridge, actually. I was about to finish my degree in Politics and International Studies, when a man approached me in the old pub I always went to. It was overlooking the river Cam.”
I gasped. “You’re kidding. That’s just like something out of a movie.”
“I then went into MI5 for my first years of training as an Intelligence Officer,” John said, “and progressed from there into MI6.”
I cast a glance around furtively. “And ended up in SI7,” I said in hushed tones.
John nodded.
“You’re kind of like James Bond,” I said.
“But I’m not a womaniser.” John winked at me.
My legs turned to mush. Lucky I was sitting down. The evidence was looking more and more like this was, indeed, a date. My heart beat so loudly that I wouldn’t have been surprised if all the other patrons had turned to look at me. “I only have your word for that,” I pointed out.
John laughed loudly. “That’s one of the things I like about you,” he said, “but truly, I’ve never dated anyone from the agency before.” He leant across the table and put his hand on top of mine.
I managed to close my jaw, which had fallen open. I hoped my hand wasn’t shaking in tune with the rest of me. I was rendered speechless. I had been attracted to this man right from my time in England, but this was the first real indication that he felt the same about me.
John finally retrieved his hand so he could continue eating, and talk turned to work. “Misty, I’m concerned about someone drugging your water,” he said. “That was clearly an attempt on your life. You’re supposed to be doing research, not field work. You are supposed to be safe, not putting yourself in danger.”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t too thrilled about it, either.”
“You must have discovered something that someone considers is threatening to them.”
“I can’t imagine what.” I frowned and chewed my lip. What was I missing?
John put down his fork. “I’ve looked into Gerald Wakefield and Ethan Williams, and they have good, solid reputations around town.”
“Aha, I thought it was the museum curator.”
John waved his finger at me. “Don’t jump to conclusions. It could just as easily be one of them. Or even your friend Doug
las.”
I went to protest, but thought the better of it. As we progressed to dessert, John having the red wine poached pear, and me the hazelnut panna cotta, I thought of Douglas. I didn’t trust him and I still wasn’t entirely sure whether he had, in fact, intended to kill me back in England. Still, my instincts told me that he wasn’t the killer. The trouble was, my instincts didn’t tell me just who the killer was.
When we arrived at Brandon's house, John walked me to the front door. I tried to ignore the fluttering in my stomach as I fumbled through my bag for the key. Why was I so nervous? This was John. I knew I was safe with John.
Or did I? Every time he was near, my body sent out copious warnings. My palms turned clammy, my cheeks reddened, and my heart thudded in my chest. I might not be in physical danger around John, but I did feel threatened when he stood so close to me that I could smell the cedar wood of his aftershave. Threatened with falling madly, irrevocably, irremediably in love.
"John…” I began to say, giving up on finding my keys.
He cupped my burning cheeks in his strong hands and lifted up my face. I tried to avert my eyes, but his eyes were hypnotising, sentimental and sparkling.
“Misty," he said in a husky whisper, “don't go back to Bakers Creek Falls. It's dangerous.”
I would have promised him anything at that moment, but my throat was suddenly tight and I couldn't manage anything more than a squeak. I nodded instead.
John pulled me firmly into his arms and kissed me. At first his kiss was hungry, desperate, as if he was afraid of losing me. Then his grip relaxed and he kissed me gently.
"John," I whispered finally.
"Enough," he replied. "That's enough for now."
I knew he was talking about the kiss, just as I knew whatever I needed to say could wait until another day. John released me from his grip. Then he kissed me on the forehead, brushed the hair out of my eyes, and vanished into the dusk.
