by A. R. Miller
“Whoa.” It’s all I can muster. Sure, I’ve worked hard and I'm proud of what we’ve accomplished here, but I never expected a review like this. I was nervous when the reporter contacted me. Not being a complete moron, I knew there was more to it than a simple appointment. Word of mouth can make, or break a business and this woman held the power of the press. Lucky for me, she liked what she saw.
“This calls for a celebration. How about tomorrow night and maybe the gracious Ms. Fey can pay?” Rey wiggles his brow, clearly amused by the rhyme.
The others nod, all grinning ear to ear, even Dara.
“Sounds great, and I think the salon can pick up the tab for dinner,” I look directly at Rey, “within reason. Now, I’ve got a four and a half star salon to run, so back to work with all of you.”
I check my watch, fifteen minutes until my next appointment. Plenty of time for a little fizzy caffeine and taking the weight off my three–inch heels is an added benefit. I don’t know what makes me think wearing heels—when I’m on my feet for at least eight hours—will get any easier.
Sinking into one of the break room chairs, I crack open a soda and take a long swallow. The delightful fizz burns its way down my throat. I think that’s the only reason I drink soda. The carbonation. Love the bubbles. My bubble high recedes into a blissful moment of relaxation, erased by the tingle of curiosity and fear. I should have checked to see if I was the only one booked with new clients. They’re crawling out of the woodwork tonight. Wonder why. The review? No, that only came out today. Word of mouth? Best possible answer. It’s not like we’re a chain salon and we are a bit off the beaten path.
Low voices outside the door snap me back to reality. Unlike two of my co–workers, I don’t have super hearing, but from the timbre, one is obviously Rey. One point for the home team, behind door number one we find Rey and Dara.
“Keely, your next appointment is early.” A healthy dose of curiosity tempered with concern lurks in his eyes, where his companion’s hold contempt.
Well, isn’t this interesting? Makes me want to know who, or what my next appointment is.
“Do you guys know if he’s a request, or was I just open?”
A simple question that deserves more than a shrug and a raised eyebrow, but that’s all they are able, or willing to give. Irritation rises, but asking for more isn’t worth the effort. Easier to find out myself.
CHAPTER THREE
Nyssa is giggling like a schoolgirl, every movement exaggerated as she towel dries a freshly shampooed client at my station. It dawns on me why everyone is acting a little off when I catch his reflection. Summer personified, a liosâlfar. If the darkly sun–kissed complexion and fair hair aren’t enough of a clue, then the patrician features are a dead giveaway.
Liosâlfar and their cousins the döckâlfar are often confused. Most think dark would lead to darker skin and light to fair complexions. Not so. The döckâlfar’s pale skin—as pale as I am, minus the strange greyish tint—is due to lack of sun exposure. They live underground for the most part and don’t tolerate the sun well. The liosâlfar on the other hand, are sun worshippers, their realm existing in the sky, or so I’m told.
It’s no big revelation that the âlfar would make Iowa their home. We have a sizable Germanic population. Dwarves dominate Madrid—not matadors, or flamenco dancers and yes, we know that according to Spain we pronounce it wrong—even with the coal mines closed down.
Then there’s Lorelei, who claims the waterways here remind her of home. I don’t see the comparison between the Rheine and the Des Moines River, but she says it calls to her.
lfar rarely fraternize with other Enchants, holding positions in politics and the upper echelons of society with all the arrogance of royalty. In other words, the majority are snots. Yours truly an exception, but that’s probably due to my supposed half–breed heritage.
Approaching the chair I hold out my hands, palms up, in greeting. “Hello, Mr. Brand. I’m Keely Fey and I’ll be cutting your hair.”
There is a clear look of surprise as he looks from my extended hands to the belt containing sharp implements around my hips. Okay, faux pas number one, I’ve given a greeting of no weapons while wearing things that can be considered such. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I slowly lower my hands, clear my throat and force a smile before moving behind the chair. Usually, when greeting a new client I place my hands on their shoulders, probably not the wisest action now.
“How would you like your hair cut?” Some of my nervousness abates with the excitement of getting to work with such beautiful hair. Even wet the color is incredible, every shade of blond imaginable, all on one head. I can’t wait to see it dry. Women pay big bucks for poorly done imitations and even more for decent attempts, none coming even close. Problem being, the short military style, doesn’t look like it needs cut. Maybe he just wants it cleaned up around his ears and neckline.
He just sits there studying me, possibly deciding if I’m qualified for the job. Like 2100 hours of training, passing the state board, continuing education every other year, holding a license for over twenty years and oh yeah, owning a well–reviewed salon doesn’t qualify me.
That haughty attitude may intimidate others, but I’m Queen here and in control of the shears, or so I tell myself. Pulling a comb from the drawer, I step behind the chair and wait.
“Just a trim.” His tone matches his coloring, smooth and sweet, with a hint of German accent.
I feel a warming deep within that begs to hear him speak again. With that amber gaze of his, it’s tough to lift the comb. I lower my head for a moment, pretending to study the work before me.
Just breathe. He’s just a cut like any other.
Centering myself, I pull a pair of shears from my belt. Sectioning his hair, I feel my Talents rise. An annoying little itch that you can’t reach.
Not since adolescence, when my Talents first became apparent, has my control slipped like this. There’s nothing like short hair in first period and waist length by third, or hitting two keys in typing class because you envied the prom queen’s nails.
Making the mistake of looking at him in the mirror, I see the crease between his brows. He feels it too. My control doesn’t just slip, it fails.
The ends of his hair curl around my fingers, gripping them without any coaxing until it brushes his shoulders. I struggle to regain some sort of control, but everything goes all slow-mo on me. The comb slips from my fingers, the sound horrendously loud as it hits the ground.
Dropping the section of hair I back away, but not fast enough, the chair spins and my wrist is in his grasp. The growing pain in my wrist, his only show of emotion.
“How?” He asks a question, but his eyes hold an answer. One he’s not sharing.
I just stand there, trapped, mouth moving, but nothing coming out.
A hand grips his wrist. “Let her go.” The softness of Dara’s tone can’t hide the menace lacing her words.
Slowly his fingers pry themselves from my wrist, leaving behind perfect red imprints against my ultra-pale skin. That’s going to leave a mark. Dara stands a step away from us watching through narrowed eyes and nods, as if a question is answered. When is someone going to fill me in on what’s going on?
“Perhaps I should finish Mr. Brand’s cut.”
“That won’t be necessary.” He studies her. A predatory gleam in his hooded eyes belies the calmness of his tone.
Dara turns to me questioningly and I shake my head, fear subsiding, leaving curiosity. I want to know the secret they seem to share along with what made my Talents override their shield. Kicking the comb out of my way, I reach for another, more than willing to try again. He settles back into the chair and I spin it to face the mirror.
“Just the ends, or shall I take off more?” I run my fingers through now shoulder length locks.
“Just the ends.” A faint smile touches his lips.
Gods, he’s breathtaking when he smiles. Ignoring my shaking hands, I sectioned h
is hair. His eyes are closed when I look into the mirror, which helps. Taking a deep breath, I start cutting and before I know it, I’m done. A sense of loss falls over me.
Looking up, I see him staring at me as I run the comb through his hair for the millionth time. I have to stop looking directly into his eyes. Nearly fumbling my shears I place them back in my belt and move to grab the dryer.
Panic escalates as the need to see him again overrides the need to get his disconcerting carcass out of my chair. Hel, out of my salon. Maybe he won’t like the cut. Maybe he won’t come back. I could only be so lucky.
His hair feels like silk between my fingers and I wonder if his skin is as smooth. The tingle in the pit of my stomach this time isn’t from errant Talent as my fingers accidentally brush his neck. Try as I might I can’t deny the physical attraction, at least not to myself. I could blame it on what he is, or that he is incredibly attractive, even the scar dissecting his left brow doesn’t detract from that. It makes him seem less perfect, more attainable.
Snapping off the dryer, I feel the need to run upstairs and hop in a cold shower. Time for him to go. If not for the sake of my hormones and sanity, then because my next appointment has arrived.
Escorting him to reception, I thank him, careful to keep eyes averted and hands to myself. Before he can reply, I greet my next client and explain I’ll be with her as soon as I prepare my station. Trails of goose bumps run the length of my spine as I hurry around the corner.
***
The night from hel is finally over for me. Leaving the others to finish their clients and clean up, I head upstairs. Good ol’ Captain Curiosity is waiting behind the door when I release the locks, both man–made and magical.
A constant stream of cateese, follows me through the apartment. All I want is to take off my heels, but I won’t get a moment’s peace until I feed the little pig. A screech resembling now echoes, when I don’t move fast enough to satisfy him.
“Fine.” Walking to the kitchen would be much easier if he wasn’t trying to trip me, something about cats and heels just don’t mix. He stuffs his head into the bowl before the kitty kibble has a chance to hit bottom.
Maybe eating something isn’t such a bad idea. Opening the fridge, I grab a soda and realize that’s all there is, besides a few unrecognizable leftovers. I could open a can of tuna and make a sandwich, but that sounds too much like work.
Listening to the crunch of kitty kibble to my right, I decide on a bowl of cereal. Pouring the last of the milk over fruit flavored rice; I make a mental note to visit the dairy tomorrow, or should I say today?
Technically, it’s Saturday morning, the beginning of my weekend. Unlike conventional salons, we’re only open in the evening, Monday through Friday. It’s a pretty flexible schedule starting when your first appointment is due and staying until your last. Each of us has a key so if you have a client who wants, or needs to come before seven—like Rey and his little old ladies—I don’t have to be there.
Taking the bowl into the living room, I plop down on the window seat and kick off my shoes. When most communities are rolling up their sidewalks, The Meadows kicks it into high gear. Outside a stream of partiers trickle by. Friday and Saturday nights, the parties continue until sunrise. Sure, the bars have to obey the two a.m. last call, but it doesn’t mean the party stops. Some move to private residences, or Midnite Expresso, others continue to hang at Atramentous, or Moonlight Lake literally dancing the night away. Even Basement Brews continues to serve food and homemade soda until five.
The hair on my neck rises. Across the street, a lone figure leans against the street lamp, his attention fixated on my building. I part the sheers a smidgen to get a clear view.
Looking like a modern day Phillip Marlow, minus the fedora and cigarette dangling from his lips, stands Alric Brand. A large black dog—if you can call it a dog, more like Shetland pony—wanders up bumping him with a huge head. No natural dog is that big; it must be a therian.
I see his lips move as he rests his hand on the dog’s back, but his attention doesn’t waver from my window.
Icy fingers play chopsticks along my spine. Drawing the curtains with a little more intensity than needed, I hear a seam give way. Damn, first the man sends my emotions into overload, then he peeps me and now he’s made me tear my curtains. Add ruining supper to that list. Dipping my spoon into the soggy mess, I lose my appetite. Nothing like going to bed angry, with a sour stomach.
CHAPTER FOUR
Disembodied hands, empty eye sockets, naked muscle and bone dominate my dreams mingled with visions of a yummy honey–toasted elf. All of this chased away by a shadowy figure hanging in the fringes, that never comes into complete focus.
Little Princess, you have grown into a queen.
A voice I haven’t heard in almost three decades reverberates across my skin, both chilling and sensual. Vereinen. I try to recall the face of my childhood friend, but it’s just a fuzzy memory. He wasn’t real anyway, just someone my imagination conjured to extinguish loneliness brought on by a lack of playmates my own age.
“It’s kind of inevitable.”
True, but I had hoped to watch the progression.
Is that regret I hear? Doesn’t matter. The gaping loss I’d thought healed rips open and any sympathy I might feel is tossed into the chasm.
“Hey, you’re the one who disappeared on me.”
Not by choice. Now the anger is all his.
“Then why?”
I was...
His words fade as a piercing beep from my alarm gains momentum coupled with the realization my lack of breath is due to twenty pounds of grey and white fur.
Disengaging myself from the cat and tangled sheets, I slap the alarm into silence. Flopping backward, I pull a pillow over my head. C.C. immediately takes this as an invitation to poke and prod me. For him the alarm means two things—get out of my bed and make sure you put food in my dish. For me it means another day—if you consider four in the afternoon the start of the day—one I’m not ready to face.
Remnants of the dream race just out of reach through my sleep–fogged brain. What was he trying to tell me? Something about not his choice. As if things aren’t crazy enough, I’m chatting with a disembodied voice I’d filed under childhood delusions.
Unlike most children, my imaginary friend never took on any solid form. He was a shadow who clouded my mind at best with a voice that resonated through my soul. The Sisters, my grandmother and great aunts, did their best to discourage this flight of fancy. Around the time of puberty, Einen disappeared. I was a little more than resentful about that, but had more important things to worry about.
Puberty for Unchants is difficult enough with that whole body changing thing. Enchants get the cherry on top of that little treat, emerging Talents. It’s no wonder I’d filed my friend away when I’d hit high school. Question is, why is he invading my dreams after all these years?
Having had enough poking and prodding from the cat, I crawl out of bed. Maybe I can skip working out. The disarray of the bed and dampness of my skin, proof that I’d spent the night multitasking. Not something I recommend.
Padding into the kitchen, I start the coffee without thinking. I can drink it black, but prefer it with a little milk, or cream, so I have three choices. Force it down in its natural state, head over to Midnite Expresso, or go get some milk. Looking at a box of cereal on the counter, the growling of my stomach makes the choice for me. First, I have a date with the shower and a toothbrush so I feel slightly alive.
***
I can’t help wishing Rick would give up on Jessie’s Girl and cast a glance my way. A girl never forgets her first crush. Cranking the dial on the 8–track. Yes 8–track, my car is nearly as old as I am and equipped with the finest in late 60’s technology. Thanks to a flea market, I found a little gadget allowing me to play my rather large cassette collection.
I’ve lived through numerous incarnations of music from vinyl to 8–tracks, cassettes to CDs and now MP
3’s. Don’t forget music videos. I was there like the rest of America’s youth, glued to the T.V., watching my favorite songs become mini movies. Gotta love American ingenuity.
Speaking of that ingenuity, I dare anyone not to feel instant empowerment behind the wheel of an American muscle car. Even the timid feel superhuman with all that power pulsating through them. Getting to put the top down and let in the Iowa sunshine is like the icing on the cake. Yeah, I know someone as pigmentally–challenged as I am shouldn’t be running around in a convertible. Call it a guilty pleasure tempered with some heavy duty SPF.
The 390 horses under the hood beg to run free and I’m tempted to turn off onto the highway letting the Mustang gallop as fast as she can. My stomach growls, a nasty reminder, forcing me to obey the speed limit and press on to my destination.
I could have had toast and black coffee, then gone for a longer drive, but I need milk, and the thought of ice cream is a little too tempting. Who wants chain store variety with a dairy so close by?
Udder Cravings opened in the late nineties and the name says it all. You crave their dairy products after your first sample. Moocha Java, or a longer drive? Milk in my coffee, or a longer drive? My stomach growls again and my tongue can almost feel the cool, creamy goodness of their ice cream. Oh yeah, I made the right choice.
With the car giving that false sense of supremacy I picture Alric Brand, the encounter at the salon, his appearance outside my window and the dreams from the night before. The undeniable urges to either tell him off, or toss him down war within me. Maybe a combination of both would the answer to my problems.
Sure, that’s the ticket. Scream at him for being a rude stalker then rip his clothes off and ride him until he screams. A nervous giggle bubbles up as I slowly turn off the paved road, wincing with each pebble that bounces from the tires. I hate taking the 'Stang down gravel, but it can’t be helped, considering my destination is on a country road.
