“The who on the what, malaka?” he said.
I shook my head. “Forget it.”
I did four shots of the nasty tequila in rapid succession and then followed them with my first beer. Isaac kept the beers coming.
I watched the dance floor. The DJ, who was wearing a Guy Fawkes mask, and who occasionally lobbed smoke bombs of different colors into the crowd, shifted the music to tyDi’s “Fire & Load.” I figured this was as good a place as any to repay my debt to the Mother of Cats. The Egyptians’ favorite holiday a long time ago was Bubastis, a festival of dancing, singing, and, above all else, boozing in honor of Bastet—or Bast—whichever you prefer, the goddess of dance, joy, music, families, love, and oh, yeah, cats. I had offered her the well-loved squeaky mouse and a night of my life devoted to drunken revelry in her honor, and you know how much I hate to welsh on an obligation. So I drank, and drank, and tried to enjoy the revelry part vicariously through all the happy, shiny people out on the floor.
Magdalena had loved dancing, so much so that it had become a component of many of her workings. The music syncing with her mind, her body. The movements, the sweat shining on her tattoos. I remembered for a moment the taste of her, her lips, her skin. I remembered her voice, husky, like wine and smoke. I could feel her body heaving against mine. She found so much joy in the simple acts of breathing, of letting the universe work itself through her. She was in love with being alive, and I have to admit that it was intoxicating to be around; a little bit of it had even started to rub off on me. She was as giving in her magic as she had been as a lover, as a friend.
Magdalena was submissive by choice. She was passionate about the experience of power exchange, the sensation of giving yourself freely to the will of another. She was strong enough, confident enough in herself that she didn’t need to be in control of every little thing. She thrilled at the novelty, the mystery of being part of another.
She told me, when we first met, that she had once been pulled under the influence of a cruel and manipulative dominant, a mage, like us. This woman had nearly devoured all the light in her, nearly made Magdalena her slave in soul as well as body and mind. Magdalena had gotten away from the toxic relationship, running, hiding, until she healed herself. She shared all this with me the night I told her about her potential, her power. I had promised her that night I would be her friend, that I would never take advantage of her or use her. I told her she could trust me. I drained the last of the bottle of tequila and gestured for Isaac to bring me another one.
One evil, mind-fucking bastard had nearly broken her, and then I had taken my best shot at it. I was proud of Magdalena; she didn’t stand for my shit. She told me to get the fuck out. I filled my glass again from the new bottle and drained the shot.
“It can’t be all that bad, can it?” the woman said to me as she slid up next to me at the bar. “Give me another old-fashioned, please, Terry,” she said to the kid I had been calling Isaac all night. As her drink was being made, she turned to look at me. I returned the favor. She was in her thirties, I’d guess, with ringlets of jet hair falling past her bare, tanned shoulders. She had laugh lines and warm, playful brown eyes. She was very fit with a hint of some lovely curves under her red boho dress. She took a slender cigarette from a clutch purse that I’m pretty sure if sold would go a long way to alleviating Greece’s financial problems. She put the cigarette to her lips and waited. I let her wait a second while I weighed the pros and cons of moving ahead here. I finally clicked open my old, dented Zippo and lit her cigarette; the reflection of the flame danced in her dark eyes, then I lit my own.
“It’s usually never ‘all that bad,’” I said, exhaling smoke. “When it is, it’s usually too damn late to do much of anything about it anyway.” I tipped my beer toward her. “Laytham.”
“Kynthia,” she said, taking her drink and tipping Terry about three hundred euros. She clinked her glass to my bottle. “I love your accent. Texas?”
“Close,” I said. “West Virginia. You ever been to the States, Kynthia?”
“Shopping trips,” she said. “New York City, Los Angeles. My husband and I do well.” She watched my eyes when she said “husband” and must have been satisfied with whatever she saw or didn’t see there. “It doesn’t bother you I’m married. Good.”
“Any particular reason it should?” I asked and finished my beer. The music warped into “California Dreaming” by Benny Benassi. I poured another shot.
“You drink like you want to die,” she said. “I lived with one of my university professors in Paris. He drank like that. He was a fascinating drunk. I think you will be as well, Laytham. Tell me, do you want to die?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “So where is the hubby tonight? Let me guess…”
“On our yacht with … what day is it? Thursday? That would be the blonde tonight. Kristos’s got one for every day of the week.”
“Poor choice on his part,” I said.
“We’ve an arrangement,” she said, “which brings me back to you. Do you do anything but drink and brood?”
“I look good,” I said, “and I have fun. Oh, and falling down, I’m good at falling down.” She laughed politely, but I could have quoted Urdu poetry and I’m pretty sure she would have laughed.
