#led dance floor hire in cork | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

readingfordummies · 8 years ago

Text

Witches of East End - Chapter Four

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

Before hiring a certain curly-haired bartender last fall, the North Inn bar was a sleepy little place, the kind of run-down pub that locals liked to gather in to trade gossip and visit one another without having to fight scores of drunk preppies for a table. Memorial Day meant that summer had officially arrived, and even if the town was hidden and unknown, the seasonal wave of tourists to East End brought a good number of visitors who found themselves within the city limits, and several new establishments had begun to provide to this crowd. But not the North Inn. The well drinks were strong and cheap, and other than a decent view of the water, that was pretty much all it had going for it.

How things had changed. It was still a local place but it was no longer quiet or calm. The joint, as they said, was jumpin', and did it ever. There was a loud, throbbing jukebox that played only the good stuff, when rock 'n' roll was performed by real rock stars. Men in tight pants who sang lustily about women, drugs, and wickedness had been put to celluloid parody or reality-TV rehabilitation. The old rock swagger was the exclusive territory of rap music now, the only genre that still celebrated satisfaction in all its forms. The boys with guitars had turned to writing moody little songs, safe little emotional songs that no one could dance to.

Freya liked rap just fine, and was known to blast the latest gangster throw-downs now and then, but at the North Inn she preferred the classics. The Brits: The Sex Pistols. The Clash. The '70s rock-opera - stylists: Queen. Yes. Early Genesis (this was crucial - Peter Gabriel - led Genesis, not the earsore it became under Phil Collins). Metal: Led Zeppelin. Deep Purple. Metallica. Party Rock: AC/DC. Def Leppard. Motley Crüe if she was feeling a tad ironic. Since she'd arrived to work at the North Inn, the place was always blasting with the screech of guitars and the fist-pumping dance-floor anthems that drove the crowd to its feet. But next to the drinks she poured, the music was almost irrelevant.

The redheaded bartender had a way of making the cocktails just right: the gin and tonics tart and fresh, the dark and stormies luscious with bite. It was a party every night, and every evening ended with customers dancing on the bar, losing their shyness and occasionally their clothing. If you came into the North Inn alone and feeling blue, you left with either a new friend or a hangover, sometimes both.

However, a week after her engagement party, the bar, like Freya, was a bit quiet. While the music was still loud and strong, it had an underlying mournful echo. The Rolling Stones sang "Waiting on a Friend": I'm not waiting on a lady, I'm just waiting on a friend . . . , the cocktails were soft and sweet, the gin fizz didn't fizz, the champagne was flat, the beer turned lukewarm after only a few minutes. It was just like the engagement party, but worse. She was glad Ingrid wasn't around to notice; she didn't want her sister any more suspicious than she already was. What happened with Killian that evening had been an impulsive act, but it was over now and everything would be all right. There was no need to panic. So what if all she could dream about was Killian? So what if he had invaded her consciousness, had become the subject of her every waking thought? When she closed her eyes, she could still see his beautiful face, hovering above hers. She would make it go away. She would make him go away. If only it was Killian who was halfway around the world and not her love.

Bran called earlier: he had arrived safely in Denmark and was on his way to his meeting. She knew she had to get used to it; from the beginning he had explained that his life and his work involved a great amount of travel and that he was rarely home, but he was planning to slow down after the wedding. Hearing his voice had cheered her up a little, but her dark mood continued to build as she leaned back on the bar, watching customers arrive. Dan Jerrods and his new girlfriend, Amanda Turner, walked in, and an image flashed in Freya's mind: Dan had Amanda up against a wall, the two of them gasping and grabbing at each other, Amanda's blouse unbuttoned, Dan's jeans at his knees. That was just a few minutes before they'd set off for the bar. It was early in their relationship, and sex was still their way of saying hello. Freya certainly spoke that language.

Right behind the postsex couple was Mayor Todd Hutchinson (fervent masturbation last night in front of a computer), with his friend, flashy developer Blake Aland (a tangle of some sort in his car the other week: it was blurry and the vision wouldn't focus, but Freya sensed some kind of sexual frustration here), then the good reverend and his wife (a flash of leather whips and masks over the holiday weekend). Sometimes Freya felt a bit dizzy from all the information. She should be used to it by now, her talent - she refused to call it a "gift" - but it still came as a surprise.

This was just another display of her nature, the ability to see intense emotion - and it wasn't just sexual passion or romantic love that she was able to see. Freya could also read intense anger and hatred, the opposite of love as it were: murderous rage, overwhelming anxiety. Over the centuries, her talent had been very useful. Although there was very little of it, North Hampton was not immune from crime. When it did happen, it was usually scandalous and spectacular, like the chilling murder of a socialite who had been poisoned at her own dinner party, or sad and unusual, like what had happened to Bill and Maura Thatcher. Their bodies had been found on the beach just last winter, both of them bleeding from the head. Bill died from his injuries but Maura was still in intensive care, comatose at the hospital.

Freya had been helpful in bringing the socialite's murderer to justice. An angry housekeeper who was an occasional customer was behind the heiress's death. Freya saw exactly how she did it, putting a small amount of poison into the champagne, expertly popping back the cork. She had pointed the police in the right direction so that they were able to build their case. The detectives had found a bottle of the toxic substance among the housekeeper's possessions, which led to the conviction, a thrilling conclusion all around.

She served Dan and Amanda their drinks. She smiled at the honeymooning couple - the first two weeks of any relationship was a honeymoon as far as Freya was concerned. Couples waited so long to marry these days, or had been living together for years before, that most honeymoons had very little mooning or honey. The sex, if there was any, was usually of the garden variety, missionary style. Most couples were much more excited about their luxurious hotel rooms than about seeing each other naked. The days of trembling virginal brides slipping in between cold sheets were long past. Which was why Freya looked on new couples with affection. These were her people, worshipers at her temple. She blessed them with her smile and numerous free drinks.

The reverend and his wife ordered a decent bottle of wine, and Blake wanted a beer. She set the orders on the bar and turned to her final customer. "What can I get you, sir?" she asked the mayor.

"Whiskey, straight, thanks Freya."

"Sure thing, Mayor," she said. Todd Hutchinson was young, slick, and ambitious. He had big plans for North Hampton and had swept into office on the campaign donations of people like Blake Aland. The young mayor was popular around town, although Freya knew her sister, Ingrid, was not a fan ever since she'd gotten wind of his proposal to sell the library. Poor Ingrid, there was nothing she would be able to do if the proposal was approved.

Unlike Ingrid, Freya had nothing against Todd, who was polite and tipped well. He was married to a local news anchor rumored to be in line for a national spot on the network. Maybe that was the reason he'd had to resort to online porn. Two huge careers meant couples rarely had time for each other. It was too bad. Freya handed him his whiskey and turned back to the bar.

"What's up tonight? So quiet for a Friday," said her boss, Sal McLaughlin, who'd inherited the North Inn and its bar from his brother, who'd retired. Sal was a cheerful man of seventy, with wiggly eyebrows and a belly laugh. He had hired Freya on the spot and acted as her honorary grandfather. Sal coughed noisily into his handkerchief and wheezed.

"You all right? That sounded pretty gross," she teased as Sal blew his nose again with a big honk.

"Allergies." He shrugged. "Must be the change of weather." He wiped his nose and sighed, his eyes tearing. "Always hits right about June." It had been an unusually sudden change from a rainy spring to a humid summer; the air was thick and heavy, even more so than usual. And the heat was not usually quite this hot so early in the season.

"It's like a funeral in here. Who died?" Sal joked, as he cranked up the AC.

Freya shrugged. She knew it was her energy that was causing the gloom, but she couldn't help it. So it was an off day. She couldn't be expected to keep the party going forever, could she? A hand waved and she walked over to the opposite counter of the U-shaped bar where Becky Bauman was downing dirty martinis like candy. "Another one?" Freya asked.

"Oh, why not." Becky sighed as she stared at her husband, flirting with his date, across the bar. Becky and Ross had recently separated. They had not been married long, but they were the parents of a six-month-old; and Freya saw that a darkness had clouded the love that had once held them together, as exhaustion and sleep deprivation led to nonstop arguments that left both of them even more unhappy and unsatisfied, until Ross had finally had enough and moved out.

Ross was currently deep in conversation with Natasha Mayles, a former model who was one of the town's too-too-toos: too rich, too pretty, too picky. Too good for any man to come near when it came down to it. The Natasha Mayleses of the world certainly thought too much of themselves to settle down with just anyone. It was a wonder what she was doing with Ross Bauman, who was not even divorced yet.

"What happened to us?" Becky asked, as she watched Freya make her cocktail. "I hate him. I really do. I don't know what I'm going to do."

Freya caught a flash of an image: another argument, this one vivid and gut-wrenching, ending in a violence that had not been there before - arms flailing, the baby crying, a push down the stairs. . . . She turned away and paused. Regardless of what her mother or sister believed, truly she did not do very much to the drinks except make them taste better, a by-product of the fact that she made them. Everything Freya made or cooked tasted delicious, a consequence of her magical heritage.

But the ugly scene she had just witnessed - and she did not know who exactly was in danger, Becky, Ross, or their baby; the image did not reveal that much - made her think. Maybe if there hadn't been a bit of love between them Freya would never have considered doing what she was about to do. But there was. She saw the two of them sneaking glances at each other when they thought the other was not looking. Besides, Natasha Mayles was all wrong for Ross. She wandered into the North Inn with her arrogant accent and bored, quasi-European attitude.

Truly, it was a ridiculous rule anyway, why couldn't they use magic? Why not? Just because of a few silly girls who told a few lies? So a couple of lying bitches were allowed to ruin their lives forever? Freya would never forget the way those awful girls had spun their clever story, their crazy histrionics in the courtroom, the growing list of suspects, the carriages that took the condemned down to Gallows Hill. How stubborn and blind she had been! She had assumed no one would believe their accusers, that no one in their right mind would think that she and Ingrid were capable of such evil. To add insult to injury, her own kind, their own Council, took away their powers after everything they had been through - hard punishment indeed. Well. She had had enough. She was tired of feeling afraid. Tired of feeling useless. Tired of trying to pretend she was something she wasn't. Tired of hiding her light in a corner. Under a lampshade, behind a curtain, in a dark room. Tired.

Freya Beauchamp was made of magic. Without magic she was just someone who poured drinks. She had been so good for so long, all of them had, and for what? What was the point of it all, really? It was a waste of their talents; were they really supposed to just live in the shadows and fade away? Act as if they were ordinary for the rest of their immortal lives?

Freya thought of everything they had given up: flying, for one; she still remembered how it felt, moving through the skies, the wind in her hair. She missed the midnight capers in the woods as well, the powerful rituals that were taboo now that pagan was a bad word. The world had moved on, of course, that was to be expected; maybe it would have happened even without the restriction, but now they would never know. Like the rest of her family, she was stuck on this side of the bridge, with no way to return home.

She made up her mind. She touched Ross's beer glass and added just a drop of gingerroot and lemon zest. Then she stirred it with the red straw from Becky's cocktail. The pint of beer turned a bright shade of pink for a split second. Now, this was definitely against the rules, this little mixture she had made, this little love potion. Sure, she had practiced a little magic before, here and there - that boy back in New York, that vampire's familiar she had healed, for instance. But that was in the East Village, where she had been fairly certain what little, insignificant, magic she had performed had been cleverly hidden and absorbed by the city's own kinetic energy.

This was something quite different, different even from the little nudges she gave the police to help solve crimes. This was the first real love potion she had created in . . . well, when the number of years was so big, who was counting? Besides, it was a shame to let such a good couple go to waste, and she shivered at the thought of what might be if she did not: that terrible argument, a child growing up without parents, one dead, the other in jail. Freya increased the power of the drinks she was about to serve. It didn't have to happen. All they needed was a little help to get over the bump. They just needed a little reminder of why they had been together in the first place. She set the martini in front of Becky and the beer in front of Ross. "Cheers!" she told them, holding up her own glass.

"To our health," Becky mumbled. She was probably embarrassed to have revealed so much to Freya earlier.

"Bottoms up," Ross called to Becky from across the bar. He took a huge pull from his glass; and for a moment his face turned gray and it looked as if he were going to be sick, or throw up. Freya felt a wave of nerves - what if she had forgotten to mix it just right? What if she had poisoned him somehow - what if she had forgotten the correct amount to put in the mixture? She rushed to his side, hoping there was still time to serve him an antidote, when the color returned to his cheeks and he took a deep breath. "What's in that?" he asked Freya.

"Why? Is there something wrong with it?" she asked, trying not to feel too frightened.

"There's nothing wrong with it! It's awesome!" he declared, and downed the whole thing in one huge gulp. When he was done, his eyes seemed to light up, and he looked across the bar at his wife with a face full of wonder, falling in love with her all over again. Becky returned the smile tentatively, and in a few minutes the two of them were giggling, then howling with laughter, while Natasha looked confused and unfriendly. Then Ross excused himself from his date, walked over to his wife, and gave her a back-dipping "Times Square - World War Two has ended" victory kiss. Natasha stomped off in a bad mood.

Freya sighed in relief. A few minutes later, she was smiling like a Cheshire cat. Her potion had worked. She still knew exactly how to make them. In an instant, the music on the jukebox suddenly pumped to life: Axl Rose screeching a love song: "Sweet Child o' Mine." She's got a smile that it seems to me, Reminds me of childhood memories . . . The music began to fill up the night, lustful and passionate, making girls grab their boys' hands to lead them to the ad hoc dance floor in front of the jukebox. Dan and Amanda began to dirty-dance, and even the reverend and his wife took a spin. In the corner, the Baumans were making out so heavily - was that Ross's hand up Becky's shirt? - They should really think of leaving; it was getting a tad too heated. Even the mayor sat at the counter with a dreamy look on his face.

Freya drummed her fingers on the counter, swaying to the music. Sal had been right. It had felt like winter in there for a moment. But the frost had melted now. Of course, she still felt terrible about what happened with Killian. But a little magic went a long way.

#woee

0 notes