fit pulled her from the nightmare Aerin had fought since before she could remember.
She fell back to the fluffy white bed with a wild flailing of limbs.
Sleep paralysis. It was just a sensation. Nothing more.
She did not levitate in her sleep.
Problem was, she’d never been too good at self-delusions or denial. Never believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or religion. Magic wasn’t even in her sphere of consideration.
Until now.
But the proof, however personally anecdotal, was beginning to mount, whether she wished it to be real or not. So she’d better get on board this crazy train before it left the station without her.
Maybe now was the time to reflect on the fact that she levitated in her sleep. Clutching the sheets beneath her against an insane fear that she’d just go drifting away like an astronaut in zero gravity, she swung her bare feet over the side of the bed and reveled in the feel of the hardwood floor beneath her and the weight of her body resting on her bones.
She was steady on her feet. Stable. She felt… better. Her head still pounded, but her nose was no longer stuffy and running, nor did her throat hurt. The body aches were gone and so were the chills, sweats, and nausea.
She felt healthy. And bitchy. Mostly bitchy.
Time for a much-deserved morning smoke. And coffee.
Surveying the black and white room, she found her luggage tucked between an overstuffed arabesque chair and a glass table. On the table perched a pitcher and a glass of water, aspirin, a decongestant, tea that had gone cold, a few bottles of essential oils, and that son-of-a-bitch brew with a card leaned against it that commanded: Drink this first.
Not bloody likely. But still…
If Aerin had to hazard a guess, each one of the sisters had left her own offering on the table. A curious emotion rose from the middle of her chest and clogged in her throat where she coughed it out before it overwhelmed her. She looked around with an almost spastic sense of disquiet. Someone had taken off her shoes and jacket and tucked her into the bed, covered her with blankets, retrieved her luggage. They’d left her medicine for her comfort.
What the fuck was someone like her supposed to do with that?
Her red purse beckoned like the sultry lips of a high-priced courtesan, and Aerin’s mouth watered at the idea of a pack of habit tucked into its regimented place. This bedroom even had a balcony. Imagine the luck.
Tiptoeing to her bag, she reached in and rifled through her wallet, keys, papers, makeup, and other sundries, but came up empty of the one thing her body screamed for.
“Oh no they didn’t!” she bitched through gritted teeth, suddenly remembering Tierra fishing her cigarettes out of her purse before she passed out.
Aerin showered, changed, and angrily staked her hair into a bun with a pen in record time. Though her body screamed at her to tear down the stairs and rip into the thieves, she’d learned early on that destruction was all the more devastating when perpetrated by an elegant, well-dressed hand.
Silk off-white palazzo pants and a pearl blouse gave her the look of casual royalty. Slicking a tube of her darkest lipstick onto her full mouth, she blotted and regarded herself in the bathroom mirror. “Someone’s about to reap the whirlwind.” She informed her reflection, and realized it was good practice, because everyone she was about to confront had a face exactly like hers.
34
An inhuman squeal blasted through the elegant silence of the house as Aerin stalked from her bedroom in search of reprisal. She descended the plush green carpets of the grand twisting staircase, interrupting a commotion that conjured the chaos of the Bay of Pigs. Speaking of pigs, a tiny pink body scurried past the landing, his comically small cloven hooves slipping and sliding beneath his chubby body in panicked haste.
“I’m going to yank your ugly, little leather wings off with my bare hands, you disease-ridden varmint!” Moira’s unmistakable voice hollered.
To Aerin’s dismay, Doctor Lecter sped around the eaves of the cavernous ceilings of the ground floor, and disappeared up the stairs with a hiss just as Moira rounded the door frame sporting the business end of a broom like a billy club.
Without missing a beat, she turned on Aerin. “You keep that flying rat away from Cheeto, you hear?”
Aerin snorted. “I don’t think that Doctor Lecter likes Cheetos.”
“You sure are slower than cream rising in a vat of