Thirty-Five ◑ The Friend

For a second Lucille debated whether or not to retrieve her shotgun, but her curiosity got the best of her. She exited her room in a flash.

And she almost expired in relief when she saw Agnes in the living room with a paperbag in her arms.

“Oh, you’re here early!” Agnes grinned, shimmying while trying to balance the bag. “Just in time for the evening’s booze train—”

Lucille grabbed the bag from her, threw it on the couch, and pulled her into a tight hug. Then she started to sob on her shoulder.

“There, there.” Agnes sounded bewildered, but she hugged Lucille nonetheless. “Did something happen? Did you break up?”

“No,” Lucille warbled, pulling away and wiping her cheeks. “We didn’t. I thought you left.”

“What?” Agnes laughed incredulously. “I just went across the street to buy some vodka and chips since I'm feeling extra single tonight. Figured you and Cade would take things up a notch, if you know what I mean.”

Lucille felt so stupid, but relief got in the way of her embarrassment. She started to get quite cheerful again. “Well, we did kiss.”

Agnes’s eyes went wide. “A kiss? Just a kiss?”

“Yeah.” Lucille frowned. “What did you expect?”

“A kiss too, just not on the mouth.”

“Agnes!”

“Sorry!” She didn’t sound particularly sorry. In fact, she was grinning as she retrieved the bag from the couch and headed towards the kitchen, where she swept the almonds into the corner with her foot. Sliding the glass and the wine at the side, she set the bag on the counter and began to extract its contents. “But seriously, why are you so upset over me being gone?”

Lucille hesitated, leaning against the counter and opening a bag of Doritos. “It's . . . it's Keiran. He came to visit.”

“What?” Agnes nearly dropped the glasses she was filling with vodka, looking over Lucille’s shoulder like she was expecting him to be lurking around. “Where?”

“Not in the suite. He met me at the elevator, took me to the rooftop, and threatened to push me off.”

Agnes arched a brow. “Did you try to touch him again?”

“Um, yes.”

“Then maybe you had it coming.”

Lucille groaned and accepted the glass Agnes had just offered. “Are you taking his side?”

“Because he has a good reason.” Under Lucille’s stern gaze, Agnes raised her palms in surrender. “Alright, I did have a crush on him, but that doesn't mean anything. I mostly just want to see him back in those skimpy little Greek garbs that he and Dimitri used to wear.”

As soon as Agnes said that, an exact image of the twins in their loincloths invaded Lucille’s mind. She wanted to think it was gross, but the two were gods. With godly looks. And godly bodies. . . .

Okay, Lucille should really stop thinking about them that way.

“Back when we were still early into the business,” Agnes continued, “I used to fantasize about him.”

“Oh, God.” Lucille took her glass and headed to the living room to crash on the couch. “You’re nasty, Agnes.”

“It’s not that kind of fantasizing!” Agnes reasoned, going after her with the bottle of vodka and the bags of chips in hand. She sat on the carpet and faced her. “It’s just a bit of that. I just used to imagine going out with him and you going out with Dimitri.”

“Dimitri?”

“Yeah! You look good together. You have some kind of a connection.”

“Do you. . . .” Lucille trailed off. She cleared her throat before continuing, “Do you really think that?”

“Yeah.” Agnes’s eyes twinkled. “Why, do you like him more than Cade?”

“No,” Lucille said at last, her voice no more than a whisper. “I like Cade better than any man in my life so far.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Lucille stared at her dark, curious eyes, the very eyes that she sometimes understood more than her own. She’d been keeping her flashbacks all to herself since she’d begun having them in fear of scaring Agnes away, but now she was sure that this was the right time to finally speak about them. Perhaps this would start to clear her doubts. Perhaps she’d arrive at a conclusion.

Perhaps this would help her understand Dimitri, because as much as she disliked him sometimes, she didn’t want to lose him.

And so Lucille began to tell Agnes everything. From the very first vision of Dimitri that she’s had, to the full-on hallucination at the Arkham Manor statue garden. She’d told him of the things he’d said, both in the visions and in real life. Soon, the weight pressing in her chest began to ease. The alcohol pumped its way into her system, adding to the sense of relaxation overcoming her body. She was lounging on the couch now, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, talking in a low voice, closing her eyes as Agnes started to stroke her hair.

“The weird thing is, those visions felt very familiar,” she confessed. “I don’t know if it’s just all in my head, or if he really was someone I knew before I got turned into . . . this. I’m scared, Agnes.”

“Don’t be.” Agnes pulled herself up and sat at the edge of the couch. “I’ve been seeing things from my past too, you know.” When Lucille’s eyes snapped open, she laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re not like yours. “I just keep seeing a woman. Her face is unclear, though. She feels like a friend. Kind of like you. Except that she doesn’t freak out when she sees that I’m not in the suite for, like, ten minutes.”

Lucille smiled. “Sorry. Keiran made me nervous. He was saying that I should live with him and Dimitri now that he couldn’t see my fate.”

“That’s selfish of him.” Agnes pouted. “You know, we’re in a good place right now. Even though we don’t have any clients anymore, I feel better than ever. Maybe the candle melting means that we’re meant to start fresh. As humans. Like we’re supposed to be.”

“I’ve been thinking that,” Lucille said, sitting up so fast her vision blurred. “I think we can see it as an end of contract with Keiran and Dimitri.”

“The only downside is remembering our past,” Agnes muttered. “I don’t want to discover that I had an abusive husband too. I would hate myself.”

Lucille didn’t want that either, but she supposed it was already too late for that. She already knew that she’d had an abusive husband. Would it matter if she found out who it was? Perhaps, but she was presented a way to take her life back into her hands, so why would she panic? Maybe she’d been looking at the candle thing the wrong way. Maybe her freedom was tied with it all along.

“Remembering who we are would be a liberating thing, actually,” she whispered, resting her head against Agnes’s back. “We can decide who we want to be. I don’t want to be a witch anymore.”

“Me neither,” Agnes said, her voice a mere hum. “I want to go places without worrying about new passports and faking my own death every few decades. I want to meet someone special. I want to fall in love.”

Lucille’s eyes began to tear up. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep them at bay. “I still want to live with you, though.”

“Then we’ll do that.” Agnes kissed the top of her head and hugged her tight. “We’ll do whatever we want.”

That night, they stayed up until the morning, talking about the things they wanted to do for the rest of their mortal life. They fell asleep on the couch, too happy and drunk to walk back to their own rooms. Only when the light of the rising sun began to filter through the windows did Lucille get up and head to her bedroom to fetch Agnes a blanket.

However, upon entering, she was instantly met with the sight of the dismantled painting and the exposed vault from the night before.

Tiptoeing, she took the canvas and placed it back in its frame before pressing the code to open the vault. She finished the code this time, but for some reason, the vault rejected it. It didn’t open.

Okay, this was weird. She was getting nervous, but she keyed in the code once more. With the same unfruitful results.

Now she was seriously freaked. She could hardly even breathe. Taking a deep breath to steady her trembling body, she reached out to tap on the keys again, but her finger barely touched the rubber pad when the phone began to ring in the hallway.

Not wishing to wake Agnes for what was probably a package delivery call, Lucille rushed out of her bedroom, picked up the phone, and panted, “Lucille Saint-Claire.”

“Good morning,” Robert the doorman greeted smoothly. “I have someone here who wishes to see you. He goes by the name Dimitri. Should I send him up?”