Pell’s distaste for her natural lineage was attempting to fight its way through her expression when she fully comprehended the powwow taking place in her bedroom. It stiffed its own efforts, making it as far as a two rows of gritted teeth. The cherry on her cigarette dimmed and disintegrated. Past supremes must have been rolling over in their graves. Craft was becoming a sullied social assembly. Not that Pell personally took any offense, she more or less hated feeling like she owed reverence and high standards to the governing coven queens before her. It was a force of habit. It was a lingering legacy from Andrea. Her mother. Respect your elders. Embrace your bloodline. That sort of thing. She could hear the romance and sincerity of a nearly forgotten maternal tone in her head, some longed for spirit she would never see again. It struck a nerve.
Why did you have to let him take you?
No, he wasn’t real. No way he could be. Just seemed a little too batshit. Who sacrificed themselves to voodoo divinities anyway? Pell’s thoughts intensified. A curtain hissed as it went up in heated color. Pell nonchalantly pressed a thumb and forefinger to her temple, gaze suddenly sweeping the floor. She was anxious from the abundance of excitement in her room, and as she lifted her perspective so that it could find Fiona’s dog, she maintained this sort of cold temperament with little true emotion behind it. A sigh escaped her throat. Fingers relinquished their pity on her memories and snapped with a distinct ‘pop’. Ashes fell to the pine floorboards, window left bare. The spontaneous fire disappeared and took the curtains with it. The room sort of fell silent as she got to her feet, a slow draw bringing a coffin nail to her mouth so that she could pull the nicotine into her lungs. She inhaled deeply. Her cheeks further hollowed, quiet foot steps tugging the attention of Arturo. Her friendliness dissolved into the mood swing of a fleeting memory. There were those problems with authority again. A mass of thick smoke gushed over Arturo’s face as Pell exhaled and clouded his otherwise wolfish, handsome features.
Her air didn’t change when the tobacco and smog faded. She shrugged, some vague agreement on her cousin’s statement. Like telling a wolf not to howl. Dead silence. She pinched the cigarette and pressed its smoldering remainders into the pale flesh of her palm. Pell was resolute, her skin singed and blistered as a good three or four layers of it blistered and peeled away. “All bark,” she crooned, grabbing a purse and squeezing past Arturo and Kyle, no final looks exchanged with Aden or even Jacqueline, “and no bite.” Poor Silas, must have been terrified at that moment. His country corners, his ironed sweaters and handshake gloves. Would he last a week with Pell as a roommate?
There was no goodbye, no explanation, no beckon for those invited or interested to follow. If they wanted to come, they would. She was through with fine print invitations and congeniality. She just sidestepped and exited, fay lavender hair swaying behind her. Even though she thought to stop, to formally greet the other visitor, a shaggy haired serene individual who had no problem inserting himself, she realized at that point there was no point. The general flock of bedroom guests grew out of hand and attracted more than she bargained for. Or was it her own fault? Arturo had the nose of a bloodhound. Damn! It was her fault.
“You’re going to get fat,” she called wayside, satire in her voice, twang on its extremity, “Throwing things and eating bread isn’t really a real regiment.” Apathetic to everyone, she kind of rolled her eyes. She made her way outside, sun scattering over her skin as she hopped down the front stairs and let the rhythm of her walk catch in her swinging hips. A pair of white sunglasses were pressed onto her face as she looked into the horizon, happy to just get out of the ‘house’ and get some shopping done.