“Ms. Crowther?” a woman shouts.
I flinch in the dermatologist’s waiting room chair and rub the kink in my neck as I raise my head. The vision I had in June still haunts my dreams, but nothing new has revealed itself. Without using a crystal grid, the premonition will take months or years to develop. Despite my impatience to discover the truth, I’ve come to accept the future reveals itself when it’s good and ready—it's either that or fry my brain with a crystal grid. I peer up at the receptionist.
“The doctor says you may go back now.” She gestures toward the doorway.
I swing my purse over my shoulder as I stand, adjusting my jeans and long-sleeved shirt. As I move toward the door, I read the close captioning on the TV screen—breaking news out of Philadelphia. The reporter announces another kidnapping has occurred, and the FBI is on the case. How awful.
A nurse directs me to exam room four. When the door swings in, my attention immediately shifts to my boyfriend Archie’s toned butt, shining bright red with frosty-white blisters full of discolored ink. The doctor spreads a jelly-like healing ointment over the treated area. Archie turns his head toward me, smiling, his icy-blue eyes glinting under the ceiling lights.
“Dr. Cockburn says he needs your approval. Does it pass your test?” He smiles as he gathers bandages to cover the wound.
I wrinkle my nose. “How would I know? I hope it looks better than that after it heals.”
“It will take about four to eight weeks,” Archie says in his soft Scottish accent. “Aren’t you happy the tattoo is gone?”
“Sure I am, but I didn’t ask you to remove it.” I glance at the dermatologist. “It was all his idea.”
“So Dr. Cockburn said.” Dr. Patel snickers as he finishes dressing the area. “Call me if it becomes infected. You can schedule a follow-up appointment for six weeks. One more session should remove any remaining ink.” He exits the room, suppressing a smile.
After the door shuts, Archie sits up carefully and pulls on his boxer briefs. My inquisition begins.
“Did you tell him why you wanted the tattoo removed?” I ask.
My lover grimaces. “Aye. He asked. He was curious.”
“Well, no one forced you to.” I roll my hazel eyes. “He appeared amused.”
Archie chuckles. “You have to admit. It’s humorous thinking back on the incident.”
“Funny for you. I had a slight heart attack when I opened the door and caught you screwing Courtney Davies. Of course, I didn’t know it was you…or her. I hadn’t met either of you formally yet.” The image of his butt as he screwed the young, obsessed grad student from behind lingers in my memories like a splinter embedded beneath my skin.
“Which is precisely why I had the tat removed.” He pulls on his sweatpants, sliding the elastic slowly over the bandage. “Every time you stare at my arse, you think of her. Don’t bloody tell me you don’t.”
“Well, it’s kind of hard not to. That Horned God tattoo is—was—both unique and prominent on your bum.”
He bends over and kisses me, his goatee tickling my chin. “Are you saying you’re going to miss it, my love?”
“Not a fucking chance,” I say, patting his other butt cheek. “I wonder what Courtney is doing now.”
“Careful, Gwyn. It doesn’t hurt yet, but the lidocaine shot will wear off soon. And Courtney took that course with Leslie as an elective. After the semester ended, we never heard from her again. She must have graduated and left the area.”
Dr. Leslie Hughes, the chair of the Celtic Studies department and Elder in the Bearsden Coven who is way past Medicare eligibility, kicked Courtney’s ass out when we discovered she helped the imposter Audrey Kenilworth infiltrate our witch’s circle. But Audrey was under an abusive parental spell and wasn’t responsible for her actions. Her mother Edith killed her in retaliation for helping the coven fend off her parents’ destructive actions at the fall pagan conference.
I think about Courtney occasionally. Does she ever wonder what happened to her best friend?
“Let’s head back to the house. I’m so uncomfortable. Thank you for suggesting a Friday afternoon appointment. I don’t know how I would have taught my Celtic Studies classes.”
“Told you so. Would you like me to drive?”
He grimaces. “My Tesla? Fawk no.”
“I was kidding, but you should teach me how to drive it sometime, in case of an emergency.”
“I’ll ruminate on that while I’m icing my arse.”
We leave the medical office for Archie’s cottage style home on Duncan Street. A playful breeze displaces my bangs as we exit the car, but the cool air invigorates me. I inhale the earthy scent of fall, hoping to shake off my worries. When we enter the house, he heads for the kitchen, but I grab his arm.
“Why don’t you go into the living room?” I ask. “I’ll bring you an ice pack.”
“Thank you, my love. You’ll find me on the loveseat.” He inches toward the russet leather sofa holding his butt.
“Why not sit in the ice packing chair?”
I motion to the corner and recall icing my own bottom there the night I fell at the Old Men oak trees. Well, I didn’t actually fall; an evil Sluagh fairy using the tree as a host attacked me.
“Ah, that evening. I remember it well. You told me I was extravagant for owning a Tesla.”
I chuckle, and the memory of him standing in the doorway pops into my head—flexing a bicep as he brushed a hand through his ash-blond locks. “Yeah. I can’t believe you kissed me after I said that. I’ll get the ice pack. Find a seat wherever you want, honey.”
“The loveseat will do. I can prop my feet on the steamer trunk.”
After filling the pack with fresh ice, I rush to the living room. Archie is still standing, examining his collection of weapons on the wall—a display full of antique flintlock pistols and swords. When he finishes adjusting a random dirk onto its holder, he shuffles to the loveseat to sit. I place the chilly bag under his sore butt. He pushes strands of my chestnut brown hair behind my ear and strokes my cheek.
“I was so hesitant to kiss you that night. Certain you would smash my face with your fist.”
“Never. You’re too pretty,” I say, stroking his whiskers.
Archie frowns. “You’re mocking me, witch.”
