Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Five

Rideten, Two Years Before

The studio was quiet, and almost empty, just the way Aislen liked it. Other than Jordan Daniels, the comic book artist who worked part-time at the Rideten School of Art teaching, who was working on his course material in the little teacher’s office between the studios, she was alone.

Sunlight streamed in through the generous windows, catching on airborne dust before spilling over the floorboards, and the sharp scent of the ink of her pen merged with that of paints, oils, and turpentine from the supply cupboard against the far wall. The table where Aislen worked caught the light perfectly. It was a little slice of heaven, she thought, or, at least, her version of it.

She was inking in the final comic page for her end-of-year final submission, a work of meticulous care, requiring no interruption, and a lot of patience. She preferred to work on tablet, but the Rideten School of Art was only just beginning to formally recognize comic book art as a subject rather than an interesting and peculiar extracurricular activity, and insisted on students demonstrating proficiency on paper or canvas, as well as on technology. As a result, she had prepared her work across multiple mediums, not wanting to be failed on a technicality.

Aislen finished the final frame and leaned back to look at it. It was good, she decided. Hopefully, it was good enough. The work would be viewed by the crème de la crème of the local art world and catching the right eyes could lead to a job offer. Between her entire exhibition, with the multiple mediums, despite the subject matter that never failed to raise eyebrows, she felt she had a good chance.

She wasn’t too worried if she wasn’t successful, though. For the past year and a half, she had been working on a side project, an online comic book, and it had a strong following, providing her with a regular, and steadily growing, paycheck that she had been carefully stashing away in preparation for the end of the scholarship money.

She stood, letting the seat roll back, and stretched upwards, feeling the tension of being bent over release from her muscles. Jordan, passing by on his way to the art supply cupboard, paused behind her and dug his thumbs into her shoulders. She groaned, sagging in bliss, bracing her hands against the table, and leaning her head to the side to give him access to where the muscles remained tight.

He worked his way down her spine until he held her hips and leaned forward to brush a kiss against her cheek before resting his against it. “Your choice of subject matter always baffles me, but it is amazing what you do with it.”

“Thanks. I think it’s done. If it isn’t, it’s not going to be any more done than it is, because I am done. So done.”

“Ahem,” Bianca cleared her throat from the studio door. Jordan straightened, his hands falling from Aislen’s waist, guiltily. “That’s hardly appropriate Mr. Daniels,” she teasingly scolded him. “You’re lucky it’s me, and not the Dean.”

Jordan laughed. “It’s Saturday night, the Dean’s already half tanked on the golf course,” he replied confidently.

“True that,” Bianca agreed cheerfully. They watched as Aislen carefully packed away her supplies.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to a movie?” Jordan asked Aislen, cupping her cheek with his hand. (And a couple of drinks, and maybe I’ll finally be successful in persuading you to come home with me…)

“Girl’s night,” Aislen said. “Maybe lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he smiled, accepting the demotion from Friday night to Saturday lunch gracefully. “Usual place?”

“Twelve,” she nodded, and put her palm on his chest, lifting up onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “See you then,” she said as she stepped back, just as his hand sought to catch her elbow, hoping to upgrade a cheek kiss to a mouth one.

“Twelve,” he put his hands into his pockets and leaned his hips on the desk, watching as she and Bianca went to the door. She glanced over her shoulder as she stepped over the threshold, meeting his gaze, and his smile brightened.

“Damn, girl,” Bianca linked their arms. “When are you going to give that man a break? Every girl in the school is crushing on that delicious piece of man-flesh, but he’s only had eyes for you from the first day he arrived. You’ve still got him on cheek kisses, back massages, and weekend lunches, when he’s obviously desperate for date nights, drinks, and in-between-the-sheets action.”

Aislen sighed out a breath. “I know,” she said in frustration. “I know that he’s perfect for me. I know that he’s a wonderful person. I admire his art. I admire him, because he’s been patient with me, going at my pace, for eighteen months now, but…” She gestured helplessly and made a sound of disgust with herself in the back of her throat.

It was very simple, really, she thought ruefully. She was trying to force herself to date, to have a relationship, when her heart and mind and soul were still haunted by the Triquetra. Fuck them, she thought darkly. It was unfair that she couldn’t shake their ghosts and live a normal life for a twenty-one-year-old woman, three years later.

They were probably married, she added, as a final kick in the guts to herself. Married, with babies on the way, and seeing each other to fuck behind their wives’ backs. But fuck it, if she wasn’t jealous of those wives, because her fucked up brain thought it better to have some of the Triquetra rather than none.

She needed to go back to therapy, she told herself. She had been so busy with the finals for graduation that she hadn’t gone as frequently as normal, and when the Triquetra began to dominate her thoughts, it was a sign that she was overdue, a reminder that they were toxic for her.

She had started with a grief group, after the loss of her baby, and from there, one of the members had encouraged her to attend a survivors of domestic violence group. She had been skeptical at first, but once she had started going, and hearing the stories of the other men and women, she had realized the similarity between her relationship with the Triquetra, and what they were describing.

The therapy group had given her tools and resources, and a plan on how to move on from the Triquetra, and, slowly over two years, she had been making progress.

She had been doing really well, letting the relationship with Jordan develop into frequent catch-ups and casual physical contact, up until she thought she had seen Rhett in a crowded club a couple weeks before, and suddenly, she was eighteen years old, craving cigarettes, and idly drawing his face in her sketches.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want to fuck him. Every living creature wants to bounce on him,” Bianca continued. “You have to be horny as hell, A. Three years, and not a single fuck – it’s just not good for a girl. Things get rusty.”

For a moment, Aislen thought Bianca spoke about Rhett, and then she pulled herself back to the conversation. Jordan. They were talking about Jordan, she scolded herself. “I have other resources,” Aislen rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I know. I share the room with you,” Bianca replied.

“Like you don’t buzz up your own solutions on a regular basis,” Aislen nudged her with her hip.

“A girl’s got needs, and why rely on men, who more often miss the mark than find it, when I know precisely what to do to get my O?” Bianca didn’t lower her voice as they passed a group of male students playing football on the grass out front of the school, catching their attention and giving them a lascivious wink.

They stopped by the cottage to drop off their bags and collect the bottles of wine that they’d bought ready for the coven gathering that night. Much to Bianca’s delight she had finally passed beyond the circle and into the coven the year before.

The two women were Yin and Yang, Aislen thought sourly. Bianca had been envious of Aislen’s immediate inclusion to the coven and her private sessions with the Priestesses, but whilst Aislen certainly knew all the theory behind what she had been taught in the past three years, she had never progressed beyond her telepathy, and couldn’t even work a simple heating spell to warm her coffee.

Bianca had taken years to gain entry into the coven, but under their tutelage, had quickly mastered the basic skills, and was now considered one of their most promising members. Bianca could not only heat coffee, she could turn it into wine, should the mood take her.

Aislen envied her now, because Bianca belonged with the coven, whereas the last couple of years had made it blatantly clear that, whilst Aislen had benefited from their tutelage and had improved control over her telepathy, they would never make a witch out of her.

On the way to Stella’s house, Aislen fumbled out the cigarettes that she kept in the center console and lit one, blowing the smoke out the window.

“I’ve been thinking about changing my name,” she told Bianca. “When we move to Kabramatta. My therapy group does it all the time, to escape abusive relationships. New name, new start, they say. They can help me to do it legally.”

“Change your name?” Bianca repeated in surprise. “To what?”

“The name I use on my comics,” Aislen explained. “Morgana Ivy. I think I want to ditch Aislen Carter, just leave her behind.”

“I like it. Finish the evolution of Aislen Carter into this fine gothic witch woman, Morgana Ivy,” Bianca lit a cigarette. “Like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.”

“What a weird thing to say,” Aislen snorted and stubbed out her cigarette into the ashtray. “It’s more like, I don’t know,” she grimaced as she pulled into a car park. “It’s more like trying to kill off Aislen Carter,” she decided. “I want her to vanish from the world, and her past along with her.”

Perhaps then, when Aislen Carter was no more, Morgana Ivy would finally recover from her broken heart.