“This sounds like how people become victims of sketchy internet-based crimes on Dateline,” Cordelia replied.
He snorted, but didn’t disagree.
She added, “Well, thank you, I suppose, for taking the time.”
“Eh, I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to drive on the wrong side of the road. Unless you’d like to drive?” Brendan asked.
“Oh, no, I don’t have a license,” Cordelia said.
He turned to her, mouth agape. “I thought everybody in America had their own cars.”
“My teenage years were what you might call ‘unconventional,’” Cordelia said.
Cordelia relaxed into her seat, preparing herself for the moment that her shield slipped and this man’s feelings and thoughts flitted into her brain like unwelcome AM radio signals. While her gift was primarily touch-based, she could get flashes when she was enclosed in a confined space like this with someone. It was what had made the plane ride so uncomfortable, knowing that she could pick up someone’s memories like a germ. The stronger the memory, whether it was picked up by touch or proximity, the longer it would stay with her—bubbling up in her own thoughts or as nightmares, waking her up screaming in the middle of the night. But now, she was just getting a blank sort of white noise, which wasn’t…unpleasant.
Outside the van windows, the buildings became fewer and farther between. The marshy landscape gave way to the wildness that had only been hinted at in the city. This should have made her uncomfortable. For all her travels, she’d never been this deep into the Louisiana swamp before, and with her talent, the unknown could be very uncomfortable. So instead, she focused on the stranger at her side, who seemed to make the unknown a more appealing puzzle.
Curious, she watched his sharp profile as she slowly reached behind their seats. It wouldn’t do for him to see her do what most people would consider a singular act of weirdness and intrusion. But one never really forgot sleight of hand, particularly when it was taught by Melvin the Magnificent himself.
Without him realizing she’d even shifted in her seat, she tapped her hand against his bag. Just two quick taps, just enough to form a fleeting connection and check it for “attachments.” But besides the agony of a baggage handler at Dublin Airport with a herniated disc, she felt nothing. She dropped her shield a bit more, opening herself up to the gut-deep despair a TSA agent felt while rifling through Brendan’s socks at Newark, wondering if this was what he was going to be doing for the rest of his life, if this was why he’d spent years acquiring a doctorate in philosophy. She could taste that poor TSA agent’s desolation like she could taste the stale vending machine burrito he’d had for lunch that afternoon. But still, nothing from the Irish driver himself.
She stared at him as they sped down the highway, her arm drifting across the center console. Even as her hand moved, she knew she was breaking one of her own cardinal rules, rules she’d established as a pre-teen to protect her tender mind from all manner of nastiness she wasn’t ready to process. She did not touch people without her gloves, particularly people she didn’t know well. The potential for seeing something that could never be unseen was just too much. And yet, here she was, her bare fingers millimeters away from the forearm bared when he’d rolled up his sleeve. For the first time in years, she wanted a connection, more than she’d ever wanted chocolate or maybe even oxygen.
He glanced at her, dark brows winging up, as her fingers closed around his arm. “What are you doing?”
She closed her eyes, expecting to be overwhelmed with psychic debris—feelings and memories like song lyrics she’d likely never get out of her head. But all she felt was cool, smooth flesh under her warm fingertips. She wasn’t even sure she felt a pulse. His eyes went wide, a combination of surprise and dread crashing through the blue irises.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was touching someone and sensing absolutely nothing from them. Her mouth dropped open as he pulled his arm away.
“What are you?” Cordelia asked.
“You don’t think that’s a bit rude?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the steering wheel. “I’m driving here! On unfamiliar roads! You don’t just grab on to someone when they’re driving, especially not when they’re driving in a foreign bloody country! Did ya think I needed the extra challenge?”
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, laughing in shock. “But I don’t feel anything from you.”
“You barely bloody know me. You didn’t even introduce yourself, how are you supposed to feel anything for me?” Brendan demanded.
She laughed again and then, coughed over it to cover it. “No, I mean I don’t—I can touch you.”
“Well, it’s not that I find you repulsive, mind, but I think I get a say in that,” Brendan said.
She shook her head. “Yes, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m being so rude. It’s just, I haven’t—It’s been a very long time since…”
“You don’t get out much, do you?” Brendan asked.
“No, I don’t.” She sank back into her seat, her face flushing red. “And you didn’t introduce yourself, either, by the way.”
He frowned. “I didn’t. You’re right. I’m being rude. Jetlag’s gotten to me, I think. Brendan O’Connor.”
“Cordelia Canton,” Cordelia said.
“That’s charmingly alliterative,” he murmured, returning his attention to the road. Again, he failed to offer her his hand, which was fine with her.
She stared out the window, wishing she was outside, drowning under the rippling bayou waters. Maybe inside an alligator’s belly. She used to know how to…people. She’d been considered charismatic, charming, even. But now, she was going to have to concentrate on not being a maladjusted weirdo 24/7 just to function in what promised to be a very small town.
What was it that Bernadette used to say about small towns, she mused. Small towns, smaller minds.
Sure, Mystic Bayou was supposed to be chock-full of shifters and fairies and all manner of magique, as the supernatural creatures called themselves, but psychics were a different thing altogether. Being able to see what other people couldn’t made those people uncomfortable, even if they were accustomed to the strange and unusual. Everybody assumed Cordelia was intentionally looking for images of them naked or their banking information—just another reason she spent so much time alone.
No, she’d spent too much time trying to forget Bernadette’s teachings. She wouldn’t try to be Miss Congeniality of Mystic Bayou, but she would be fine. This episode of grabbing Brendan’s arm was just a stumbling first step in a successful journey ending in professional success and painless social interactions.
“What in the world?” She glanced up as Brendan slowed the van to a crawl. Children were frolicking down the sidewalk in cheerful homemade Halloween costumes—ghosts and witches and fairies. Each carried a bag heavy with treats towards the town square, followed by indulgent, smiling parents.
They passed a number of cement block businesses, most of which seemed to be owned and operated by a family named Boone—the local bank, a boat dealership, the grocery store, the beauty salon, the hardware store, and a cafe marked “Bathtilda’s Pie Shop, Home of the World’s Best Chocolate Rhubarb Pie.” Those buildings, and the rare businesses that didn’t seem to be owned by Boones, were freshly painted, sparkling clean, and decorated with carved pumpkins and all manner of autumn-themed decorations. Mystic Bayou appeared to be a town on the rise.