Asylum

Chapter 11: A Venomous Violet

Friday night

I pulled my arms behind me to stretch out my chest and did a quick demi-plié. My first parkour lesson this afternoon had made me call on some long-forgotten muscle groups, and I was developing a strong suspicion that I was going to be quite sore in the morning. Still, I'd agreed to show up at an outdoor practice session tomorrow afternoon; I was both looking forward to and dreading it.

I pressed my hands into my complaining obliques and smoothed the lurid green satin of the leafy Poison Ivy/Tinkerbell dress I'd picked up at the costume shop before my class. I'd decided that I couldn't rob Gotham's favorite son of his tribute two nights in a row, but I was not about to throw money down on a Batgirl costume.

"So what's his name?" Glory demanded as she cracked open the cap of a new bottle of Cointreau for her well.

I hesitated. I finished splitting the second dose of the night's signature drink into three more shot glasses and put one down next to my friend's ice well. Bruno, NeNe, and Dusty had all slammed their samples back with underwhelming displays of gratitude, but none of them had asked for the recipe. I heaved a mental sigh. If Ivan's plan to win the hearts and minds of Asylum's mixologists was going to work, it was obviously going to take more than a single shot.

"The thing is – I'm feeling a little superstitious about the whole relationship right now," I hedged, pushing a dangling tendril of my long red wig back over my shoulder. "Like if I talk about it, it's going to ruin it somehow. That's why I didn't tell you about him before; I just don't want to jinx it, you know?"

I knew Glory would know – I had never seen my fellow bartender without her tinkling silver charm bracelet, which featured a four-leaf clover, a tiny horseshoe, a scrollwork number 7, a wishbone, a Lover's Lock, a money tree, a magical eye amulet, and a couple other mystical symbols that I didn't recognize and was frankly scared to ask about. Plus I'd seen the woman making wishes under her breath before blowing fallen mascara-caked eyelashes off her fingers. If anyone would accept an I-don't-want-to-jinx-it excuse, it was the superstitious Amy Winehouse clone stationed next to me.

But this didn't stop Glory from being obviously disappointed by my shared sense of cosmic caution. "Alright, alright," she conceded. "I get not wanting to curse a new thing." She pushed a clean speed pourer into the bottle and racked it in her well. "But can't you give me just a little something? Some tiny little raunchy detail to tide me over?"

I wracked my brain. I realized with a start that I felt very protective of Ivan. But I had to give my friend something. Something not raunchy.

"I want to tell him things that I've never told another living soul," I said finally.

Glory looked at me sharply, but saw that my emerald-lined, jade-lidded eyes were completely sincere. She thrust her scoop into her freshly filled ice well and picked up the dark purple shot that I had poured for her.

"Well," she said, holding the tiny glass up in a dramatic toast. "Here's to baring your soul, and hoping it's to Mr Right," she said, and tossed the drink down her throat. "Mmm, nice," she pronounced, "but why is it called a Venomous Violet?"