2019-11-16 - The Doors Are Open

For a young woman constantly busy with writing a major academic paper and dozens of other side-projects, Isabella Reede has somehow managed to keep to her newly-established last call tradition with Easton. Almost every day, she is at the Two If By Sea just before it closes, having a drink or several with her favorite bartender and spectating on numerous bad decisions. It is getting colder, and most of the tourists are gone, but the bar has always been great in housing the local color within its confines during the last hours of the day, or the earliest hours of the next.

Tonight, there is a thunderstorm in the distance, the rolling sound of it booming through dark, barely-visible clouds highlighted occasionally by iridescent forks that slash unforgivingly through the eternal blackness of it. Rain has yet to fall, but it is coming, scented unmistakably in the air as windows rattle at the force of the winds outside. The archaeologist is already there, thankfully, before inclement weather becomes even more volatile and insistent, setting her bag aside and smiling brightly whenever the ex-marine manages to pull away from his customers to gravitate over her direction. She's dressed in her usual, albeit warmer than how she looks over the summer - a long-sleeved shirt wrought from lace is pulled over a tanktop, jeans and boots. Her leather jacket is tossed at the back of her chair, as well as a scarf. Long dark hair has been bound haphazardly by a clip, streamers of it spilling from the top and framing her face.

He's heard about the soup and in spite of its origins, she looks hale and healthy - there is no sign of her face or body melting after having ingested it.

"Hey E," she greets once he's within earshot. Faint concern plays over the delicate lines of her face. "How's everything?" She hasn't heard anything else about the state of his relationship with Bennie, so it could go either way.

Closing out his shifts with Isabella has be come a favorite tradition and a nice thing to look forward to on both slow and busy nights. She's not the only late night customer to filter in on the regular and Easton doesn't mind others hanging out during their technically past last call conversations so long as they don't get all needy. One of the many perks of owning the place is that he gets to be a little more relaxed with any of the rules he chooses to ignore.

Tonight he's dressed as ever in his black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, rolled up at the arms over faded jeans and boots. He manages to pull himself away from listening to the same exact story for the thirtieth time from a local, thankful that he has an excuse to make his way down the bar. "Hot scotch!" He calls out loudly, something most of the staff has come to expect but still makes some patrons jump a bit. The bottle of scotch is plucked from the lineup without even having to look and two glasses are set down in front of Isabella. There have been more than a few nights that Easton's been a little worse for the wear by the end of his shift, still keeping it together but a little more inebriated than usual. Tonight is apparently not one of those nights as he looks clear eyed, but a little worn down. Also a trend as of late has been him leaving here after close to continue the drinking somewhere else, The Pourhouse or anywhere open later than his place.

"I'm good." He has studiously avoided questions about Bennie in most of these talks, platitudes about getting better or taking time in place of any actual real talk. "Still can't believe you just down the veil soup." Not that he would really hesitate to do so himself, except maybe now that Tobin's warned him off a bit. Maybe.

"What, no t-shirts today?" Isabella grins faintly and appreciatively. Easton's always been a handsome man, so the smallest changes to his manner of dress tend to have a profound effect - Alexander is very much the same way. "Looking good, E." There's a faint frown at the glimpse of his obvious fatigue, nudging her tumbler forward for her first two fingers of scotch. "If not a little tired." It's a prompt, for him to go into detail should he choose, but otherwise she doesn't pry any harder. Still, she looks concerned.

Once her glass is filled, she takes a quiet pull of the liquid gold within, green eyes watching the play of expression on his features, though mention of the Veil soup has her smile returning visibly. "Not proud of it," she tells him. "But I was testing a theory. I've heard of things changing when they shift from one place to another, and that effects from those objects are temporary. I'm just gathering data." And so far, she's collected quite a few - a missing artifact, the Veil flu, her illiteracy curse after reading a tome in the Archivist's office, and now these packets of chicken soup that tastes like Lipton's from the Vivisectionist, whoever that is. "If the soup did have ill effects, chances are they'd probably be temporary also, by pattern I've observed anyway. If something does happen, then at least we know - occasionally I don't mind being a guinea pig. Normally I'd advise against it, given different lore from all over - faerie circles, Persephone and her pomegranates, things like that. But those always had the visitor ingesting the item while in the other realm. The hold might be weaker if you eat the thing here on this side."

She's an explorer, and a researcher. Honestly she probably couldn't help herself - she needed to know.

"Anyway like I told you in texts, at least nobody has to be subjected to me crying about a nasty injury over my..." She gestures across her chest, making a face. "I can't believe those things licked me there."

The comment about being a little tired draws a half shrug from Easton as he pours himself a scotch. "Sleeps been... tough." He looks down at the glass contemplating either the drink or expounding on that statement for a few moments. He finally picks it up and admits, "Bennie's picking up a lot of shifts." Which sounds better than I think my girlfriend is actively avoiding me. "I've been crashing Geoff's a few nights.." He doesn't make any eye contact with her there, just sips his drink and adds, "But he's seeing someone so I'm trying not to fuck that up." The 'too' is only added in his mind, but there's probably enough of a tone for her to pick up on it.

Thankfully she distracts him from his maudlin routine to talk about her experiment. He smirks and says, "It sounds way better to say 'testing a theory' versus saying 'fuck it', doesn't it?" He laughs at the difference between why she drank the soup and why he probably will. He then blinks and says, "Seriously, does everyone know about the pomegranate thing? I feel like this is suddenly common knowledge and I'm missing out." Granted he was too busy chasing girls or drinking at any phase where Greek mythology might have been brought up in his academic career to notice.

He looks down at her chest when she gestures and then laughs, "There are worse places for a burning acid lick." He pulls a face as he imagines some himself. "Not that any sound terribly pleasant."

Bennie's picking up a lot of shifts.

She nudges more liquor in his direction, because she's nothing if not an enabler, especially when it comes to the more personal arenas where it's a tried and true lubricant for things that would have some difficulty coming out, and while he drinks it, Isabella addresses the other things first. There's a laugh when Easton clearly calls her on her impulsive nature and points a finger at him. "Look, I'm supposed to be the professional scholar, okay? What do you think it's going to do to my credibility if I just said 'because I don't know how to cook worth a damn and it was a quick dinner, just add hot water'?" She has so many reasons. So many.

The sound of his laugh triggers the blazing transmutation of that laugh into a grin that cuts through his bar's low-lighting. "Well, I mean, now you know, right? Better late than never, plus it's not exactly the kind of knowledge that you think would actually have any practical applications in the real world unless you're a contestant in Jeopardy or something similar." Worse places, indeed - that draws out another laugh. "First of all, ew," she says. "Second of all, I definitely have nothing to say to that, because it's true. And now I'm visualizing a gigantic germ-blob licking me in the eye and God only knows what sort of damage that would do, so thanks a lot." A quick wink dispensed over her short glass, before another sip of her scotch is taken.

It's only then that she sobers, her expression softening visibly under the play of shadows and light over it. "I'm sorry, about the continuing difficulties," she tells him quietly. "Human entanglements are messy by nature, but just because it's an immutable universal truth doesn't mean that it doesn't suck when it gets even moreso. Are the two of you talking, at least?" The aside regarding Geoff puts a flicker of surprise across those green-gold irises. "I was really surprised to hear that he and Erin were just suddenly over one day," she confesses, folding her arms on the countertop. "But I'm glad he's moving forward." She chews on her bottom lip. "You know, if you need a place to stay, my family's home's empty right now. Daddy's not coming back until after Thanksgiving and it's got several rooms. I need to go back and..." Clean my mother's blood out of the bathroom. "...get it ready, but you're welcome to stay there if you need another place to crash that isn't too far away from here. It's right on Bayside."

A dimple creases his cheek as she nudges the liquor towards him. It's one of the reasons that this has become a regular occurrence, he doesn't feel like he has to hide how much he's drinking from her. "You can call it what you want but eating a bowl of soup sent by a creature from beyond the veil is my favorite kind of ridiculous." He likes a good amount of leap before you look. "And yes, in my mind it's you just staring at the box, starving and shrugging, Ahhh fuck it." He laughs again at the mental picture of not a composed Isabella taking notes and making calculated decisions but a bedraggled, hungry and a little drunk Isabella grabbing the box and hoping for the best.

"Ugh, the eye?!" Easton makes a big grimace, showing all his teeth as he imagines that. "I was thinking the taint, but yea, eye is rugged too." He then lifts a leg and says, "But imagines having to keep that wound clear?" He mimes and awkward bowlegged walk for a bit. Glad to have something ridiculous to talk about for at least a minute.

"We're talking." He admits and then adds, "And more, but.." He considers the glass again and picks it up to hold while he adds details, "She's still fuckin' terrified of me. She jumps or flinches. We.." He looks around the bar a bit more, making sure for once that his voice isn't carrying through the entire place. "She handcuffs me before we fuck. I can pretend it's this hot game we're playing but, that's starting to just get a little sad." He doesn't wait for her reaction to that admission. The only other person he's actually told that to is Geoff. And he's glad to get back to that topic. "Yea, Erin freaked at some point. I think she regretted it but Geoff was just done." He shakes his head and says, "Honestly, maybe that's better." The moving on that is. Except he doesn't sound convinced of that at all, more like he's trying to talk himself into it.

Easton looks at her a little confused at first when she offers him her family's place. "Oh. Thanks. But, that's not why.." He finishes his glass before he admits, in a hurried, almost embarassed tone, "I fuckin' hate sleeping alone. I crash at Geoff's just to have someone nearby. I haven't slept right otherwise since I've been back." He knows it sounds childish, like he's afraid of being alone, but it's not that. Afraid isn't the right word for it, or at least not enough of one. "But thanks for the offer."

Some people cope in different ways, and considering her own mechanisms with dealing, Isabella is definitely not one to judge. The dimple earns him an answering grin, the young woman shifting so she could cup her chin on one hand as she regards him from her side of the bar. "She was female. Or at least female sounding. Before we received them, we were at a Safeway while she was providing helpful commentary over the PA system. Once I figure out how to get correspondence sent to her from the other side, I'm thinking of maybe stopping by to visit. She mentioned other experiments, so I'm curious as to what other tests those beyond the Veil are performing out here. Not exactly a fan of feeling like a lab rat, like you said in your texts." A sentiment she shares. "But if they're being so friendly, I figure it wouldn't hurt to ask some questions and do some exploring."

Is she daunted by the fact that she's called the Vivisectionist? Probably, anyone who ventures into the Veil without fear is a fool and considering her own experiences with the place, she has more cause to be afraid than most, but that has never stopped her from moving forward anyway. She braves the perils of the ocean for a living.

The taint, he says, and the brunette laughs again because she knows, her enjoyment of that line of conversation heightened by his pantomime of that kind of accident. "That would be so awkward," she admits. "And a pain in the ass to try and get around with, definitely."

The details surface, eventually, and while there's a hopeful spark that crawls over her lightly-tanned features at the fact that they're talking and more, how the more actually occurs is set upon by a visible wince. Still, there's a strange degree of sympathy there, and somewhat indescribable, but for different reasons entirely. She pushes thoughts of Alexander out of the way, drinking another shot before continuing, "You're a good guy to endure it for the sake of her comfort and peace of mind, but that's definitely...you know. The Time thing, and the trust thing." She doesn't extrapolate because she's certain that Easton has figured that out himself. "Have you had Magnolia peek into your head at all yet? I know this is trauma we're talking about and sometimes no amount of logic or knowledge can overcome that easily." She knows. "But it could help."

The admission that he hates sleeping alone only softens her face further. "No judgment," she promises, drawing a cross over her heart with a pinky finger. "And I won't say anything to anyone. Not gonna lie, though? Kind of adorable." She takes another swallow of her shot. "In all seriousness, though, I'm glad that you're doing what you have to. We're only human, you know? Stubborn people like us tend to just...go and go and go until it gets too much, and something cracks, so anything that alleviates the pressure, we ought to do more of. Even if it's barging in on a friend to use his couch for a while."

"I mean what could possibly go wrong with a helpful friendly veil creature who experiments on people and sends magical soup, right?" Easton grins and refills the glasses, though he's not actively trying to talk her out of the plan. "I mean really why not? It's not like we sought her out in the first place, and we still all ended up with magic cholera anyway. Might as well go for a little chat."

One more laugh about an injured taint fades away into a rueful smile as the topic shifts back. He shrugs at being called a good guy and looks skeptical, "Doesn't really feel like that. I feel like an ass who won't admit that it's just fucking her up more to try and hang on." He takes a sip, just a sip of the whiskey and lets that sit on his tongue for a moment as he closes his eyes and then swallows. "Yea. Mags gave me the all clear. I haven't told Bennie yet. It's good news but I also don't want her to feel like I expect that to be the end of that. I get that she needs time and space and I'm the last damn person who gets to say when it's enough." He sets the drink down and tells it, instead of her, "I just hope there is an enough. Somewhere."

And then she calls him 'adorable' and he can't help but grin. "Damn straight it's adorable." Pity would have pissed him off as would mockery, but her calling it cute. Fine. That's funny. And then she's talking about them being stubborn and he shakes his head and says, "Which, enough about me. How are you and Alexander doing? How's your thesis?"

"Plenty. That doesn't mean it's not worth pursuing." Isabella winks at Easton from over her tumbler before draining it and nudging it closer to the bartender for a refill.

The skepticism is noted, and honestly, warranted in this instance though she can't help but sigh. "That's good, on the all clear. I wish I had good advice to give you," she tells him ruefully. "But this is a tricky situation and I don't want to end up saying something that'd make things worse, but you're trying to fix it the best you can and I think in the end, that's all you can do, and hopefully that's enough." Hopefully. But human relationships are messy and difficult, and not everything ends happily - despite her lack of experience in matters such as these, she is extremely aware of it. "I'm rooting for you and her, though, E. I am." Her words carry the clear genuine note of sincerity there - miraculous enough in itself that the last several months haven't managed to make too much of a monstrous dent on certain degrees of optimism that she holds.

His grin pulls out another laugh from her, there, returning it with a flash of teeth. The questions turned around on her, as they tend to do, the cutting brightness of her smile is softened by affection, and some apprehension. "We're doing fine. I'm at around seventy-thousand words out of the eighty-thousand I have to write for the damn thing. Gives me time to revise it before I have to defend it in Oxford. For three hours, E. Whoever came up with that system is a sadist. Alexander's getting more and more paying work, lately, and risking himself by diving into trouble as per usual, but being courageous when it matters is part of his appeal, so that's all just ineffectual grousing on my part because I worry. He..." There's a pause, and there's a helpless look cast his way. "He invited me to his family Thanksgiving. To meet his parents. And before you ask, no. I'm not freaking out."

Pause.

"...alright, maybe a little," she confesses. And it must be around confessional time because she adds, "I bought a book, because I've never been in this position before and I'm not quite sure whether to be exasperated at the idea that people will market every social problem under the sun and the publishing industry will happily put it out there, or that clueless idiots like me actually buy them. I mean...look at this. Look." She rifles through her satchel, and thumps it on the counter, the incredibly incriminating title bared to the light:

THE MODERN LADY'S GUIDE TO MEETING HIS PARENTS

"I spent money on this, Easton!"

Pouring her another drink, Easton nods at the gentle support and coaching. He grunts in an agreement that he also hopes it's enough but I'm rooting for you and her gets a sideways look and smile, "Me fuckin too Iz." He doesn't say anymore on the topic but gives her tight smile of appreciation at the supportive ear and voice. As Tom once told him, he loves to talk, but hates to say anything meaningful so it's rare that he opens up to people, even if he never shuts up.

He laughs at her comments about defending the thesis. "Yea that just sounds terrible. Can you bring shots for the judges?" Yes, he knows they aren't called judges but it's kind of funnier that way. "Every time you mention some long dead ruler they have to take a shot?" Oxford probably frowns on turning thesis defense sessions into drinking games, but it's worth a shot.

He invited me to family Thanksgiving

Easton's mouth falls a little even as his eyebrows raise. That's unexpected.

To meet his parents.

His eyebrows hitch even higher.

He doesn't quite recover from that unexpected turn of events before she's pulling out a book. "You bought a book..?" As if the concept is so foreign to him that he needs to confirm the order of those words. And then he reads the actual title of said book and makes the best Chris Pratt surprised / excited face up at her. He snatches it up like it treasure before looking down at it and back up at her as if to confirm this is actually happening.

"You bought a book about how to meet someone's parents?! Iz!" He can't even get the rest out because he's laughing too hard. He flips it over to start reading the synopsis outloud but but only gets six words in before dissolving into laughter and placing the book against his face. He holds it in both hands and lets it fall from his face to tell her, "This is my favorite thing. Ever."

Yes. This is actually happening.

Honestly, she can't believe she's actually telling someone this willingly. But Easton is her bartender, and Isabella, unlike other people she knows, is not a practicing Catholic, or a member of any religious denomination that supports the idea that one ought to cleanse herself of her sins at a regular basis. This last call tradition with the ex-marine is the closest she ever gets, the man is practically her priest, if not just because scotch has a way of greasing the squeaky wheels of her usual reticence to confide in anyone. Not that she hasn't already told others about the impending visit to the Clayton household. She's already told Lilith, for instance, and August. But neither of them know about the book.

And true to her reckless and ridiculous ways, she ends up deciding to tell the best and worst person.

As Easton nearly kills himself himself laughing, she looks absolutely mortified because this is definitely a mistakes were made moment, but considering how his pleasant laughter fills the darkened bar, she can't even find any room inside her to be mad. She told him. She opened the door! And to see him let loose after a trying few weeks is worth it; that, and his laughter is infectious, though she tries to make a dramatic show of being indignant. "Look, I've never been in this position before, okay?! I'm going into a delicate operation and it required a certain degree of homework to...to....oh my god, WHY ARE YOU READING IT OUT LOUD?!" She attempts to snatch it back, cheeks actually growing red, but she's laughing so the book just ends up plopping back on the counter. "Nevermind, I don't even care! Go ahead, wash me in your judgment!" she exclaims as she grabs the book and stuffs it back in her satchel, and even looks around just to make sure nobody saw it.

When the mirthsome fit finally subsides, she breathes. "Why do I even tell you these things when I know this would happen," she wheezes, wiping her eyes.

Well obviously it's a good night to tell each other slightly mortifying personal details that aren't being spoken in mixed company. Thankfully by now the bar has well and truly emptied out, mostly because Easton has willfully ignored even the most stubborn attempts at squeezing out one last drink. The regulars accept that though they might sometimes get away with another pint, it's a fickle thing, and tonight Easton is more interested in chatting with a friend than keeping customers happy after closing.

He is not kind in his laughter, far too surprised and delighted by the fact that her first instinct in this situation was to buy a book about such a very specific topic that he would have lost money in betting against its existence. He does make an effort to hold it back but there are actual tears welling in his eyes when she gets to the part about it being a delicate operation. He lets the book fall to the counter and his head goes back in another peel of laughter. "God, I haven't had to meet a girl's parents in so long, unless you count that one super awkward one night stand where she was home from college?"

He manages to compose himself long enough to shake his head and offer some genuine bartender advice. "You dress modest, but not frumpy. You bring a nice but not too expensive gift for your hostess, maybe a bottle of wine if they aren't alcoholics. You laugh at their stories and ask for endearing memories of their son. You tell a few deprecating stories that are short and witty, like maybe how you once bought a book on how to meet your boyfriend's parents and that's that." Yes, he makes it sound easy. Because he was nothing if not charming to girl's parents when called for when he was younger. He punctuates that with one more look at the book and then raised eyebrows at her before picking up his glass to take another drink, still smiling and very, very grateful for the distraction.

She doesn't mind. They're both laughing, and honestly, with all the talk from Margaret Addington regarding lights getting snuffed out, they need moments like these more than ever, and Isabella has never not had a good time hanging out with Easton, not to mention his unique status in her life at being one of the very few people in which she can actually tell stories like these. Especially when they're even remotely connected to Alexander.

"Oh god, tell me they walked in on you while you were pulling up your pants," she remarks gamely with another laugh, and draining the rest of her glass, so he can top her off with a couple more shots of scotch. "Like, those precious few seconds before you embarked on the walk of shame. I think the only way any story like that would be even better is if the parents actually walked in the middle of it, and if you replaced 'girl' with 'plushie walrus'." If he flashes her a look, she laughs and lifts her hands. "And before you even think it, no, I'm not speaking from personal experience and I heard that story on campus across the pond. I don't even know if it's true or if it's some weird urban legend."

He summarizes the forty-page treatise in her bag in the affable way Easton does most things, though when he gets to the part about self-deprecating stories, she gasps in exaggerated outrage and wings a wadded paper napkin at him. "I will destroy you if you tell anyone about this," she mock-threatens, though laughter continues to glimmer luminously over her expressive face.

With the book packed away, she sighs. "I got them a thing for it, it's not too expensive and it's festive, so hopefully they'll like it. I thought about sending it to them by mail straight from August's shop so they could enjoy it for the entire Autumn, but I figured I should probably just deliver it in person." Her eyes lift. "Speaking of mail, though. Did you get a Mission Impossible-style invitation lately? Self-destructs in five seconds after reading?"

"No, oh no." Easton clarifies, "I met them first." He laughs at the situation. "Like walking in drunk, pulling off clothes and there's mom and dad. But did I abort the mission? No. No I did not. I put my best damn charming self forward, made some small talk and then went and railed their daughter. You don't just back down when things get tough." He gives his best Marine war story voice over effect for that narrative to properly put it in perspective. He laughs at her version and asks, "You heard about me all the way over in England?" He then bursts out in laughter again and says, "Not really, but holy shit that's tempting to steal as my own story." He repeats for emphasis, "Plushie. Walrus." Shaking his head he admits, "I can not top that."

"I don't know it might be worth getting destroyed if I can deploy this at the right time." He lets that threat hang in the air as she packs away the book. But then she's turning the conversation to talk of the invites and he groans, "Yea. Byron mentioned others got them.. I was honestly planning on just ignoring it. I've had something trying to fuck with me for a while, I figured this was just phase two."

"I didn't know that," Isabella says with a frown. "About something fucking with you for a while. Need any help with anything?"

She grunts softly at the mention of the invitation and the prospect of ignoring it. "Apparently we don't have a choice, so we'll see if that's actually true, I suppose." She attempts to quell a shiver rolling down her spine. "I think August got one. So did Alexander and Lilith. I don't know who else has, but you, Ronnie and me count for at least six. There'll probably be more, so I think if the message isn't exaggerating at all? Best case scenario, none of us gets into it alone." She makes a face. "Already had a special encounter during Halloween and apparently the perpetrator is sticking around, according to Alexander, and that's probably the only reason why I got something like this to begin with. You know me, unless I'm forced to, I don't really..." She wiggles her fingers. "But over the festival, it was..."

She feels it, then, the ice-cold wash of the memory spilling down her back and she shies away from it by taking another solid swallow of her scotch. "Hey, I have a question for you, speaking of phase two. The Key, have you had it read yet? Because I saw something a week ago. It could be nothing, it could be related, but I figured I'd tell you so you wouldn't be blindsided in case that it is."

"I think it passed. Something was sending me copies of the death notification letters I had to write for my men's families. They would come in and then as soon as I read them and set them down they'd disappear. So this isn't my first go round with the self-destructing mail fuckery trick." He smirks at the list and repeats what he told Byron, "It's weird but I'm kind of glad to know who else might get pulled into this. It really helps having people I trust in this." He gets his concern face on when she mentions the attack and he asks, "The perpetrator? Was it something magic? Or just someone who needs to get knee-capped in a dark alley somewhere?" He sounds very serious about the possibility of knee-capping someone if it's of the more mundane variety.

"Right. The key. Cap is going to take a look at it for me tomorrow night I think." His head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow, this time in interest not concern, "What did you see?"

"Jesus, E. That sounds....really fucked," Isabella says, frowning visibly when he mentions the death notification letters. "And yeah, I agree, now let's hope that it happens as a group and not just...solo. Dreams are more survivable in packs." She takes another shot of her scotch and watches emotion play on the bartender's face, though she says little else about the rest up until the look of concern enters it. The frown lingers as she glances down on her glass.

"It's all fuzzy, but my pendant went missing after that City Hall meeting," she tells him. "Somehow it ended up in the Church. Alexander seems to think I was baited there deliberately, and then I remember someone grabbing my wrist and everything going hazy once I finally found it. And then before I knew it, I was waking up in my own bed, with Alexander, Byron and Tobin looking a little stressed out. Apparently they had to pull me out of my own brain, or make it so that I could climb out on my own. But apparently they found me in St. Mary's strung up in some kind of wire-web and apparently...the Captain shot the guy who started it. And Alexander..." Concern filters over her expression. "Talked to him. While he was carrying me back to my residence. Whoever he is, Alexander seems to think that he's working for...Them."

There's a bit of a nod when Easton says that the Key's going to get read. "Keep me posted? I...it was during a meeting of the Paranormal Society. Some guy came crashing in looking for Minerva, screaming about wanting to be sent back, because he was safe there, and that we're all in danger because we're food. He mentioned that Alice and Megan forced him to not just open the Door, but forced him to open other Doors and that there are more running around now. I think wherever this Asylum is? Just had a massive exodus of its inmates, if what he's saying is true."

Her expression tightens. "I think when he means 'Alice' he means Alice Whitehouse. Alexander went to the house her sister and her boyfriend shared a couple of weeks back and he had a bunch of nightmares dumped in his brain when he tried to investigate. And this Megan? Apparently she's a strong reader and she was part of the troupe of actors that showed up a few months back, the ones that wanted to sacrifice people to Them. I don't know if it's related to your Key, but you're the only other person I know who's actually really closely connected to this Asylum business. I thought you should know."

At least now that it's over Easton feels like he can talk about it some more. "It culminated in me and Thorne fighting alongside my men before they turned into zombies to try and drag me to hell or something, so that was super fucking fun." He does add, "But I think that weirdly helped me and Byron sort out some of our past shit? He still owes me a good couple punches to the face for what a little prick I was to him, but did just fine for getting dropped into the middle of combat when we were just working out at the gym."

The story about her pendant and the church gets his lip to draw back in a half snarl, "Yea, that's also really fucked. Not that we're competing, but you win." He loudly proclaims "Good" at the news that Ruiz shot whoever it was.

he's working for ...Them

"Interesting. I have a theory." Easton takes a small sip of scotch before he explains, "I feel like I could tell. I know that sounds weird but it's like with glimmer I get this gut reaction, I know it's visual or audible for others. But for me it's this thing in my chest that just is, and the other day I had this feeling. It wasn't just glimmer, or whatever, it was more. Like I knew something was up with this lady. I knew she was going to fuck with people. But then I managed to convince myself it was all in my head. But thinking back about those theater types? And now this guy? I bet it's not."

The information about the asylum residents and all the doors and the flood of residents just gets a low whistle. "Well shit. That's probably not great.." he takes a big drink of whiskey now, as if that will help him wrap his head around all that. "Fuck." Nope, it didnt' help. Maybe another. "Thanks, for letting me know. Someone should track down Hailey whatshertits and ask her about it? Seems like if residents are popping out she might be at risk? Or at least want to know?"

"Holy shit, Easton." Because there are no other fitting words to describe that experience, Isabella making a face and glowering down at her scotch. "I mean, I'm glad there was a silver lining, and I suppose if you had such a fraught relationship with Byron, it would explain why he was in your Dream. He did mention the two of you getting pulled in together at one point, but not the details. Just that the Dream was largely yours." Her eyes lift to meet his. "And I've been on a bridge with you." What she terms a sanitized mental link, scoured as much as they could off their memories and experiences unless they choose for them to be revealed; the first time she had realized that Easton's internal life was vastly different from his external one.

"There's no competition when it comes to that stuff, and I'm super competitive so that's saying something," she continues, dryly. "Everyone loses when that kind of hell is unleashed on another. It happened during a wedding, E. August knew the bride and groom, apparently." She pauses, however, to listen to the man's theory. "Wait so you mean you can actually..." Her brows draw down thinking about it. "What were you doing when you came in contact with this lady? When did this happen?" Tell me the story, please, her face seems to say.

She takes a more solid swallow of her scotch, her fingers tapping quickly against the glass, her expression thoughtful now. "Alexander's going to talk to her later, if not sooner," she says. "He has more of a relationship with her, given she treated him in the past and that was how he found out that she used to work there. But this latest thing? She knows. I saw her at the meeting, with that Gazette editor with the dimples. She left soon after that entire debacle."

A small smile crosses Easton's face as she mentions what Thorne had to say about the Dream. He appreciates that Byron didn't feel the need to say anything. Again, it went a long way towards helping them reconcile at least some. At the mention of the bridge Easton lets out a breath, "Yea. And that's partially why I can tell you shit Iz. I don't ... You know." That's not a very clear statement but she probably at least has the gist of what he's trying to say in that he doesn't feel the need to put up a whole front for her, not when she knows more about him than most.

"It's not much of a story. Some lady at Safeway twigged me the wrong way and I ..." He hesitates here before admitting, "I knew if I used a countersign that she'd have to answer it. Like if I whistled, she'd whistle. I know that probably makes no sense to you and I didn't do it. I followed her to her car and then thought I was turning into a crazy stalker so I left the woman to drive off. But it's weird. I'm pretty sure now in retrospect that's what it was."

He grunts, "Good. Much as I don't want her surprised, I'd rather not be the one to reach out." He quirks his head and says, "The one with the great ass and the ridiculous pipes?" Kevin? Is what he's asking there.

"Yeah. I know." Isabella smiles at him warmly with a wave of her hand - indicative that he doesn't have to extrapolate for her to understand it. "You can trust me. Between you and me, though? As surprising as all of that was, it's really impressive, too. You have the most organized, meticulous bridge I've ever seen...and I spent over half my life psychically bonded to someone since from the time I can remember."

She pays close, rapt attention of Easton's account at a Safeway, narrowing her eyes faintly. "Do you remember what she was driving or what she looks like? I mean, it probably sounds paranoid and it could be nothing, but I trust your instincts, E. And I've seen you work in your head, you're a bloodhound when given the reason."

There's a bit of a nod, at what Easton says about Hailey Stevenson. "I don't think anyone who knows a little bit about your history with your uncle would blame you in the slightest," she murmurs thoughtfully. "But no, not him - I think I know who you're talking about and he's an investigative reporter. This guy was the editor who was covering the rest of his beat when they all succumbed to the flu. Harvey. I only got a first name, though I'm sure I could pull a last name from the Gazette's website since I know his position in the paper. They were together in the hospital, all flirty, when I was admitted there last. And then I saw them together again in the meeting, also."

"I do." Trust her, Easton means as he answers quietly. He looks at first confused when she starts talking about his mind space, he has no frame of reference to compare it to and certainly hasn't done anything specific to cultivate it. But then he breaks into a grin and nods, "Damn straight it is." because even if he doesn't understand it, he'll happily take credit for it in a tongue in cheek manner.

Of course right after that he's humbled to admit, "No. I feel like it's almost a dream where you can't quite see the person's face, or make out the details of the car." He thinks about it for a second more and says, "But I'm sure it's real." He does not in fact sound sure at all, more like he's trying to convince himself. After all he has been having more and more instances of being caught between states or having difficulty discerning what is in this reality and what's not. He pushes those doubts aside with a shake of his head and another sip of scotch.

He ooohs as Isabella clarifies. "Right, yea I just knew Kevin worked at the paper, not what he did." Because why would Easton read an actual newspaper? Sorry, newspapers. He shakes his head though at the new person, "No, don't know him." At least he's not a regular customer where Easton would know the first name and his last drink order. "Wait and what the fuck is a Paranormal Society? What is that? A veil support group?"

I do.

There's nothing else for that, save for a quiet smile.

Isabella drains the last of her scotch, and nudges it over for another, though the encounter the other man with the woman who might be allied with them and the feelings that generated within him, including his analogy about the whistling, are all already causing the gears in her head to turn. Her thinky face, as Alexander fondly calls it, and which Easton has been privy to on numerous occasions. "At some point in my childhood, my mother told me after a confrontation with my brother that sometimes, people like us can tell whether similar individuals have been touched by Them. I mean, I assume that everyone with the Talent has an increased possibility of being able to detect that, but you're the only one I've actually met who's actually experienced what my mother was talking about. For all of my brother's talents, he never once told me about being able to do that, and Sid was no joke when it came to his abilities, so I wonder..." She chews on her bottom lip, before looking up at Easton. "Could you do me a favor? If you ever have a feeling like that again while Bennie's with you and you're both just out and about in town when it happens, could you ask her if she experiences the same and let me know?"

His blunt question about the Paranormal Society earns him a grin. "Minerva's group of people who like investigating weird things," she explains simply. "Meets occasionally in Seraphim Acquisitions, the new occult business she opened. I largely just came in to support her and her new venture, but it's probably a good place to start to meet new people in the know and there were a few interesting members that showed up. Could be a good resource later, I'm definitely not ruling anything out."

Easton pours another round for the both of them, and though his reaction time is starting to slow down a bit, still doesn't spill a drop of amber outside the glasses. He frowns as she explains, "That's interesting, I would have thought a head trip would have picked this up before I did? " He then clarifies, "A reader. Byron or Alexander.." He assumes (wrongly) that it has to do with picking up thoughts and intentions of the people, not actual connections to the Dark Men. But he seems intrigued when she asks for a favor. "Of course." It's a reasonable enough request and he'd love to know more about it himself. "Granted, I might actually see if my theory pans out. Maybe get fancy and write it down in a notebook?" He teases her lightly about their earlier conversation and about asking him to be a guinea pig in a way.

"Ah." He is not surprised to hear that Minerva is the one putting together such a group. It makes perfect sense to share information. It also makes perfect sense for someone to want to monitor such a group. He says, "Keep an eye out. Any gathering of shiny people interested in veil shit is bound to attract attention. Might not be a bad place for me to test out my theory even. Just in case someone's not on the level there?"

She's well into her cups, judging by the look in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. The fact that she can still think in spite of how many shots she's packed away already, though, is probably testament to the fact that Isabella Reede will probably never stop using the more studious side of her brain, or the part of it that is constantly fascinated with difficult problems, no matter what she's doing. His agreement draws forth another smile on her lips, his quip pulling a laugh from her. "Hey, you know, so long as you share the data so I can parse some things, I have no objections," she teases back. "Besides, I think we're at a point where we ought to be learning from each other." There's a wary eye cast to the darkness of his windows. "We're getting into the colder, darker months. My brother used to tell me it's when it's the most dangerous for us, also."

His suggestion at the last has her nodding. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea. I'm going to be there whenever I can, just to keep my ear on the ground. I don't exactly have the network Alexander does." Understandably, considering the man has been at it for thirty years and has hardly left in the last twenty. "But I'm doing what I can and what Time allows me. Anyway..." She lifts her tumbler in a toast, smirking faintly. "To us guinea pigs?"

"To us guinea pigs!"