Even if it’s not true, if it’s some old wives’ tale, I’d rather not take the risk.
After drying my hair and applying deodorant, I take what’s left of my holy water and dampen my face and neck with it. Then, on top of the holy water, I rub some anointed oil mixed with cinnamon into my skin.
It’s not the most pleasant smell. Seriously, it reminds me of Christmas and all the scented pinecones Sister Edna would spread around the convent, but it could be worse. Back in the old days, before someone discovered that cinnamon messes with the monsters’ sense of smell, the Cursed would use garlic oil to mask their scent.
Just the thought of that makes me want to gag. I’ll take smelling like a Cinnabon over smelling like garlic bread any day.
After dabbing the cinnamon oil onto my neck, I work my way down. Dotting the parts of my body that will be exposed. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about my legs or any other places.
The clothes I’ll be wearing will take care of the rest.
Once the oil is fully rubbed into my skin and no longer glistening, I head over to my dresser and grab a bra and a pair of panties. Then I check my closet to see what I have to work with today.
The biggest downside of hiding what I am is the clothing situation. When I’m home and not planning to leave, I can wear whatever I want. But if I need go out, like I do today, I can’t wear my own clothes.
I have to wear something my roommate, Charity, has already worn.
It’s disgusting, and I’d give almost anything not to have to do it, but I have no choice.
Apparently the cinnamon oil alone isn’t enough to keep me safe. I need to smell like someone normal as well. Someone who’s not cursed.
The one consolation is that I can wear my own undergarments. If I had to wear her dirty panties… That would be too much.
Unfortunately, my small stash of clothes Charity has worn is running low, and after quickly sorting through them, I realize I don’t have a shirt to wear today.
I have two pairs of leggings to choose from, but the two t-shirts she gave me are beyond inappropriate. I’m working in the church today, and I’m sure showing up in a shirt that says—Lazy Little Bitch—wouldn’t go over very well.
Nor would a shirt that says—I Don’t Spit, I Gargle.
If I only planned on running errands like heading to the grocery store or returning books to the library, I’d grit my teeth and bear the humiliation.
It’s not like this is the first time she’s done this to me. It’s extremely passive-aggressive, but I get it. If our roles were reversed, I might be a little annoyed too in her situation.
But these two shirts are the worst yet.
And there’s no way I can face the congregation, let alone whoever is replacing Father McCall today, wearing either of them.
Wrapping my towel back around my body, I grab the two shirts and march out of my bedroom.
Seated at our small breakfast table, bent over her cereal bowl, Charity’s blonde head shoots up, her eyes locking on me as soon as my door opens.
Steeling myself for the argument we’re no doubt about to have, I take a deep breath and slowly walk over to her.
Blue eyes narrowing at me, Charity drops her spoon into her bowl with a loud clatter and leans back in her chair. Crossing her arms defensively over her chest, she looks me up and down, then her eyes lock on what’s gripped in my hand.
Her mood instantly lightens, and a smug smile begins to curve along her lips. Leaving no doubt in my mind now that the shirts were intentionally meant to be malicious.
“Good morning,” she says sweetly.
Too sweetly.
Gritting my teeth, I force my own smile. “Good morning, Charity.”
Tipping her head a little to the side, her eyes widen with feigned innocence. “Is there something you need?”
So far, during the three months I’ve been living with her, we’ve managed to avoid a serious fight. We’ve come close plenty of times, but for the sake of maintaining the peace I usually back off in the end.
After all, I’m technically a guest in her house, though neither of us have a choice in this.
I’m imposing on her, and I know it because she’s made it very clear many times that she doesn’t appreciate it.
Before I came along, Charity had the entire townhouse to herself. She’s used to not sharing with others.
The only child of one of New Elysium’s most successful businessmen, she’s been pampered and spoiled her entire life.
Then she messed up somehow.
I don’t know the exact details of what she did to make her father angry with her, but I know there was an ultimatum.