Free Modern Rituals by J.S. Leonard Page A

its inside. “Good stuff…” she said and returned her gaze to Olivia. “Yea—who knows—maybe you have it too,” Susan said and laughed. “But honestly—Mom would go on and on about how special we were, about how her great, great granddad had the gift as well, and how his grandmother had it and so on.”
    “Oh, it’s not just women?” Olivia picked up the bottle of Syrah, gauging the remaining content—enough for two more glasses—and then refilled her mother’s glass.
    “Apparently not—oh, that’s enough dear,” Susan said and placed her hand on top of her glass. “I need to wake up bright and early tomorrow.”
    “Sorry—Special?” Olivia said. “You aren’t going to tell me our family descends from a band of gypsies with magical powers, are you?”
    “God no. Nothing like that.” Susan said. “Your nan said there were others like her spread about the world—and that they were all as rare as pink-star diamonds…and important . Never explained why—I assumed she just meant how they could help others. But, enough about this rubbish.” She leaned in close to Olivia and raised her voice a pitch. “Are there any boys in your life?”
    Olivia attempted to steer the conversation back onto her grandmother, but when her mother decided to change a subject, it stayed changed. The evening ended soon thereafter and became but a cherished memory. Of course, now she knew her grandmother hadn’t been crazy, or if she was, then that craziness infected Olivia as well. Still, Olivia wasn’t as extreme as her gran—she couldn’t switch on her gift, it came when it damn well felt like it. And the dreams: they were enough to melt nerves of steel into a gooey puddle.
    She desperately wished to have met her grandmother—her unanswered questions upset her stomach. She feared her gift and its untold potential—and feared its toll on her sanity. Perhaps one day she’d prick her finger on a needle in a haystack and meet another like her.
    The sweat on Olivia’s skin had evaporated and her breathing steadied. Sleep then overtook her, and to her good fortune, she slept dreamless until dawn.

    5

    Horace Mann—in the midst of a blissful evening—found himself transported to an awful place, wearing equally awful cotton flannel. He stood in a pitch-black janitor’s closet—though a moment before he had snuggled beside Thiago, his Brazilian boy-toy, in his Beverly Hills home.  
    This companionless quandary befuddled him.  
    He also realized something troublesome: an evil lurked within the walls. This place, whatever it was, oozed a murderous intent.  
    He gripped his chest as his memory touched upon Thiago’s big, bewitching hazel eyes. A surge of adrenaline extinguished the provocative image. He charged forward—bursting through the closet doors like an imprisoned beast—and collided with a stainless steel counter. His upper body folded atop it, the wind knocked from his chest. He coughed and glanced around. Steel counters, fridges, sinks and cabinets lined the outer edge of the room, though his eyes struggled to distinguish them. What dim light there was came from a wide service-window that opened onto a hall.  
    Is this a kitchen? Is that a cafeteria?
    He peered down at his paisley sweater-vest, which covered a striped pink dress shirt. Below that were brown khakis. He sighed and rolled his eyes.  
    If any of my clientele caught me wearing such trash, they would never hire me again.
    He tore open the nearest cabinet and discovered a flashlight and a cardboard tube. The tube housed a set of blueprints, which he unrolled onto a counter. He shielded his eyes—the flashlight produced a staggering amount of light.
    Yow! Military grade, I imagine.
    The topmost sheet yielded a diagram labeled KITCHEN. This appeared to be in a cafeteria, which appeared to be within a school-like structure on a sizable compound, though he could only make assumptions from the blueprint’s general layout—the text was in