1 Bacchanalia Mysterium
8 am, Day after SafeSpace Post Prom, New York Luxury Apartment, Bedroom
Mel awoke to a mysterious amount of elegant floor-to-ceiling windows. The down comforter was an understated black, in contrast with the crisp white multitudinous-threaded sheets. Her Annie Hall-style ivory suit was folded in a corner chair, and she was completely alone—or was she? Mel had recalled leaving the SafeSpace bar to go dance elsewhere, and there might or might not have been a contract involved with a nefarious force, that she had to visit said entity every Sunday for sixty weeks, in the style of Scheherazade. Or was that just a dream? Please, let me be dreaming. But Mel knew that strange happenings were afoot.
Having been lured out of the enigmatic bedchamber by the aroma of crisp, sizzling turkey bacon, she slowly dressed in the adjoining bathroom, wearing her ivory slacks and camisole from yesterday, and made her way into the modern, airy kitchen, where she detected a cryptic tune.
"Mysterium, Alexander Scriabin's unfinished work," a silky British female voice called from near the stove.
Oh shit. It was Abigael.
8:15 am, New York Luxury Apartment
"Abigael, we didn't by any chance…make a contract, did we?" Mel prayed that her memories were all but deceiving her, as she drew a forkful of bacon into her mouth. Wow, thought Mel. Abigael sure knows how to sear her meat.
"As a matter of fact," Abigael regarded her with a sly, Cheshire Cat-like expression, "we most certainly did."
Mel's silver fork fell from her hand with a clatter onto the oblong Ashmont-style marble dining table, the sound echoing across the high-ceilinged acoustic walls of the apartment, hitting the midnight-hued cylindrical light sconces overhead. Shit. "What were the stipulations of said contract, exactly?" Mel tried to steady her voice.
"If my memory serves me correctly, you, Mel, professed your undying limerence to me after yesterday night's revelry…" Abigael stated. "In American parlance, you may have mentioned wanting to court me."
Mel blushed. This was awkward—even for her. "So then what happened?"
"I said no—not until…" Abigael stopped to fixate on her own plate, using her fork to stab what remained of her sunny-side up egg with a particular vengeance.
"Not until…?" Mel said uneasily, staring at the bright yellow yolk's viscosity bleeding out of the denatured, savagely brutalized ovum.
"Not until you spend sixty Sundays with me—to get to know who I truly am, warts and all."
Mel breathed a sigh of relief. This didn't seem too bad—right? "So, in order to go on a date with you, I need to spend those Sundays alone with you, in your apartment?"
"Correct." Abigael crossed her arms and regarded Mel's form from across the table. "You can't tell your family that you're with me (I will find out), and it must be every Sunday for the next sixty Sundays, à la modified Scheherazade. If you tell your family, you are banned for life from dating me. Also, per contract, no intimacy, save for a dance."
"And if I can't show up on one Sunday?" asked Mel curiously. "What then?"
"Well, no more Abigael, forever and a day."
Talk about psychological torture, Mel thought as she stood up to take her dishes to Abigael's pristine, state-of-the-art stainless steel chrome sink embedded in even more of the shatter-proof, elegant marble that perfectly matched the Ashmont table's minimalistic style; Abigael followed suit. "Abi, why are you doing this? Why can't we just…date?"
Abigael stood behind Mel, whispering softly into her ear, as Mel uttered a soft gasp. "Because witches like you could never love an overlord like me."