Gloomy. That's what it was.
Helen Cuthbert closed her eyes. The apartment was dark, the walls and floor emitting a chill just beyond her reach—all the more reason to stay in bed. The scent of clean linen filled her lungs as she nuzzled her pillow, burrowing into the sea of white cotton.
She'd been raised better than this. She wasn't the type to spend the night with a fella—especially unchaperoned, and certainly not with a direct supervisor. Mama would have had a coronary if she'd have found out. . . .
A gravelly moan caressed her ears, followed by the gentlest brush of a pair of lips on her throat. Helen trembled.
She wasn't the least bit sorry.
"Abernathy?" she whispered, her voice too crackled and hoarse from a night of sleep.
The lips found her hair, pressed against the back of her head. "Yeah, doll?" he croaked, somehow still managing to sound like the tender gentleman from the previous evening.
"It's gettin' late. We gotta get to work, the both of us."
"Ehhh, to hell with 'em!" he chuckled, throwing an arm around her waist, drawing her against his warm body. "They won't miss us, or need us!"
Helen giggled as he buried his nose between her neck and shoulder, planting kisses on her bare skin. Her hand wandered up and down the length of his arm. Funny, how he felt so different—so solid, all angles and sinewy muscle. Other ladies in her department wouldn't have given him a second glance. Too scrawny, they'd titter. He may be a decent fella, but he sure as hell ain't man enough. And yet, Helen had never been able to keep her eyes off of him. Sure, he was on the shorter side—a little thin, maybe—but no less masculine. The proof was right here against her palm, pressed against the length of her back . . .
"C'mon, honey, I got bills to pay. . . . And so do you!" His only reply was a drowsy groan. "Abernathy!" she scolded through another peal of mirth.
A kind of tension hung in the air, and Helen turned to find a pair of stone-gray eyes staring at her.
"You know, you don't gotta be so formal with me," Abernathy purred.
"I'm not!" A blush crept up Helen's face. "Don't you remember? I dropped the 'Mr.' last night."
"So you did." He grinned that crooked smirk. "But I do got a name, ya know. You can call me Joseph. Or Joe, if ya like, I ain't particular."
Joseph Abernathy. It was a swell name, very handsome. But . . .
"It just ain't the same." She kissed his cheek. "I think 'Abernathy' suits you."
His smile twisted all the more. "Is that right?"
Helen tried to nod, but the intensity within his eyes captivated her. She was lost, drowning in those pools of silver . . .
"I gotta get going." The words escaped her constricted throat. "I can't afford to be late."
Abernathy yawned. "Ah well, when you're right, you're right." His mouth found hers. "And you're right." Within seconds, he was on his feet, leaving behind a disheveled mess of bedclothes. Helen averted her eyes as he stretched his arms toward the ceiling. She knew it was silly, acting all modest-like when the man had made love to her a few short hours ago. But, she reasoned, an entire upbringing was hard to shed in a single evening. In an act of rebellion, she peeked, just in time to see him thread his last leg into a pair of trousers.
"Geez Louise, I'm starvin'," he commented in the midst of tucking in his dress shirt. "If I don't get some food in me soon, my stomach's gonna eat itself. You hungry, doll?" Abernathy brandished his wand. The delectable aroma of roasting coffee filled the air. "Want some breakfast?"
Helen drew the bed sheet tightly around her, shivering when her feet touched the floorboards. Crossing the room in a few strides, she wound her arms around his waist, chin alighting on his shoulder. "Well, gosh, how am I supposed to say no to such a gallant offer?"
Abernathy turned his head toward her. Going by that smile, her tone had amused him. "You're a little sassafras this morning, ain't ya?" he remarked.
Helen weighed her options. Playing coy was sure to get a good reaction, but it was early, and she hadn't had her coffee yet. She fluttered her lashes. "Ain't that the reason you like me?"
Abernathy laughed. "You'd be right about that." Helen beamed, and ran her fingertips so lightly over his belly that he squirmed against her, doing his utmost not to lose his composure. "Here, drink your coffee," he ordered, thrusting a ceramic mug in her direction. Helen took it, disentangling herself in the process.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Abernathy."
She took a sip, tightly clutching the mug to thaw her hands. It was perfect—rich, dark, and just bitter enough to make her taste buds stand at attention. Meanwhile, Abernathy was in full form—eggs broke and plopped, one after another, into a sizzling pan, a side of bacon was hissing beside it, and a knife soared through the air, clacking merrily as it scooped up dollops of butter for the toast. Throughout this entire display, Abernathy was waving his wand, conducting and keeping everything in motion, his gaze occasionally straying to a selection of neckties he'd fished from his closet.
"That one," she suggested, pointing. "Compliments your complexion."
"Oh, yeah?" Abernathy set the other strips of silk onto the bed. He smiled at her. "Orange and brown, it is."
A muffled thud caught Helen's attention. "I think your paper's here. I'll get it."
"Oh, yeah, if you don't mind—thanks. Breakfast'll be ready in a jiff."
Keeping the sheet tight to her chest, Helen opened the door and reached for the fat roll of newsprint waiting on the mat. Inky photographs reenacted the bold headlines plastered across the front page of The New York Ghost. One stood out, in particular. While Abernathy levitated a couple of plates and loaded them with food, Helen perched on a dining chair in the kitchenette, engrossed in the morning's feature story. NO-MAJ KNOWLEDGE, she read. NEWSPAPER PHOTOGRAPHS EXPOSE WIZARDING WORLD.
According to the story, MACUSA's attempt to contain the first known Obscurial in centuries—including a wild thunderbird escaping the confines of the subway system—had not, in fact, been completely erased from the memories of No-Maj witnesses. Upon developing their rolls of film, photographers from the local newspaper covering the strange goings-on were shocked by the images that they had inadvertently captured. MACUSA authorities rushed on the scene to confiscate and destroy the evidence, wiping memories at every turn, but the article went on to say that the story spread too rapidly for the incident to be completely contained, once again, putting their world at risk.
"Don't know why they're so up in arms."
Helen gasped, swiveling to see Abernathy bent over her shoulder, reading along. "Why wouldn't they be?" she asked as he set her plate in front of her. "What if the No-Maj community starts comin' after us? We don't need a second Salem on our hands."
Abernathy gave a derisive snort. "I'd like to see 'em try. So what if they know we exist? Against us, they don't gotta chance."
Helen's brow wrinkled. "W-what are you talkin' about, baby?"
Abernathy sat down across from her, so intent on their conversation, his breakfast lay forgotten. "A lot has changed since the Trials. We're more concentrated, protected. Powerful! Who cares what they know? Let's face it, doll, no matter what happens, we're always gonna have the upper hand. What's a No-Maj compared to someone like you, and me?"
His hand settled over the top of hers, and Helen forced herself to leave it resting on the tabletop. She smiled weakly. "Pretty strong words, there, boss," she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. "Some might even call them 'radical' . . ."
"You think so?" Helen looked up. There was something hungry in Abernathy's smile, and she was sure it had nothing to do with his cooling plate of food. "Progress isn't passive, doll. That kind of thinking is what it takes to propel the world forward. Don't you want to be at the forefront, rather than be left behind?"
Helen shifted in her seat. "Well . . . I suppose, when you put it like that . . ."
"Stick with me, kid. I'll hold your hand every step of the way." His warm smile had returned, that irresistible expression that melted her and made her feel so safe. . . .
"Okay." She gripped his hand. "Count me in."