Heartwood: Forbidden

I find the idea of love-at-first-sight really dumb. Get to know the person first, go out for dinner, go to the zoo together, do whatever you want, but don't just blindly trust the first instinct that hits you. Relationships should be dependable and constant. They should be built on stability, not impulse. Oh, the agony of being proven wrong. She had dyed hair--accents of black on brown roots--and wore it long on top, cut close on the sides. She had a tee-shirt on with the sleeves torn off, all the better to show off the muscles of her arms. I could lift weights for years and never get that buff. A pair of black jeans completed the outfit, along with the jacket slung casually over her lap. It was an aggressively butch look. And it was really, really hot. There was something else about her too, an energy or confidence radiating off of her that made her different from... everyone I'd ever met. It's not an exaggeration to say she was glowing. Like, she was literally shedding light. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Sure enough, there on the other side of the bar, this incredibly attractive butch woman was doing her best lightbulb impression, and no one seemed to care. A barista gave her a to-go cup and left, not even acknowledging what was, to me, a break in the fundamental laws of the universe. I shook my head and looked down at the half-empty coffee in my hands. I was probably hallucinating--a side effect of the stress I'd been under since I lost my job. No one seemed to be hiring, and my savings were vanishing rapidly. I had more important things to worry about than women who probably weren't gay. Any moment now her boyfriend would probably come in. I could picture him: tall and emo, enough piercings to make a TSA agent twitch with anxiety. They'd link arm in arm and go to some concert for a band I'd never heard of. I heard the door jingle and looked up to see if my guess was accurate. Instead, I found her standing right in front of me, one hand on the spare stool. "This seat taken?" she asked. I choked on my coffee. "Y-yeah, I mean no. Please, take it." I gestured with one hand, trying to surreptitiously wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. She sat, and I was struck dumb for a moment by the color of her eyes. They must have been an incredibly pale blue, because in the late-evening light they looked silver. Or maybe she was wearing iris-changing contacts? That made more sense. People didn't have silver eyes. "You're... Ophelia, right?" she had a faint, unplaceable accent and pronounced my name with a singsong lilt at the end. "How did you... yeah. That's me." I swallowed. Was she a stalker? Someone come to claim on my mother's debts? I mean, I dislike the prospect of being murdered as much as the next woman, but if I had to pick person to do me in... She tapped the edge of my coffee cup. Right. My name would be written on the side. I glanced to hers, and she raised it to give me a better view. "Imogen?" I asked. "Yup." She smiled. Damn, she had a pretty smile. "Old-fashioned names, I guess that's something we have in common." She was flirting with me. The realization sent my heart into double time and I tried to sit a bit more seductively. How were you supposed to do that again? I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe she was into tiny women in oversized, unwashed hoodies. I silently regretted every fashion choice I'd made today. "Do you always introduce yourself to strangers in coffeeshops?" Dumb question. Really dumb question. I bit my tongue in frustration. "I mean, if I have the reason to." She ran a hand through her short, dyed hair. I admired the curve of her bicep. She could probably lift me up if she wanted to, or even carry me right to bed. I pulled my attention back to her face. "Yeah, about that," I gave a sheepish smile. "I was staring at you. Sorry about that, you just... you look... I mean I really like..." "It's alright!" She put her hand on mine. Her fingers were warm and soft. She had a wooden ring with vaguely-Celtic patterns carved into it. "I know you can see it. I can too." That surprised me. I glanced up at her, sharply. "See what?" I asked. Imogen tapped her fingers on the table. The glow, which had completely faded when she had gotten closer, abruptly returned in greater force than before. Though now that I was sitting with her, I realized it wasn't really a glow--nothing about her appearance changed with it. I just knew it was there. Somehow. "That's... uh... what do you think I'm seeing?" I tried to dodge the implication. This could still be normal. I didn't need to throw out my entire understanding of the world. "The magic," Imogen said. "In, like, an aura all around me? It might look like light, or feel a certain way--my uncle used to say it sounded like bells faintly ringing." "Magic?" I asked, while trying very, very hard to keep my voice even. "Yeah." Imogen took in my panicked expression and bit her lip. "You aren't as far along as I thought you were. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to shock you." "Are you saying... that... magic is real?" I whispered my question, not daring to speak any louder. If I made too much noise, the hidden cameras might pop out, and the elaborate prank I was clearly falling for would be sprung, and I would be the laughing stock of the internet for the rest of my life. Imogen gently took my hands from around my coffee cup and met my gaze with her definitely-silver eyes that were definitely-glowing. "Hey," she said. "What I'm about to say might frighten you, but I need you to remember something for me, okay?" I nodded mutely. She continued, "No matter how strange you think it is, you aren't alone. There are many, many people like us, and they want to help you. I want to help you. I'm here for you." On another day, in another context--hell, even just ten minutes ago--those words from someone who looked like her would have been enough to make me swoon. Now, I could barely hear them over the pounding in my heart. "What are you about to tell me?" I asked. "Magic is real," Imogen said. "And you're a witch."