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to get at it. That’s how horribly the addiction shredded her. Even the barest notion of Sidhe magic slashed at her sanity. The Sidhe Touch was the only thing that could give her relief from the growing, aching desire. London hated it. Hated that this obsession possessed her so mercilessly, destroying the life she’d once known, eliminating the freedom she’d once taken for granted.
    Digging her nails into her palms, London fought within herself to pull free of the fixation long enough to focus on this conversation.
    She leaned forward, her elbows on the more-clean-than-not table. The circle of faint light from the hanging bulb overhead left the corners of the booth in partial shadow. The bar catered to parahumans, so was darker than most. Vamps and weres, with their sharp night vision, didn’t require a lot of light to see by. As a human accustomed to the ways of the parahumans, it didn’t faze London. The place had a stripped down appearance -- all dark wood furniture and paneling, hardy furnishings that didn’t break easily. The seats didn’t even have any cushioning. No pictures or what-nots on the walls that would become debris when fights broke out, less to have to clean up. Clearly a bar owned by weres, rather than vampires. Not that they discriminated.
    The young vampires in the circular booth glanced at each other, each waiting for one of the others to answer her question. London knew newbie vampires when she spotted them. The lack of confidence was telling. They were separated into couples, which was another giveaway. In another few decades they wouldn’t waste time playing the boyfriend/girlfriend game.
    “Well, they said he was a Sidhe, you know? But for real, how would you know if he’s Sidhe or not? Is there some kind of sign?” Charnel, the blonde girl in the white leather bustier leaned forward, giving London a far better view than she wanted.
    “All fey have magic in their blood. But the Sidhe, they are something special. Something more.” London understood parahumans. She negotiated their world almost like one of them. Not like the fey. She’d not been prepared for them at all, especially not the Sidhe. Even this barest thought of them sent her mind tripping compulsively back into unwanted remembrance.
    Rico had barely brushed her skin with his fingers and London’s world shattered. Just like that. The bastard did it on purpose. Cursed her to enslave her. To make her work for him. Then he went and got himself killed, abandoning London to this endless torment.
    She peeled the label off her bottle of Guinness in strips, gave her hands something to do other than tremble. The craving for the Touch twisted within her worse than anything she’d known. Not even a vampire’s bloodlust seemed to compare. She’d never seen a vamp curl on the floor, hugging themselves and rocking, weeping with the need. Then again, they had lots of prey options. For London, only the Touch of the Sidhe would suffice. Only the Touch would relieve the pain. Wash away the anxiety. Make her feel whole and normal for a little while. But the Sidhe were scarce, all but impossible to find.
    The closest thing she could compare the curse to was heroin addiction. Now she understood the way the crawling under the skin made them twitch. The circular thoughts spiraled over and over. The nightmares. So close to the fringes of insanity that keeping it together to even fake normal grew increasingly impossible until all you wanted to do was scream and claw your own flesh.
    Every day it grew worse. Rico was gone. If he was still alive she’d do anything… anything for relief. He could send her to face a thousand Changelings with nothing but a pocketknife and she’d do it, just as long as he Touched her again.
    Shivering as the memories she tried to bury rose once more, summoned by the addiction, London brushed her lips with her fingertips. Rico kissed her once. Just once. Filled her mouth with magic. Made her inhale it. Swallow it.