It was always unpleasant when a person touched her skin, and Briar jolted with a hiss when Jocelyn touched her hand, but she grit her teeth and bore down against the flood of emotion and images and sound, even as her head began to swim and grow light and fuzzy. She swayed a little, dangerously with her so close to the edge, and braced herself with her other hand against the ground.
Seconds in, and her head began to pound.
But then her fingers brushed something, and Jocelyn said that was it, and as soon as the words left his mouth she jerked her hand free and pulled back with a gasp, and as soon as contact broke, her vision cleared and the throbbing pain in her skull abated. But she still felt oily, because she'd seen things, little flashes of scenes of this man's life, flashing too fast for her to catch, and though she'd tried to ignore it, she still hated it.
It was invasive as fuck, for both people involved, and it left her feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic.
She was breathing hard, sweat beading along her blanched skin, and she sat back on her knees for a breather. "Alright. Thanks. I got it now. Just one sec, fuck." She rubbed her head, sucked in another breath, and braced herself. The living were the worst. Old objects could be hard on her, because they were filled with history, and it could hit like a punch. But it still wasn't as bad as dealing with the living.
Once she'd gotten a hold of herself again, she reached down to the owl carving and lightly touched it. And this time, unimpeded by Jocelyn's touch, she got a taste for the magic.
It came over her in a wave, a flicker of vision hitting her, flickering and broken up like static, but she could see enough to glean what was going on--or what wasn't going on.
And when it registered in her mind, she drew back with a gasp, pulling her hand away, and groped for the glove she'd shoved into Jocelyn's hands.
"Fucking clever dead people," she said, wiping sweat from her brow with her other hand. "There is no bridge."