Despite the lovely scenery I know there’s something important here and I wait for the tell-tale pull, the force that centers somewhere deep in my stomach and feels like a rope tied about my waist, tugging me wherever I need to go. It seems reluctant to show up, somehow, but after a good minute it finally does and my feet carry me up the stairs into the master suite—or anyway a collection of rooms big enough to give me that impression. The first room I walk into is this sitting room thing and I can see a huge closet and bathroom off to the left. To the right the room is L-shaped and I walk around the corner.
In the vision I fall to my knees, stomach clenched and roiling.
The red is everywhere. Splattered on walls, dripping onto the carpet, even the sliding glass doors that look like they open onto a balcony are striped with spattered blood. The tug at my abdomen grows urgent, so I take several deep breaths and force myself to rise to my feet so I can take a few staggering steps toward the bed where two people lie in a literal pool of blood. A man and a woman. The owners of the house?
Through the gore I can see what appear to be stab wounds, dozens at least—dozens each. Arms, legs, jagged holes in their bedclothes. Whoever did this stabbed them over, and over, and over.
I’ve seen enough.
In the vision I back away—step-by-step, almost running in reverse—but in my mind, I’m drawing a curtain over my second sight.
And sitting on a tall stool in the art room again.
“Charlotte, Charlotte?”
Someone is shaking me gently by the arm. I jerk upright a scant few inches, glad to recognize my teacher’s voice. “Mr. Fredrickson,” I mumble, through still-clenched teeth. My entire jaw aches sharply and I know I must have been clenching it iron-tight through the entire vision.
“Normally I’d take offense at a student falling asleep in my class,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his tone—which is good, since my physical eyes are struggling to adjust to the light. “But since you’re generally so attentive, I’ll give you a pass this once.”
Light and colors filter back in and I can see his face, still smiling but lined with concern. My muscles are relaxing, too, but I suspect it’ll be another minute or so before I can walk. I force a smile. “Thanks. And I'm so sorry. Tons of Calc homework last night.” I’ve become such an adept liar. Sometimes I think it’s my best skill. But where does that fit on a resume or college application?
“Well, get some better sleep tonight, okay?”
I nod and turn very slowly to grab my backpack. Only then do I notice that everyone else is gone. I didn’t even hear the bell.
Stiffly, I shoulder my backpack with a grim sense of purpose. What does it matter that I embarrassed myself?
I am Charlotte Westing, I am an Oracle, and I have lives to save.
Chapter Two
“So which kind are you?”
Her voice seems to come out of nowhere. Still on edge from the macabre vision, I flinch, knocking over my chocolate milk. It splashes across the table and pours over the edge, faster than I can react, soaking the crotch of my jeans and staining them brown. I jump up with a shriek, trying to slick away the milk, but it’s way too late for that.
“Sorry,” the voice says calmly. “Shall we try that again?”
I blink.
I’m sitting.
The milk is back in my carton, inches from my right hand.
“Don’t knock it over this time. ’Kay?”
My whole body is frozen. I can’t move or breathe. It’s a little like waking from a vision, only … not. It takes several seconds of shouting at my neck before it obliges me and tips my head down to look at my thighs.
Dry.
It happened again.
Like with the pastel.
I turn slowly toward the voice—mindful of my milk this time—to see Sophie Jefferson standing behind me, one hand resting on the short stair railing that leads outside from the auditorium. Her back is perfectly straight, her neck long and slim, and I wonder if maybe she really is a ballerina.
It’s not the only thing I wonder. I no longer have to question if she was the one who saved the broken pastel, but the death of one doubt only makes room for a thousand more. Is she from the Sisterhood—another Oracle, albeit one with powers I don’t understand? Is she some other supernatural creature, like Smith? And most importantly, is she somehow involved with the murders I foresaw?
But years of honing my silence are taking over in my lizard brain and all I can do is sit there, silently staring.
Possibly glaring.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, obviously,” she adds, gesturing to the milk carton.
I’m not sure exactly what the obviously part means; as far as I can tell she’s basically flaunting her … whatever it is.
She peers down at her nails in a show of nonchalance, but tension is crackling through the air and it seems like a pretty lame attempt. “I suspected you were something when you noticed me take back my pastel dropping on the floor,” she continues, either unfazed by my open expression of horror, or oblivious to it. “But wow, that surge of energy you took during class? What was that? That was amazing.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might crack a rib. I already know not to trust anyone who knows what I can do. The last time I did, I got four kids killed. Last year—but only because it’s February.
Last year, sharp as freshly-shattered glass.
Last year, when I was released from one prison and locked in another.
Who the hell is this girl?
She holds out a warning hand. “Just so you know, I’m not available.”
What?
“I’m recovering from the last disaster I averted, in case it’s not obvious.” She ends her sentence in a quiet voice and rubs one hand up her arm, pausing where the bones at her elbow jut, even through a fitted jacket that doesn’t really look warm enough. She straightens and smiles, then slips onto the bench across from me, as though she were invited.
“I didn’t ask you to join me,” I say, finally finding my voice. I discovered this table behind the school a couple weeks ago. It’s broken—wobbly—but not so bad that I can’t handle it. My own little fortress of … well, maybe not solitude, exactly, but I never see Linden out here, and others only rarely. I don’t come here every day; I’m trying not to be a total social pariah, because that draws almost as much attention as being super popular. I have to strive for a happy medium. That’s what I’ve been trying to do with my life the last two months: find a happy medium.
Horrible pun not intended.
But sometimes I need to be alone and, trust me, no one willingly eats their lunch outside in Oklahoma in February.
Except me.
And, apparently, Sophie Jefferson.
“You own this table?” Sophie asks, one eyebrow arched.
I hate smart-asses.
“So, are you a Witch?”
Witch? She doesn’t know what I am. I can scratch the Sisterhood off my list of worries … assuming this isn’t some kind of trick to see if I’ll break their rules. But it sure doesn’t feel like a trick.
Sophie’s laugh tells me she’s taken my furrowed brow and speechlessness for something other than total bewilderment. “I know, I know. But there are so many of them; statistically it’s always the best guess.”
Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle. I have to get away. I can’t say a word to her until I know what she is—what I’m dealing with.
I’ve got to talk to Sierra.
“Not fae, surely? Not out in this cold,” she muses, almost to herself. “But with that much supernatural energy, I guess you could be fae.”
I shove my notebook into my backpack—notes from my vision, not for Sophie Jefferson’s eyes. Or anyone else’s. I yank the zippers closed and am on my feet before she can stop me. I sweep the remains of my lunch into my crumpled paper bag and start to turn.
A sharp gasp makes me look back. “A
re you an Oracle?”
And—of all the stupid things—there’s wonder in her voice.
Damn it. I know my face is confessing everything, so I spin away again. Hiding. Fleeing.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know! I—”
Can’t respond. Can’t stop. Goodness knows I can’t go back. I’m already gasping for breath and gulping down tears of terror. I hate that I’m falling apart, but I can’t do this again. People died. Kids died. In pain and terrified, and sometimes dismembered in a shed splattered with their blood. That’s what happened when Smith found me, and I don’t know what Sophie is but she’s found me, too, the same day as a blood-soaked vision. I can’t handle it happening again. I just … can’t.
For once I’m so glad I live less than a block from the school and I’m halfway across the parking lot before I have a chance to even think about my plan. I risk a look behind me and once I’m sure Sophie isn’t following, I slow down and try to chill.
I didn’t tell her anything.
Not that it matters. She obviously knows.
But … she apparently could tell I was having a vision. And not just because she saw me zone out. She said something about a huge surge of energy? I guess that’s one way to describe it. It’s not any kind of energy I can sense, unless I’m the one having the vision. Though I guess I’ve never tried. My aunt has never been one to share more information than absolutely necessary, and I can’t remember ever seeing Sierra fight a vision, much less succumb to one. But it feels like it’s one of those things like … like peeing, I guess. You just don’t do it in front of other people. If Sierra did, though, would I be able to tell? Would there be any way for me to sense a vision coming to another Oracle?
Hello, brain overload.
Having a vision of a murder should’ve been more than enough for me to deal with today. For nowhere near the first time, I wish I were normal. The sense of purpose and motivation I felt after the murder vision has been completely sucked out of me and replaced by what I don’t feel is an irrational desire to get as far away from everyone as possible.
“Hey Mom,” I call when I pop through the front door.
She backs her wheelchair out of her office just enough to see me in the foyer, where I’m hanging up my backpack and taking off my coat. “You’re home early.” There’s no suspicion in her voice, just curiosity.
“Half-day,” I lie cheerily. “I didn’t know either.” Sierra will call in later and excuse me. I was about ten when Mom started putting her down as one of my official guardians on school paperwork and it has made life so much easier. My life, I mean. At the very least it cuts down on the frequency of casual lying.
“Do you need some lunch?” There’s hesitation in her offer, and I suspect she’s on deadline and running behind. At least I can help there.
“I ate before I left school. Don’t worry about me. I have homework.”
She gives me a smile and then wheels forward again—back to work.
I head to Sierra’s room.
Which is unlocked. It always is now—something that still thrills me every day, even after two months. I do knock—we still follow basic rules of privacy and all that—and at a soft, “Yeah?” from inside, I push the door open.
“Charlotte, you’re home early,” Sierra says, barely looking up from her screen as I enter.
I close the door behind me before I confess, “Ditching,” in a whisper. “Can you call in for me later? Please?”
She gives me a stern look. “Why are you ditching?” Do not mistake my aunt for a pushover. Helpful when necessary? Yes. Overly obliging? Not exactly.
I step forward and fold my arms over my stomach, feeling cold from the inside out. “I went into art class today and a bunch of guys were screwing around and hit a table and this new girl’s pastel dropped on the floor and shattered.”
Sierra arches one eyebrow and opens her mouth, but closes it without a word and nods for me to continue.
“Then time backed up five seconds, it all happened again, and the girl put out her hand and caught the pastel before it could fall.”
Sierra’s eyes widen a little—almost imperceptibly. “I’ll call the school right now.”
Chapter Three
While Sierra’s on the phone I run my finger down the spines of a row of books. Her many shelves are stuffed with texts, old and new, about Oracles—and the supernatural.
I’m allowed to read them now.
Sierra is the historian for an ancient and secret society of women who govern Oracles all over the world. That makes it sound like there are a lot of us, but there really aren’t. Just a handful, actually. But the power is hereditary so the society—the Sisters of Delphi—knows where every single Oracle is. Including me, even though I’m not a member yet.
Might never be.
Hopefully never will be. For most Oracles, the Sisterhood means three things:
Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle.
Fight your visions with all your strength. Never surrender. Never give up. Don’t close your eyes.
Never, under any circumstances, change the future.
In practice, that means ignore your abilities, fight your visions, and remain in the dark about exactly what we can all do. But here’s one exception to the general rule of carefully-cultivated ignorance: the Sisterhood’s Historian.
My aunt, Sierra.
It’s a position of significant power. In order to monitor Oracular activity and advise the leaders of the Sisterhood, someone has to know the full extent of our powers while being trusted to resist the temptation to use them. The downside is that the Historian has very little authority; she serves in a strictly advisory capacity.
Until last year, I wasn’t allowed to read any of her books, and every time I asked a question about Oracles I knew I’d only be getting half an answer. Often less than half. After everything I’ve discovered lately—not only about myself, but about her—I don’t resent it. Sierra has chosen the way of the Sisters of Delphi and their rules. She’s more than earned that right.
But after what happened with Smith, she agreed that, for my own safety, I should know more about my abilities. So we made a deal: I get to read her books and ask her questions, and in return, I promise to seriously consider committing myself to the Sisterhood—and its rules—when I turn eighteen. Though from everything I’ve read and heard, when you turn eighteen you just kind of become a member—and become fully accountable for breaking their rules.
Still, I like to believe that, in a year and a half, I’ll have a choice. I have to believe there’s still freedom in my future or it becomes overwhelmingly bleak. And even though I think the Sisterhood is wrong, thanks to Smith I have a much better understanding of why the rules are what they are. So I guess I can’t know for certain that I won’t change my mind and join the Sisterhood after all. That gives my promise a sheen of authenticity.
Sierra ends her phone conversation with the office aide and turns her chair toward me. I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. I’m still getting used to her new appearance. She’s been in hiding for more than a decade, but when the … thing hunting her died last year, she had a beautician strip the dye from her hair. It’s not quite the gorgeous strawberry-blond I remember from when I was little, but as it grows out, it’s getting there. She fixes it and wears a little bit of make-up again, and last week she went on a date. An actual date.
I’m happy for her. She deserves it. Deserves to live.
She insists on continuing to go by Sierra, even though that’s not the name she was born with. But, as she said, she’s spent half her life being Sierra; she may as well continue. It makes sense—and the idea of calling her “Shelby” felt really weird to me anyway—but I do wonder if it’s a sign that she’s still afraid.
“So,” Sierra says in her crisp librarian voice, “you met a Sorceress today.”
“Did I?” I ask, adrenaline zipping through me at the word. So
rceress. Some of the stuff I’ve read in the last two months has hinted at supernatural beings beyond Oracles—and parasites like Smith—but Sierra hasn’t answered my questions about them because she doesn’t think it fits into our deal. Our deal was only about Oracles, she said once. I huffed off at the time. There’s a sense of victory now, I admit.
Of course, answers to my questions can probably be found somewhere in the thousands of books on Sierra’s shelves. But freedom isn’t the same thing as support—she doesn’t help me with my research at all. I imagine it’s a case of violating the spirit of Sisterhood law while keeping to the letter; turning a blind eye to my extracurricular reading but doing nothing to encourage it. But as far as I can tell, the only catalog this library has is in Sierra’s head—so I have to sift blindly through the virtual mountain of information. Like trying to find hay in a haystack.
It doesn’t help that most of the books aren’t written in modern English. And some of them don’t appear to be written in a particular language at all.
“Oh, that’s a cipher,” Sierra once responded blandly when asked about a volume filled from cover to cover with an unbroken string of hand-inked numerals. “You can try cracking it if you like, but it will be difficult. The plaintext is Arabic.”
So I’d pretty much given up looking for material on the rest of the supernatural world. Finding out more about myself was the most important task, anyway.
Not so much anymore.
“Sorceresses are the masters of the past,” Sierra recites, like the narrator of a documentary. “They can see and alter the past much in the way we can see and alter the future. Of course, just because they can doesn’t mean they should.”
I don’t know whether the Sisterhood has an official position on Sorceresses, but my aunt’s disapproving tone suggests that it might. But I’d rather not talk about the Sisterhood today. “No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary when time backed up,” I press.
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