I shook my head. A sinking feeling in my stomach warned me I wouldn’t like what was in that bag, and I was right. Thirteen small bones clattered across the tabletop, and I cringed at the sound they made.
“I got these from a voodoo priest in New Orleans when I was about your age. He read my future, told me life would never be dull if I followed the bones. I bought that very set, and my life has been interesting ever since. Not always the good kind of interesting, but you can’t have it all.” He pushed the bones toward me. “They use a different set of symbols than the Futhark, see?”
Fighting to keep a frown off my face, I leaned forward to examine them. Unlike the straight, abstract symbols burned into the wooden runes, these were more complex and had been painted, rather than carved, onto the bone. One of the bones with a wide, flat piece had a blue eye painted on it. The wishbone was covered with a pattern of black and red dots.
“What kind of animal is… er, was this?” I asked, leaning back and away from the table. The bones made me uncomfortable, and not just because I didn’t love the idea of them once having been a living creature. They put off a strange energy.
“Chicken. Pretty standard.” He gathered the bones and put them back into the velvet bag. “Most people are a little put off by the bones, and that’s okay. Now, think about everything I just told you. Do you believe me? That I’ve the gift?”
We were back to this. He was going to make me decide if he was lying or not. I thought about it, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes as I considered the smiling Irishman in front of me. He’d seemed genuine while we were talking. And there was something… off about that set of chicken bones.
“I do,” I told him honestly.
“Okay. Now, you’re new to all of this, right? I heard you discovered your powers while the Soul Searchers were filming you.”
“Yeah… I mean, I saw things when I was little. Ghosts my mom called ‘The Travelers.’ But I didn’t know what they were.” I frowned unhappily. “My mom kept all this stuff from me.”
“Well, try to imagine we were having this conversation a year ago. Back before you knew the things you know now. Imagine you’re at a farmer’s market, and for a laugh, you stop in at my booth to have me tell your fortune.”
It was an unlikely scenario. For one thing, farmer’s markets were way too early in the day. I’d never been to one in my life. But for the sake of whatever it was he was trying to tell me, I humored him with a nod.
“Imagine I just showed you my runes and told you their histories. Would you have believed me?”
A wry smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “No. But I’d have been too polite to tell you.”
Stephen grinned again. “How very kind.”
“Was any of it true? Or were you lying?”
“Well, I didn’t win the lottery. I made that part up. But the rest of it’s true.” He winked. “Here’s the point: the more we believe, the more we’re apt to believe. And there are people who can—and do—take advantage of that. So, like I said, keep a healthy amount of skepticism. Not a Raziel amount. A healthy amount.”
He scooped up the three sets of runes he’d shown me and slid them back into their bags. Then, with a flourish, he scooped up the final sack and loosened the yellow string. “Since you chose these, I’ll use them for your reading.”
I straightened up in my chair and leaned forward. I hadn’t expected to see him work so soon. And I’d never had my fortune told, not even as a child.
“Do you have a particular question or problem you’d like to address?” he asked.
That was easy. Who really killed Raziel Santos? But little as I knew about runes and fortune-telling, I knew they couldn’t answer a question like that.
“We can do a general reading,” Stephen suggested.
“Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“Okay.” He bounced the bag in one hand a few times, gazing in my direction with unfocused eyes before tossing it gently onto the table. Five small stones spilled out. One of them skittered all the way across the table and landed outside the circle, near my arm. Three others clustered around the center, where the two lines in the cloth’s design crossed. The fifth had barely cleared the edge of the bag at Stephen’s side of the table.
Leaning closer to study them, I realized they weren’t polished stones like I’d initially thought. Each the size of a nickel but twice as thick, they’d been carved out of clay and covered with a shining black glaze. The runes themselves were an earthy green and stretched from edge to edge. I reached out to pick one up, but Stephen stopped me.
“How they lay on the table plays an important role in their interpretation,” he explained.
“They’re beautiful. Did you make them?”
“They were a gift from a certain good-looking young sculptor who wanted to welcome me to town.” He cupped his chin in one hand. “You two have quite the connection. I’ve seen it, when you’re together. Either you felt his energy through that bag, or we’ve got one hell of a coincidence on our hands.”
I remembered the way the bag with the yellow string had called to me at the last moment, and the usual Graham-related flush rushed into my cheeks. I hurried to change the subject. “What are these symbols? Are they Elder-whatever, too?”
Like the wooden runes, the symbols carved into Graham’s ceramics were somewhat abstract and composed entirely of straight lines. One of them reminded me of tick marks someone might use for counting in fives, except the four perpendicular lines were slanted and the crossbar was straight.
“They’re based on an ancient alphabet from Ireland, called Ogham. He’s a thoughtful man, your Graham. Now”—he rubbed his hands together—“let’s see what these gorgeous stones have to say.”
As he studied the way the runes had landed, I studied his face. He was intent, but that meant nothing. Maybe he was really seeing something in those runes, or maybe he was thinking about the things he knew about me and trying to come up with something that would make me happy enough to leave a fat tip on the table.
But there was a sincerity in his eyes. If I had to decide, right now, based entirely on a gut feeling… I trusted him.
“Hmmm. Well, there’s a clear message here, a message of change. You’ve set something in motion, jostled the threads of the web that connects us all. Something big will happen soon, something that will define the rest of your life.”
“In a good way, I hope?”
He pursed his lips. “I’m not sure. There’ll be an important lesson learned, and, well… knowledge is never easy to come by.”
“Great, that’s encouraging. Any idea what kind of change?”
“This Straith rune”—he pointed to the one with four slanted lines crossed by a fifth straight one—“points to an impending journey. Your plans may be altered or even destroyed completely.”
“If you’re trying to make me nervous, mission accomplished.”
“Well, there’s nothing especially negative here. It’s like the Death card in Tarot. It looks ominous, but it really just means, ‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ But there is…” He frowned at the runes.
“What?”
“There’s an external force at play here. Something’s moving in the background, influencing events from behind the scenes. Whatever ‘journey’ is coming…” He looked up at me, his brows tilting upward in a pained expression. “It won’t be your choice to take it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Baxter’s engine shuddered and complained at a stop sign on Main Street. If I turned right here, I could park on the street behind the inn and sneak in through the back. I’d be able to avoid the press and—assuming Penelope was open to the idea—spend some time in Raziel’s room. There was no better place in town to contact him, and yet… I hesitated.
I’d been so eager that morning, but now I wondered about the wisdom of that plan. Deputy Wallace might understand the need to call out to Raziel’s spirit in the place it’d left his body, but anyone else would probabl
y chalk it up that inexplicable need of the guilty to return to the scene of the crime.
For two days now, it’d been my only idea, but my conversation with Stephen had given me another one. So there I sat, debating whether to stick to my original plan or follow this new thread. I chewed my lip. Would it be better to add to the list of reasons the sheriff thought I’d killed Raziel, or to look for answers via a slower route?
Anxiety pricked my nerves. I hungered for a clear direction, some kind of clue I could pass on to Wallace. On top of my desire to stop being a “person of interest,” I wanted them to quit wasting time. The more they looked into me, the less they were looking into whoever really killed Raziel.
The inn pulled to me. I knew, deep in my soul, I needed to reach out to Raziel. But when I’d tried to go there before, I’d been drawn in a different direction and ended up at The Enclave instead. That had to mean something. I could at least investigate the possibility of finding answers without further implicating myself before barreling back to the place he’d been murdered.
My decision made, I threw Baxter into gear. The car lurched and complained all the way up the hill for which the town had been named. The incline steepened as we left the commercial center of Donn’s Hill behind, and just before the road ended at an old stone chapel, I turned right into the ritzy Estates at Hillside.
“How are you today, ma’am?” the guard at the community’s entrance asked.
I claimed to be fine and handed him my driver’s license. He scanned it and noted who I was there to see before opening the large, wrought-iron gate that protected the most lavish homes in Donn’s Hill.
It was my second time visiting the ritzy neighborhood, but I still marveled at the difference between the antique, aging feel of downtown and the modern, ostentatious feel of these homes. Tall hedges protected most of the enormous houses from view of the street, and there was no activity on any of the sidewalks. The few other cars I passed had shining Mercedes and Jaguar ornaments protruding from their hoods, and I felt conspicuously out of place in my borrowed Geo.
“What do all these people do for a living?” I wondered aloud.
Many residents of Donn’s Hill did what Graham called “moonlighting” outside of festival season to make ends meet. I’d heard that some early residents had made fortunes in lumber and mining, but I couldn’t imagine what kept this many families living in so much luxury. The curving street went on for miles, wrapping around the backside of the hill and affording the many dozens of tiny mansions with views of the surrounding farmland.
A miniature brick-and-stucco castle and a giant shaker-style home with six garage doors flanked Nick and Daphne’s rustic-looking log home. It was a fraction less oversized than the surrounding homes but still big enough to swallow Primrose House whole.
Nick answered the door with bloodshot eyes, and a thick growth of stubble covered his face. Being day-drunk appeared to be the latest fashion among the local psychic community.
“You here to see Daphne? She’s… uh…” He narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, down the dark hallway behind him. “She’s not here.”
“That’s okay. I came to see you.”
“Oh. Well… Come in then, I guess.” He turned away from me and trudged slowly down the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. I took that as an invitation to follow.
“Coffee?” he asked, throwing himself into a chair at his dining room table.
It was the same room where Yuri and I had convinced Nick and Daphne to take part in the cabin séance. Back then, I’d been envious of the level of cleanliness that hinted at a recent visit by a maid service. Now, the kitchen counters were barely visible under piles of dirty dishes, and the garbage overflowed with takeout containers. A moldy, rotten smell wafted lazily from the kitchen sink. I declined his offer, taking a seat on the side of the table nearest the open windows.
“Suit yourself.” Nick took a slug from a can of beer and glared at me. “So. You here to ream me out? ‘Cause your boss already gave me an earful.”
“Yuri was here?”
Nick nodded. “He dropped by yesterday and trampled me with his high horse.”
That didn’t sound like Yuri. He approached everything from a place of compassion. I couldn’t picture him talking down to someone.
“Does that mean it’s true?” I didn’t bother to specify what I was asking about. Raziel’s accusation filled the room like the proverbial elephant.
Another slug of beer. Another nod.
“Oh.”
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting. A fiery denial maybe? An offer to prove that he really had psychic powers? Anything but this sad, colorless admission.
“Why?” I asked.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He drained his beer, stood, and collected a new can from the near-empty refrigerator. He tilted it toward me and I shrugged, so he grabbed a second. At least it was almost lunchtime.
I cracked open my can as Nick sank down into his chair with a deep sigh. I tried to remember what he’d looked like when he was happy.
“You know what’s the worst thing about getting older?” he asked, gazing out the back windows. “It’s not the way your body ages. It’s your mind. When you’re young, consequences don’t matter. Not really. But now, consequences are all I think about. I can’t take one step forward without worrying I’m walking into a trap.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want Raziel at the cabin. I hope you know I didn’t invite him.”
Nick said nothing for a few moments but ran the rim of his beer can back and forth on his upper lip and considered me with narrowed eyes. “So,” he said at last. “You didn’t come here to see Daphne, and you look like a kid who just got caught stealing gum from the corner store. Just ask me whatever you want to ask me and get it over with.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. “Raziel said he knew you were tricking people because that’s what he did too.”
Nick’s eyes were flat. Again, his lack of denial or protest unnerved me.
“I want to know how to trick people,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Daphne said you’re the real deal.”
“I am.” I straightened my shoulders. “I don’t want to know so I can trick people. I want to spot it when someone else is lying.”
“She’s the real deal, too, you know.”
“I know.” I’d seen the look on Daphne’s face when the red-eyed spirit had appeared at our séance. She’d seen him. Nobody else in the room had. Certainly not Raziel.
“I’ll tell you right now, Mac. You don’t want to know what’s behind most of the curtains in this town.”
“It can’t be ‘most.’ The frauds have to be the minority here.”
His lips twisted into a smile, but there was no joy in his eyes. “I like you, Mac. Your enthusiasm. Your naïveté. I don’t want to be the person who takes those things away from you.”
“I’m not naïve. And it’s not like I’m excited about finding out which psychics around here are conning their customers.”
“Then why do it?”
I paused. I wasn’t proud the sheriff thought I’d killed Raziel. I considered lying so I wouldn’t have to admit someone thought I could take a life. But what other reason was there? If I wasn’t trying to clear my name, would it really matter if there were some pretenders mixed in with the true psychics? Not everyone who came to town for the Afterlife Festival was looking for meaningful answers or a deep connection to the other side. It was kitschy and unique, and some people came just for a good story to tell. They were tourists, and who cared if tourists saw the real thing or a flimsy imitation?
My neck tightened at the thought of people like my mother coming here and getting scammed. It did matter that the psychics here were real. It mattered a lot. In a place where the lines between life and death blurred so easily, there was nothing more important than sincerity.
“I think whoever killed Raziel was probably afrai
d he would expose them for being a fake.” I flinched, remembering who I was talking to. “Um… no offense.”
Nick shrugged. “None taken. I didn’t kill the bastard. But I still don’t get it. His manager will probably continue his smear campaign. Why not just leave it to her to figure out who’s who around here?”
“Because…” I fiddled with my beer, twisting the tab around the top of the can in circles, unable to look Nick in the eye. “Because Sheriff Harris thinks I did it.”
He was silent. I peeked up at him and was surprised to see a smile quirking the edge of his lips. It soon spread across his face. His eyes widened, and he tossed his head back and roared with laughter. I watched in uncomfortable silence, wishing I could join in on the joke, but I couldn’t see anything funny about my situation.
After a full minute of laughing at me, Nick finally calmed down, wiping tears from his cheeks. “Oh, boy. I needed that. It’s been a hell of a week. Thanks, Mac.”
“No problem,” I muttered out of reflex.
“They can’t really think you did it.”
“Well, they pulled me in for questioning yesterday.”
“Did they arrest you?”
I shook my head.
He shrugged again. “They’re just covering all their bases. Don’t let it bother you.”
My eyebrows shot into my hairline, and I opened my mouth to tell him exactly how impossible that would be, but he cut me off.
“I know, I know. How can it not bother you? But I mean it. You have nothing to worry about. Sure, you tried to clock the guy. But who can blame you?” He drained the rest of his beer, stood, and shook the empty can at me. “Refill?”
“No, thanks.” I’d cracked mine open but barely taken a sip.
Laughter overcame my host again as he crossed the room with a fresh beer in his hand, and he waved the can at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m just picturing you trying to charm your way into Raziel’s room so you can strangle him.”
I stared at him. The Sheriff’s Department still hadn’t released the details of Raziel’s death to the press. “How did you know how he died?”
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