“Can I help you?” The question was polite, but her voice was deep and gruff, and when she finished speaking, her mouth settled into a deep frown.
“Phillip Lee referred us here—” I began.
“Phillip?” She grunted. “That old scoundrel. Haven’t seen him in months.”
“He moved to New York,” Graham put in.
“Well, that’d explain it, wouldn’t it? You’d better not be after the kinds of things he’d ask me for.”
I snorted. “I doubt we are.”
Graham lifted the carrier to the countertop, and Striker mewed pitifully. “Our cat is limping. The vet’s closed, and we’re hoping your—uh—furrapy can help?”
Elizabeth scowled. “Depends what’s wrong. Come on back. Let’s have a look.”
She led us behind the curtain and down a short hallway. A small room at the end held a large, cushioned table covered with a vinyl sheet and a wooden bench that looked like it’d be more at home in a mausoleum than a massage parlor. Soft, new-age music tinkled out of speakers mounted in the ceiling corners, and hand-painted wooden signs advised the benefits of deep tissue massage, aromatherapy, and reiki. As we settled ourselves on the bench, she misted the room with a floral scent.
“What is that?” Graham asked.
“Lavender and Frankincense, my own blend,” she explained. “Helps cats relax.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Makes sense. Could we use it at home?”
“Surely can,” she said. “Cats are anxious little critters. Let her out of that contraption. Best if she runs around here a bit, gets used to the room.”
Elizabeth left the three of us alone, and I released the latch on Striker’s carrier. The cat poked her nose out, sniffed the air, and promptly yanked her head back into the darkness.
“Should I pull her out?” I didn’t want to risk hurting her leg, but this was all uncharted territory. I’d only just gotten used to taking an animal to a veterinarian where everything was fast and clinical. This place, with its relaxing yoga-studio vibe, somehow put me on edge.
“Let her chill out in there for now,” Graham said. “She’ll come out when she’s ready.”
We sat on the bench in silence. Guilt gnawed at me. Striker had been fine the morning before. Only one thing had changed in the last twenty-four hours: we’d brought that blasted jewelry box home. Now, just as Amari warned, misfortune had followed.
I stared glumly at the floor, mentally kicking myself. If Striker had some incurable disease…. I couldn’t even think about it.
A tear rolled down my cheek, and Striker emerged from the safety of her plastic cocoon with a soft meow. She stared at me from the floor for a few moments, measuring the distance between us with her bright yellow eyes. When she jumped, her back legs failed slightly, and she nearly fell short, landing on the bench in an awkward huddle. After a quick shake, she stumbled onto my lap and rubbed her face against my chin.
Alarmed, I gathered her up into my arms and cradled her against my chest. “Easy, kiddo. Don’t push yourself.”
Never one to listen to reason, she squirmed out of my grasp and slid down my jeans to the floor. There, she stalked around the room, still babying her left hind leg as she sniffed the table’s legs, rubbed her chin on every surface, and finally settled down on the floor between Graham’s feet.
Elizabeth came back a few minutes later. I expected Striker to bolt back into her carrier at the sight of an unfamiliar person. But she stayed put, purring loudly and staring at the masseuse with wide, yellow eyes.
“There’s a nervous purr if ever I heard one.” Elizabeth’s voice was softer than it’d been at the counter. She cooed to Striker and held out a hand for inspection. When Striker didn’t flee or scratch, Elizabeth picked her up and placed her gently on the table.
Elizabeth’s hands were large and strong, and she swiftly examined Striker’s legs, gently pulling them outward and testing the muscles with practiced fingers. Striker endured the indignity with more grace than I’d expected, purring throatily all the while.
Elizabeth frowned. “When’d the limp start?”
“We just noticed it this morning,” Graham said.
“Ever done it before?”
I shook my head. “Not while I’ve known her.”
“Could be arthritis.” Elizabeth scratched Striker under the chin. “How old is she?”
“Dr. Lee thinks she’s about ten. Isn’t that young for something like arthritis?”
“Age don’t matter. Had a kitten once, jumped out of the hayloft in the barn, landed right on her feet the way cats do. Impact jarred her bones somethin’ awful. She was just a year old. Had arthritis after that, but you’d never know it the way she carried on.” She ran a hand down Striker’s back as she spoke. “Could be that. Or, could be tender from jumpin’ off somethin’ she shouldn’t have. Let’s do a bit of massage today, tide her over ’til you can get her into the vet.”
I agreed, and Elizabeth got to work. For the most part, it looked like she was just petting Striker with short, fluid motions. Her bracelets tinkled as she worked, the black crystals clanking against each other with each stroke. Striker rolled her head backwards to squint happily at me.
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked Elizabeth.
The older woman shrugged and kept massaging. “For people, goin’ on thirty years. For animals, ‘bout five.”
“Which one do you enjoy better?”
For the first time, a smile appeared on her lined face. “You know the answer, sure as I do. Animals can’t tell me where they hurt, but they make their appreciation known more than most.”
I nodded toward the hand-painted sign on the wall. “And reiki?”
“Been doin’ that before I even knew what it was. My gran taught me energy work when I was a little girl.” She continued the repetitive strokes, moving down Striker’s back. “Things were different then. People ‘round here were proud to call themselves hedge witches, and they charged fair prices for fair work. We didn’t have all these new folk comin’ here and stirrin’ up trouble.”
Intrigued by the matter-of-fact way she discussed the town’s psychic community, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “What kind of trouble?”
“All these outsiders, movin’ here from big cities and settin’ up their shops. Half of ‘em don’t practice the arts the way they should. They’re after money, and when they don’t find it, they go lookin’ for other things.” She scowled again. “This way don’t lead to riches, but it’ll lead you right, if you let it. These new folk… they’re more interested in climbin’ into each other’s beds than helpin’ the people who come to ‘em.”
She continued complaining about the way of the today’s world, lecturing us about the wickedness of dishonesty and infidelity as she massaged Striker into a state of total bliss and relaxation. I envied the cat; I couldn’t remember ever feeling so stressed in my life. The faint buzzing in the back of my mind had started up again halfway through the treatment, and by the time my feet hit the little square entryway separating Daphne’s shop from Elizabeth’s stairs, it had matured into a full-grown tension headache.
Striker, meanwhile, was limp as a noodle in the carrier in Graham’s arms. I poked a finger through the slats to stroke her forehead and she purred quietly.
“You’ll be fine,” I told her, more for my benefit than hers. My voice hitched in my throat and I willed the tears to stay away, hating how easily I cried these days.
Graham was staring at me with more concern in his eyes than I felt I deserved just then. He rested a hand on my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “I feel awful about all this. She was fine yesterday, and then I brought back that box…”
“Hey.” He pulled me into a one-armed hug. “This has nothing to do with that. Elizabeth didn’t seem concerned, and Striker already seems better. Let’s pick up some lavender oil on the way home, like the stuff Elizabeth had. We can spray it around your
apartment and help Striker relax.”
“Yeah.” I sniffed. “That’s a good idea.”
He pulled open the heavy door to the street and stepped outside, but my feet stayed rooted where they were. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me like a dark cloud. Paranoia tickled the back of my mind, and I remembered the way the van had crashed itself into a tree. Was it even safe for me to ride in a car with other people? Just how contagious was this curse?
“Go on without me,” I told him. “I have to… um…” I looked around the small space and glimpsed Daphne sitting inside her empty shop. “I need to talk to Daphne.”
He looked doubtful but nodded. “Do what you need to do. I’ll take Striker home. We can get the oil later. You sure you’re okay to walk?”
“I’m sure, thanks.”
He left me alone after a quick kiss, but I didn’t reach for Daphne’s doorknob. Instead, I hid my face in the corner of the entryway, pretending to read the instructions on the fire alarm that hung there. I could feel someone’s eyes on my back, but I didn’t care. If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see the tears rolling down my face.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daphne’s shop, Visions, had a similar layout to Elizabeth’s upstairs. Customers entered the large sitting room at the front, which she’d furnished with wood-trimmed chairs and couches that looked like they belonged in a stately home in England. A beaded curtain separated the sitting room from the other spaces in the back, but unlike the space above us, there was no counter or computer terminal in the corner. The only sign we were in a business establishment came from the shop’s logo, applied to the window in gold leaf.
She leapt up from her seat when I entered, concern etched across her round eyes. “Mac! What’s wrong?”
I let the door swing closed behind me and shook my head. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough morning.”
“I’ve been there. Sit down. I’ll make some tea.”
She disappeared behind the curtain and returned a few minutes later with a tall, silver teapot, a pair of teacups, and a bottle of light brown whiskey. She handled the teapot with the grace of someone who did this a dozen times a day.
“Do you serve tea to your customers?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s sort of my ritual. It helps me get into the right mindset, and my clients seem to find it relaxing.”
“Whiskey too?”
“Nope. That’s just for friends who’ve been crying on my doorstep.” She poured a healthy slug of whiskey into my tea, added twice as much to her own, then picked up her cup and clinked it gently against mine. “Sláinte.”
Grateful for something a little stronger than Earl Grey to chase the buzzing from the back of my mind, I sipped the beverage in silence for a few minutes. Soon the pounding in my head subsided and a gentle warmth spread through my body. I relaxed into the antique sofa and stretched my limbs out in front of me with a sigh.
“Want to talk about it?” Daphne asked, eyeing me over her teacup.
“I feel bad taking up your time.” On the other side of the gilded window, people streamed up the walkway toward the pub. “I’m sure you’ll have some customers soon.”
She laughed. “It’s barely noon. On Sundays, the tourists come in for the day or the weekend, and the Ace of Cups is their first stop. Brunch lasts for hours, and we don’t get much business until after two. But you won’t hear me complaining. Their two-dollar mimosas are the reason Sunday is our best day.”
“Well, I’ll take off if someone else comes in.” I sipped the whiskey-laden tea again, wincing slightly at the sting of the alcohol. “Never mind. You have a heavy hand. I’ll hide in the back.”
“Deal. There’s a bed back there. It’s all yours.”
We sat in companionable silence for a while at her window, watching tourists parade up the road toward the pub. Neighboring practitioners brought out sandwich boards that advertised their services. Stephen waved at us from across the way, where he was rinsing off his stoop with a garden hose.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I said at last. “Not since the cabin.”
She flinched at the c-word. “Me neither, to be honest.”
“I’m sorry. It was my fault we were all there.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. We knew the risks. And terrified as I was in the moment, I’ve always wanted to see a ghost.”
“What do you know about them?” I asked.
She shrugged, and one side of her embroidered shawl slipped off her shoulder. “I’ve picked up a few things from watching Nick.”
She delivered her words in such a matter-of-fact way that I wasn’t sure if she was serious or just sarcastic. In case it was the former, I said nothing and waited for her to continue.
“I think it’s safe to say you’re the expert here,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, then laughed. “Raziel got into my head. I feel stupid talking about this stuff now, like I’m some kind of fake.”
“I’ve seen what you can do. You’re no fraud.”
Coming from a woman who was married to an admitted charlatan, her words carried extra weight. Even so, self-doubt lingered in my mind.
“Every time I try to reach someone, I can’t,” I said. “And I don’t just fail. Horace barges in and—”
“Horace?”
“That’s his name. The spirit who showed up at the cabin.”
“You saw him again?” Daphne’s voice was sharp.
“Earlier this week.” For the fifth time in as many days, I related the events in Raziel’s hotel room and Horace’s request that we retrieve the jewelry box from Cambion’s Camp.
“I drove past there a few months ago,” she said. “Well, past the dirt road leading to it, anyway. I thought about poking around, just to see if the stories were true, but couldn’t stand being in the area. There’s something wrong with those woods.”
“I think we brought it back with us.” I rubbed the back of my head, where the ever-present buzzing remained despite the muting effects of the alcohol. “Do you know Amari Botha?”
Daphne gave me a terse nod, her lips pressed together tightly.
“Oh, right.” Between my headache and the stress of reliving the visit to Cambion’s Camp, I’d momentarily forgotten that Amari and Raziel were probably frequent topics of bitter conversation around the Martin house. “Well, she thinks we brought back a haunted box, like a cursed object. And this will sound crazy, but… I think whatever is in that box is following me around.”
She frowned but didn’t look as frightened at the idea as I felt. Instead, she gazed out her front window for a few silent moments. I twisted in my seat, trying to see what she was looking at, but it looked the same as it had a few minutes before. Brunchers trooped toward the Ace of Cups, and a few speedy eaters meandered back down the walkway, looking at the New Age and occult goods in shop windows as they passed.
Still watching the activity outside, she spoke at last. “Nick told me you want to know how to tell when someone is conning you.”
“Yeah. He wasn’t interested in teaching me.”
“I told him he should.” She looked at me and smiled, but her eyes were sad. “You’re new to this life. It hasn’t even been a year since you started seeing spirits again, right?”
Something about her tone made me feel uncomfortable, like she was bracing me for a blow. “Yeah.”
“I think there’s a period of naïveté we all go through. Years and years ago, when I learned I’m an Empath and started using the cards to channel that energy, I took every other claim of psychic ability at face value. I knew what I was experiencing was genuine. Why would anyone else lie?”
I fiddled with my teacup. That’s exactly how I’d felt since coming to Donn’s Hill.
“I didn’t want to believe it the first time I realized a friend of mine was duping her customers. This was back in Chicago, before we moved here. Nick told me she was full of it, but I
didn’t want to listen. It’s like a bubble bursting. Nothing’s the same once you know not everyone in your community is who they pretend to be.”
“When did you find out Nick was a fraud?” The question flew out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I clapped a hand over my lips.
Daphne grimaced, but didn’t get angry. “Not until last year. I’ve been naïve longer than I’d like to admit. And you’re naïve, too.”
“Stephen told me the same thing.”
“I’ll ask Nick to help you again. You’re too suggestible, Mac. Don’t believe everything you hear.” She leaned back and cradled her teacup between her hands. “Especially if it comes from Amari.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time I’d walked back to Primrose House, my bottom lip was raw and bleeding from being chewed so vigorously. Daphne made it sound like I couldn’t trust anyone. I hated the idea that more people in Donn’s Hill were faking their abilities. It was bad enough that spirits could lie. I had to trust someone.
I took comfort in the knowledge that not everyone in the paranormal community was a scam artist. People like Kit, Yuri, and Mark were true believers, and they used their show to help people. It was noble, not shady. It certainly wasn’t making a ton of money for any of us. In a way, it was insane that we did it at all, especially when so many of the places our work took us ended up being dangerous.
Had it only been two weeks since Kit and I had parked outside the Franklin cabin to plan the séance? She’d been so convinced Raziel was out to destroy the Soul Searchers and everything else in Donn’s Hill. I wanted to laugh at the irony that he’d been the one in danger, but I didn’t have enough emotional energy left to summon so much as a smile.
Donn's Shadow Page 20
