“Very nice to meet you,” I said.
“I understand a case will be filed against you by Michael Bradley.”
“That’s my understanding.”
“As of this morning, nothing has been filed.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Mr. Thibodeaux indicated Mr. Bradley will be claiming a violation of his civil rights, although he didn’t enlighten me as to how you may have violated them.”
“According to Harry, uh, Mr. Thibodeaux, Mr. Bradley will claim I cursed him.”
“Pardon me?”
“A curse.”
“Seriously?”
I sighed and mentally chewed Harry out. I needed a good lawyer, yes, but couldn’t he send me one that knew about psychics? “Seriously. I take it you’ve never dealt with psychics.”
“No.” I watched doubt bloom around him.
“I hope you’re ready to,” I said.
“Mr. Bradley is one of the wealthiest people in the world. He’s going to come out publicly and claim you cursed him?”
“Looks that way.”
“Did you?”
“Am I protected under attorney-client privilege?” I asked, knowing my question answered his.
“Yes.”
“Well then, that’s not completely accurate, but yes.”
“I think you better tell me everything.”
So, I told him the whole damn story. The gray in his aura divulged that he didn’t believe me, but I guess doubting one’s clients comes with an attorney’s job description. To his credit, he didn’t try to have me committed to the psych ward. Even better, he acted as if everything I told him was the absolute truth.
“When the cops arrived where you had been held captive, did they arrest anyone?”
“I don’t know. I was unconscious. Miriam and the boys might be able to tell you,” I said.
“Don’t discuss the case with anyone—that includes your friends and relatives. I don’t want the plaintiff to have any ammunition or ability to get to anyone as a potential witness. If no one knows anything, they can’t say anything.”
“I already told them that I gave the curse to Mr. Bradley.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then made a note on his legal pad.
“Have you told her anything else?”
“No, but Miriam doesn’t need me to tell her anything.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Miriam’s a telepath. I don’t need to tell her—she can read my mind. But she wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
Mr. Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose again and sighed. “How many psychics do you know?”
“Quite a few. I do psychic work for a living.”
“What exactly is it you do?” His head was still bowed, his fingers still on his nose.
“I help negotiate contracts. I work with therapists and their patients, pretty much anything involving emotions. But most of the time, I negotiate deals with the gods.”
“Gods. Plural.”
“Correct.”
He dropped his hand to his lap and looked up briefly as if to ask why he found himself in these types of messes. The door to my room opened, and Miriam and the boys entered carrying Starbucks coffee cups. They slowed and stopped their conversation when they saw Mr. Wesley.
“Come on in,” I called out to them. “Mr. Wesley, this is my best friend, Miriam Rowan.”
“The telepath?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “and these are my children, Sean and Ethan Schaffer.”
Mr. Wesley rose and shook hands. He dwarfed everyone in the room.
“Mr. Wesley is my lawyer,” I said. “He’s trying to wrap his head around psychic phenomena.”
“It’s quite a bit to wrap one’s head around,” he said.
“Why would Harry recommend a lawyer unschooled in the paranormal?” Miriam asked. “No offense,” she added to Mr. Wesley.
“None taken.” He sat back down and rubbed his hands over his face.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Miriam handed me one of the coffee cups they had brought in, and I thanked her. The coffee cup was warm, and I curled my hands around it. The scent wafted up through the hole in the lid, and the flavor danced on my tongue. The warmth spread from my hands to my belly.
“Ms. Rowan,” Mr. Wesley said, bringing me out of my coffee euphoria, “was anyone arrested when the police arrived at the home where Ms. Byrne was held captive?”
“They handcuffed Mr. Bradley, but I don’t know if they arrested him,” Miriam said.
I looked at the boys and they both shook their heads. They didn’t know either. “What about Rick?” I asked.
“Rick?” Miriam said. “Who’s Rick?”
“The other man in the house,” I said.
“There wasn’t another man in the house,” Miriam said.
“You told me there were two men there,” Mr. Wesley said.
“There were two men. They were talking about what to do with me. Rick didn’t want me killed right away. He threatened to mess with Mr. Bradley’s memories.” I stopped talking, as what I’d just said fully hit me. Rick could mask memories; that meant he could ensure no one remembered he was even there.
“There’s a guy who can change memories?” Sean said.
“When I came to in the house, I only remembered marrying Rick. I didn’t remember anything else. But later, the rest of my memories came back. I still remembered marrying him, but it didn’t fit with the other memories.”
“You married the guy?” Ethan asked.
“No! He must have implanted that memory.”
“So, he doesn’t change memories,” Sean said. “He adds and deletes them.”
“But my memories came back, so he must not be able to remove them. He must hide them somehow.”
“How did you get them back?” Ethan asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe the akasha gave me some ability to counteract it.”
“Akasha?” said Sean. “Why would you take that?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” I said, “If none of you remember Rick, he must have masked your memories. And if the cops didn’t handcuff him, he must have messed with theirs as well.
“Mr. Wesley,” I said, “what do I do now?”
“I’m still trying to . . .” He sat down and set his notebook in his lap and shook his head. “Psychics.”
“Would you like a demonstration?” Miriam said.
“What? Now?”
She nodded.
He shrugged, obviously not believing her. “Why not?”
“Think about something specific. Not the normal, everyday stuff. Don’t think about breakfast or picking up the dry cleaning. Think about something only those close to you would know.”
He closed his eyes and sat silently for a moment, then nodded his head. “Okay.”
“Your sister. It was just the two of you. Your mom worked two, no, three jobs. You protected her growing up in a tough neighborhood.” A smile broke across Miriam’s face. “She was adorable! You used to put her hair in pigtails. You two grew apart though . . .” The smile slid from her face and she laid her hand gently on Mr. Wesley’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head roughly and blinked his eyes open. “Sorry about what?”
“She died.”
“Where?”
“In jail.”
“Why?”
“She was accused of killing her . . . pimp.”
He nodded. “And?”
“Some inmates killed her.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “I broke contact. I thought you didn’t want me to see. Thought that you slid into the bad memories after thinking of her. I would have broken it sooner, but sometimes I can’t leave quickly enough.”
“Again.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do it again. Give me a minute.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded and closed his eyes. “Okay.”
Mi
riam glanced at me, worried, and then looked back at Mr. Wesley. “You were married in a community church far away from where you lived. You’d driven all night after you talked to the minister on the phone. It was a Sunday morning, before services. He didn’t want to do it, but you paid him enough that he could keep his soup kitchen going, so he agreed. He didn’t want to know how you’d gotten the money and you didn’t want to tell him. It was just you, your wife, your best friend, and the minister. You didn’t want anyone to know you’d gotten married.”
Mr. Wesley cleared his throat and opened his eyes. His right hand touched his bare ring finger once and then he met Miriam’s eyes. “Thank you.”
They looked at each other for a long moment and then Miriam dropped her gaze. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked from the room. Tears were standing in her eyes.
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh, Mr. Wesley?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Ms. Byrne. Now we wait until the charges are filed. Then we respond and see if we can negotiate a settlement. If we can’t, we prepare for trial.”
“You believe me now?” The doubt wasn’t entirely gone, but it had become so pale I might have missed it had I not seen it earlier.
“I have some things to think over.”
“But you’ll represent me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell me how Mr. Thibodeaux found me.”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
“Is he psychic too?”
“I didn’t use to think so, but now I don’t know.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve learned some things that have made me question that.” I paused, connecting some dots. “It would make sense given the information he can get his hands on.”
“Why don’t you just ask your friend to check him out?”
“I wouldn’t put her in that position.”
He cocked his head as if he wanted me to continue.
I frowned, figuring out a way to phrase it. “It would be ethically compromising.”
“Explain that.”
“She doesn’t want to invade people’s privacy. Unless she has permission, and in a few other situations, she tries to not read anyone.”
“What other situations?”
“She uses it before she answers the phone. And she tells people she’s close to that she can’t always turn it all off. Sometimes things come through even when she’s not trying. She read Mr. Bradley without his permission probably because she sensed something dangerous in what I had picked up from him. So, I’d say she also uses it to keep people she loves safe.”
He nodded and circled back around. “If you find out how Mr. Thibodeaux discovered me, I’d appreciate it if you shared that with me.”
I nodded. “So, there’s nothing more we can do about . . . the case?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing until something has been filed.”
“If we lose, will I have to go to jail?” I swallowed and grimaced at the knot as it forced its way to my stomach.
“No. This would be a civil case, not a criminal case. If the district attorney files charges, then it’s a criminal case.”
“Will the DA file charges?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. There’s no precedent for”—he paused—“curses.”
“If I don’t go to jail, what could happen?”
“He’ll probably ask for monetary damages.”
“One of the wealthiest men in the world is going to take me to court to get more money? I don’t have any money for him to take.” Well, I didn’t have much.
“In this case, he probably wants justice. He wants to ruin your reputation or hurt you any way he can.”
“Just great.” A thought dawned on me. “Do I have to stay in Las Vegas?”
“No. You can go home. You’ll get served when the charges are filed. When that happens, call me.” Mr. Wesley pulled out his wallet, removed a business card, and handed it to me.
“I’m sorry you had to come all this way,” I said.
“It’s not a problem. Given the unusual nature of this case, it’s good I got to meet you in person,” he said, “and Mr. Thibodeaux paid for this consultation.”
“What?!” I said. “He told me you would take the case pro bono.”
Mr. Wesley chuckled. “I didn’t believe him when he told me that, but he was right.”
“Why?”
“Because this has the potential to be high profile. That will allow me to use public opinion to help my clients. And”—Mr. Wesley glanced up at the door—“you’re the kind of person I got into business to defend.”
“I’m sorry?”
He shook his head. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“How are you coming with the psychic stuff?”
He glanced at the door again. “I’m convinced of her ability. But expanding that to general psychic phenomena is a stretch.”
Gods, sometimes I was slow. I could introduce him to my brand of psychic ability as well. I rarely took people to other realms; most don’t advocate well for themselves, and keeping them away from the negotiations is better, so I didn’t even think of it. “Would you like to see one of the god realms?”
Mr. Wesley blinked at me, uncomprehending for a few seconds. “You can do that?”
“Only in spirit. Your body would stay here.”
He raised his eyes, looked at the ceiling, and shook his head. “The things I get myself into,” he said to himself and looked at me. “Sure. Why not?”
“I’ll need to hold your hand.”
He shrugged and dragged the chair next to my bed and sat down. He opened his hand and held it out, palm up. I set my coffee down and looked at him.
“Do you have a preference on where we go?”
“Surprise me.”
I grasped what I could of his hand and closed my eyes. It took only moments to think of the Hill Realm. I turned and pulled him along with me. As always, the meadow was lush and dotted with wildflowers. Trees of every variety surrounded the field. The air was sweet, and the leaves of the trees rustled and sighed in the breeze. I raised my face to the sky without opening my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nose. The air was cold on my bare legs and I was again happy for the updated hospital gowns. I wondered why I always wore in spirit what I was wearing physically and why I couldn’t change it.
“Where, exactly, are we?” Mr. Wesley’s voice brought me back to myself.
“The land where the Celtic deities live,” I said.
“So, if the gods live here, where are they?”
“I don’t know. When I’d like to work with them, I call them.”
“You call gods too?”
“Well, it’s more like I ask for their presence. And, in this case, it would be a less pressing request.”
He nodded and raised his hand as if to tell me to continue.
A friend I bring
To the mundane he clings
With doubt he stands
His world expands
One kind and just
We entrust
To whom it please
Place him at ease
A middle-aged man slowly materialized in front of us like a Polaroid picture. He wore a brown tunic that showed quite a bit of his chest and, thankfully, reached past his knees. He wasn’t wearing pants. A crow perched upon his shoulder, and an enormous mallet rested at his feet. He was the size of a large man, but he looked small next to Mr. Wesley. My breath caught in my throat. Holy helhiem, the Dagda had decided to grace us with his presence—the damned head of the Celtic pantheon. I avoided the most powerful of the deities on purpose—they scared the crap out of me.
I stared at him for a moment and then snapped my mouth closed. I stammered a time or two before I got something appropriate out of my mouth. “Well met, Dagda,” I said and lowered myself into a curtsy.
Mr. Wesley stood beside me, and I lightly tapped his shin. He looked down at me. I mouthed the word “bow.” When he
did so, I raised myself up.
“Mr. Wesley, I present you to the Dagda, king of the Celtic gods.” I turned to the Dagda. “Mr. Wesley is my lawyer.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Wesley put out his hand.
I had a moment of panic before the Dagda grasped Mr. Wesley’s hand.
“You worry too much,” the god said to me. “I’ve not been to the world of men much of late, but I have paid attention.”
I took the comment as a warning and schooled my face. “I meant no insult. Some enjoy the new ways, and some are more comfortable with the old. The new ways can bring offense to those preferring the old.”
The Dagda pursed his lips and nodded. Mr. Wesley looked from me to the Dagda and back again.
“What does being king of the Celtic gods entail?” Mr. Wesley said.
I didn’t slap my hand to my face, but it was close. What Mr. Wesley asked could be construed as questioning a god’s worthiness. I knew he meant nothing by the question; he simply wanted to open a line of conversation, but I felt the need to step in. I didn’t want to get him killed on his first trip to the Hill Realm. “Mr. Wesley would like to know how the king chooses to spend his time.”
Mr. Wesley glanced at me and back at the Dagda again, as if he were still trying to wrap his head around the dynamic between the two of us. “Actually, I was hoping to find out what duties the king of gods has. It’s a concept I’ve not been introduced to.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but words failed me. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, and looked at the god, hoping he wouldn’t fry us where we stood.
The Dagda roared with laughter. “I haven’t had this much fun in centuries.”
I curtsied and carefully brought the conversation around to something that was less inflammatory. We’d dodged one bullet and I didn’t want to try for another. “This is Mr. Wesley’s first visit to a god realm. As my calling suggested, he hoped to meet and interact with one of the gods or goddesses. We didn’t expect such as you to answer our modest calling.”
“What you hoped and what he hoped were two different things.”
Despite my better judgment, I couldn’t resist the obvious question. “What did he hope for?”
“To be convinced.” The Dagda winked at me. He actually winked at me.
I paid more attention to wiping emotion from my face. The Dagda might appear to be a middle-aged man in a brown tunic, but I knew he was much more than that. He could give or take away life with the mallet that rested at his feet, and probably with his will alone. I had no idea what he’d meant by the wink, and that made me nervous. “Mr. Wesley means no disrespect. He, like many, hasn’t personally witnessed the power of the gods.”
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