“You must be good and lost, girl,” one of them called out, and the other laughed, a thick, hoarse cackle.
Maybe she was lost. Her mind, anyway, if she had come out here looking for a way out of her delusions of romance. Or, if she was honest with herself, looking for a way to jump into them more fully. Why couldn’t she find a psychic uptown in Smiley Heights? She might still be fearing for her sanity up there, but at least she wouldn’t have this crawling sensation along her spine, the need to shoot glances behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She had searched for other mediums in the area, once she’d gotten the email confirming her A on the final. There had been palmists and tarot readers closer to home, but none had called out to her. Many got scathing comments on the Internet. Stella Banks, meanwhile, had a low rent address but high rate reviews—though admittedly, not many. Still, that and the cut on her finger had been enough to prompt an appointment.
Two more businesses, another behind a cage, the second boarded up with graffiti-spattered plywood, and then there was finally one with signs of life. Cigars, cigarettes, beer and wine, read the sign, and painted crudely in the front window, e-cigs now here.
Footsteps hit the pavement behind her, and her heart sped. She spun around automatically, not pleased to see a man following her with a hard-set jaw, a jean jacket over a black hoodie, which was pulled up over his head, and narrow eyes that targeted her without apology.
She whirled around and spotted a neon eye that matched the ad on the train. “Thank god,” she whispered, and she picked up her pace. So did the boots behind her.
The psychic was not ensconced in one of the shop fronts, where she would pull down the cage at night. The neon flashed in the window of an old house, Craftsman style, with a wide porch a few steps up from the narrow path that led to the sidewalk. Cadence almost broke into a run to make the last few feet before turning up that path, creaking up the wooden steps onto the scarred wooden porch. The boot steps stopped, and for a moment, she felt a rising panic that almost whirled her around in fear that he would be right behind her. She pulled open the screen and raised her hand to knock on the green door, but it opened before she managed it.
“Come in,” the woman said. “You’re right on time.”
Cadence blinked and bustled through the doorway, feeling a swell of relief when she made it inside.
“Hey there, Eddie,” the woman called out, and Cadence turned to look past the eye in the window to where the man had stopped in front of the path.
He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and put his head down, mumbling to himself as he skittered off.
“It’s that eye,” she said, closing the door and nodding to the sign that was blinking with a wavering neon pink and blue glow. “Keeps ’em nervous. The ones who might come here for something other than a reading look elsewhere to make trouble. They’re scared to hear what I might know about their demons.” She took a breath. “But you’re here about angels, not demons. I’m Stella, by the way, but you already knew that from when you phoned. Come and let’s sit down, see if we can’t figure out this visitation of yours.”
Cadence’s eyes widened. She hadn’t mentioned why she was calling for the appointment-none of it. Yet the woman already knew she’d been visited by an angel.
“You’re the real deal,” she muttered.
Stella laughed. “Yes, but a real what? Sometimes I wonder.”
Her voice drifted upward, young and carefree, a voice that hadn’t given Cadence a clue over the phone that her appointment was with someone easily forty years or more her senior. Stella’s eyes, a soft dove gray, twinkled with her easy smile, still wide and shiny with the wonder of childhood despite well-traveled age lines that struck out from the corners. Short, but thick gray hair framed the weathered face, hugging the lines of her chin with fluffy waves. Jeans and a white blouse made for a sensible, at-home ensemble, which Cadence hadn’t expected. What exactly she thought a psychic would look like, she didn’t know. Long black hair, maybe. Wearing robes, or flowing skirts and a turban.
Stella’s hand, kissed by liver spots and raised ropes of twisted veins, gestured ahead, and Cadence glanced around the front room as they moved into the hall. The area here was more of a shop than a home, with tables and hanging display racks of books and jewelry, crystals, candles, and aromatherapy. The latter perfumed the space with soothing tones of lavender and spice.
She stopped at a table of figurines and eyed a small porcelain sculpture. The male wore a loose robe, with flowing hair and wings that arched upward, curved toward one another.
“That’s Michael,” Stella said. “Look familiar?”
“No,” Cadence replied, and she hurried off.
Musty oak floorboards creaked beneath their feet while Stella led her down a short hallway, past a staircase with spindle railings and an eclectic assortment of artwork hanging on the walls. Bold abstracts, muted landscapes, and a portrait, done in a Wonderland sort of skewed perspective. The thought hit Cadence without even having to peer closer to see the signature.
“Did you paint these?”
They paused at a door. “I did indeed. Not bad, Cadence. You have a bit of the insight.”
She gave a quick snort. “Not enough to make sense of what’s happening to me.”
“We are often far more attuned to frequencies outside our own thoughts. We can read things that sit outside our personal bubbles, but about ourselves?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Much more difficult. Come in.”
Again she gestured, and Cadence moved past her into a small, but cozy den. Again, not what she expected. She figured maybe one of those poker tables with many sides, draped with a velvet cloth. Instead, the space was clustered with an intimate gathering of antique furnishings that fit the style of the house, yet were relaxed with easy lines and inviting, earthy tones that beckoned one to sit and converse. A fireplace sat nearby, but no flames crackled in the grate. It was mid-May, not the chill days of winter. More artwork hung here of a more traditional sort that matched the color tones of the room. Sunshine spilled through a large bay window that cradled a cushioned seat with damask pillows tossed and there. Bookshelves framed the charmed space, making the nook a perfect spot for an afternoon of reading.
“You like to read?” Stella asked. She’d apparently been watching Cadence’s assessment of the room.
“I used to. But I hardly have time nowadays.”
“School can suck the life out of reading for enjoyment,” Stella said.
“I never said anything about school.”
Stella shrugged. “College won’t last forever. Have a seat anywhere you like.”
The window seat beckoned, but with a sigh, Cadence chose a wingback chair that faced a small love seat.
“You deny yourself simple pleasures.” Stella said across from her. “It helps you feel like you’re being responsible.”
“Not really. I just figure I shouldn’t go around acting on whims. I won’t get anywhere in life.”
“And yet you also feel a responsibility to give in sometimes. Let your hair down, enjoy something for the sheer pleasure of it. That’s a lot of what your night with him was about, wasn’t it? But now you’re struggling with it.”
Her pulse quickened. “How do you know all this stuff? We barely even spoke on the phone, and I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Some of it’s just observation. Like watching you connect emotionally with the window seat, but then select the stiffest chair in the room.”
“Okay, but how could you have observed that I’d been visited? And that stuff about angels?”
“No idea. I just open my mouth and ‘stuff’ comes out.”
“Come on. Really.”
“I’ve no better way to explain it.”
“That’s just weird.”
“Especially since I wasn’t born like this. It started after I got hit on the head.”
Cadence’s mouth fell open. “You what?”
“I had a car accident y
ears ago before seat belt laws. My head hit the windshield. Lucky for me, I didn’t die. But I started muttering nonsense, or at least, what sounded like nonsense to me. People were shocked and often offended. One nurse refused to take care of me after I said something. To this day I can’t remember what I told her. A close friend pointed out that the things I blurted out were true—and often secret. I knew things about people, even if we’d never met.”
“That’s amazing,” Cadence said. “And a little freaky, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Oh trust me, I definitely felt like a freak. Doctors had no clue how I did it, though a couple didn’t believe me even after a demonstration. Sometimes science doesn’t have all the answers, which you have probably learned from your forensic studies.”
She opened her mouth to ask, but shut it again.
“Let me have your hand.”
Cadence stuck hers out, palm up, expecting to hear something about having a long lifeline and a dark stranger in her future. Stella smiled and took it, covering it with her own.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, letting out a little gasp. She squeezed her hand tighter. “He’s so pale, almost luminous.”
“You can see him?” Cadence whispered. “Is he real?”
“And his wings—larger than I would have thought. They allow him to do his duty.”
“What duty?”
“I’m not sure. Something to do with the barrier. He has to seal the barrier to avoid chaos.”
Her eyes widened. “He said he needed me to help him seal the veil between worlds.”
Stella appeared to digest that, and then she nodded. “You combined energy.”
“Something like that.”
“No, it was exactly like that. In the metaphysical sense, at least. For you, it was something quite different. He was your first?”
She nodded, her face warming.
“And you’d never seen him before.”
“I know that sounds bad.”
“It sounds remarkable. You helped a supernatural being to safeguard the planet. Yet you feel it was irresponsible of you to take pleasure from the memory.”
“No, I don’t.” Did she?
“Part of you wants him to be real because you want to see him again. But you’re also afraid you’re going crazy. So by proving that he really did visit you, you can assure yourself that all the pressure you’ve been under didn’t drive you around the bend. You don’t want to be like her.”
Cadence yanked her hand away. “I’m nothing like her.”
Stella came to Cadence and dropped to her knees, holding her face between her hands. They were eye to eye this way, and she studied her soberly. “No, you’re not. You are nothing like her. Not in the ways you’re afraid of.”
Tears blurred her vision of Stella, but she blinked them away and sniffed. “I know.”
She wondered how much Stella knew of what she was saying, and who she was saying it about. Her sister had been vibrant and hopeful once, making plans for the future. Then came the phone call about the drunk driving accident. Prudence was her name, but the meaning had escaped her younger sister completely. She had been a wild child trapped in a grownup’s body, and Cadence was forever living the consequences.
“Then there’s the real kicker,” Stella went on. “If you discover he’s real, it means that you slept with a man—a being—you didn’t know. He awakened you to a life away from driving yourself to succeed, made you see that there is more to you than responsibility and proving you’re not your sister. Then he left you hanging, and you aren’t sure how to go back to the life you had before. At least, not without wondering what else is out there for you.”
Cadence stared over Stella’s head out the window. The way the woman summed up her life made all sorts of thoughts bounce around pinball-style in her head. Thoughts of rebuttal, denial, and justification zipped around, looking for a way out of her mouth. The problem was, deep down, she knew the psychic was right. She had made one mistake years ago that she—and her sister—were still paying for.
“You have feelings for him already,” Stella said, shaking Cadence from her thoughts. “Even though you believe you shouldn’t.”
“How could I? Jorandil and I didn’t even know each other.”
“You knew each other in the most intimate way two souls can. He touched something deep inside of you—and you him. He has been taken for the same wild ride. There’s no denying that you and Jorandil are connected now.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “If we can’t find a way to contact him.”
“The question is, what will you do if we succeed?”
“I just want to talk to him.”
A skeptical look crossed the woman’s features. “Is that all.”
She sighed. “I want Jorandil to say he chose me for a reason. That our night together meant something to him, and that he still thinks about me and wants to see me again. I want him to say he’ll come back and won’t leave this time.”
“And what then? What would your life be like it you take an angel as your lover? What would the future hold?”
“I have no idea. Which I confess both scares and excites me.”
“Ah.” Stella rose. “Then there’s hope for you yet.”
“Can you do it? Can you help me get in touch with him?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. That sort of thing isn’t my area.”
“You’ve done it before. Your advertising says so.”
“I can sometimes put a loved one in touch with the spirit of someone who is departed. It doesn’t always work, and I make no bones about that. But you’re not asking me to put you in touch with a human who has crossed over. You want to speak to a being from a whole other realm. Those are uncharted waters for me.”
“But you’ll try, right?”
The smile erupted again, and for a brief moment, washed away the trepidation. “Of course we can try.”
“Is there some kind of seance room you use for this sort of thing?”
“Nope. Right here will do just fine.”
She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Not sure what to do, Cadence did the same.
“Okay,” Stella said. “Scoot your chair closer.”
She did as instructed, and Stella grabbed her hands. “Close your eyes and focus your energy on Jorandil. Concentrate on his presence, every aspect of what it felt like to have him in the room. Picture him coming forward, through time and space, to be here.” She took another deep breath. “Here we go.”
Cadence settled into her thoughts, which were quite ready to drum up an image of Jorandil. She’d done little else since he’d visited her, so his face, his powerful body, floated without effort into her consciousness. Every aspect of him, Stella had said. She inhaled, imagining she was taking in his warm, spicy-sweet aroma. Warmth spread over her, and she pictured it was his essence, the tingling fire of his presence. His smile, his touch as he stroked her cheek, everything that she knew of him swelled up to fill the space around her.
A crash sounded in the other room, and Stella jumped up. Cadence’s eyes flew open and she jerked around in her seat. “Could it be?” she murmured.
“Come out here, you bitch,” a man shouted. Another crash.
Cadence froze. It was most definitely not the man she sought.
“Stay here,” Stella said.
Cadence grabbed her hands. “Don’t go out there.”
“I have no intention of it.” She crossed the room and picked up a cell phone lying on the desk.
Someone was making a mess of the store out front, and she glanced at the door to the den, wishing it was closed. And locked. She got up slowly, her legs wobbling, and started toward it when the crashing came closer. Then she backed up and made her way to Stella.
“No signal,” Stella whispered, holding up the phone and moving it around in the air while she peered at the display.
“I’ll try.” Cadence pulled the phone from her own jacket pocket. One bar. She praye
d while dialing.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” came a voice.
“Where are you, oh Knower of All?” said the man before she could reply. The voice was closer now, too close.
Cadence’s heart jumped. “Help us, please,” she whispered into the phone.
Floorboards squeaked under hard footsteps. Earlier, she’d heard footsteps behind her and had been afraid until she’d made it to Stella’s. She had felt secure here, warm and safe. But she wasn’t.
The footsteps stopped, and she slipped the phone back in her pocket, wondering whether the operator would hear anything going on. Or maybe the signal would cut out entirely.
“Stella,” the man said, appearing at the entrance to the den. “We need to talk.”
The intruder was tall and lean, with a bloodshot ferocity in his green eyes. His baggy clothes were unkempt, his face unshaven and littered with days’ worth of reddish-brown stubble. His bulk now filled the doorway—along with something far more alarming.
He had a gun in his hand.
***
The guard stood before a wrinkled-looking iron door. “Costeros does not receive visitors,” he said. Keen gray eyes and embossed metal armor gleamed in the harsh light coming from a single source—an old-style Travateen crystal. The armor would be solid iron, no doubt. Such was necessary when dealing with a master of mystical arts who happened to be part fae.
“What is the purpose of this visit?”
“Herne wishes to make certain of the prisoner’s security and state of being.”
The guard eyed him. “And so he sends the god of Beltane?”
Jorandil folded his arms. “He sends a trusted son.” His voice almost stuttered over the word, for if his father ever found out what he had done, there would be no question that the trust between them would shatter. “Or do you think his appointed sabbat keepers are put away in a box all year until they are needed for one task?”
The guard didn’t move. “You can assure Herne that the prisoner is secure. All precautions have been taken, right down to the use of iron foodware for his meals. He has access to nothing that would allow him to do magic.”
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 5
