Oracle: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Series (A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery Book 1)

by Carissa Andrews

  “Okay, I need you to take a seat and hold out your hands,” I tell him, pointing at the chair he’d kicked aside.

  He does so without question, though I can tell he doesn’t understand why. His brain is on overload, but curiosity and a glimmer of hope starts to take seed.

  As he holds out his hands, I slide mine underneath—the receiving mode—so our palms touch. Instantly, I see the man’s face, the last interaction between the three of them. Through the energy transfer, there are glimpses of truth behind the puppy peddler, not the assumptions made by Ted. His name is…

  I tilt my head slightly, as I reach out for it.

  Burt? Brent?

  Yes, Brent.

  He’s in his mid-forties but has a developmental delay of some sort. His mental age is still much younger. He loves puppies. And he loves little girls. Only recently has he learned to use one to get the other.

  My eyes flip open.

  “We don’t have much time. Your suspicions about Brent are spot on. He has a thing for little girls. He wasn’t a bad guy, not at first, but something has snapped. Maybe he’s off meds or something. We’ll need to act quickly, before the trail goes fully cold,” I say.

  Lacy’s eyes widen and she clutches the necklace to her chest as she holds back tears.

  Ted nods, “He always comes out of the small apartment complex by the park. It’s possible he lives there but the police found nothing when they canvassed.”

  “This helps, though. Now we have a name. You need to get to the police department and tell them to find Brent for questioning. I wasn’t able to get a last name. I think he must go by a few different names… It’s too muddy. But it should help them narrow it down when they talk to the landlord. I’ll call my guy at the PD and give him a heads up. Ask for Detective Radovich when you get there and tell him you’ve just been to see me. He’ll know what to do,” I say.

  Goosebumps flash up and down my body and the last thing I want to do is follow the line of energy further.

  I hate people.

  I hate knowing good people turn bad. Bad people pretend to be good.

  I hate knowing sometimes there’s nothing I can do to stop bad things from happening.

  And if they don’t hurry, bad things are definitely going to get worse.

  2

  I WISH I COULD SHUT MY MIND the hell up sometimes. Instead, my thoughts refuse to stray far from the couple who came in earlier in the day and the little girl still missing. I gotta know if they’ve raided the apartment building yet. Has the detective been able to ascertain anything useful? Did they find the girl? During the slower moments of my day, I reach out, trying to sense what’s happening, but nothing is certain. I take it as a sign things are more complicated than anyone would like.

  In all honesty—if it wasn’t about a child, I couldn’t care less. But as much as I hate to admit it, there are actually some things in this world that can melt this ice-queen’s heart. Even though I’ve never had any of my own, kids hurt or missing happen to top the list.

  After a long day of saying most of the same old bullshit over and over—because, let’s face it, most humans aren’t all that complicated—Renaldo finally manages to cut off the stream of those wishing for a word.

  “I ordered those chains and whips,” he grins enthusiastically, clicking the deadlock into place. “They’ll be in on Thursday.”

  His perfectly plucked eyebrows wiggle in rhythm with his butt.

  I shake my head and grin. At least he’s able to be upbeat.

  “Whatever you say. I trust your judgement with all this nonsense,” I say, walking back into my reading room. He follows as I grab my previously soaked stocking off the radiator and pull it over my foot. “Thanks for doing it, though. Do you have any plans tonight?”

  Renaldo sighs dramatically.

  “Oh, I wish. We’ll probably be staying in with a bottle of wine and Netflix on the ready. Again. How about you?” he asks, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

  “Absolutely nothing, and it’s going to be glorious,” I say, exhaling.

  “Any news on the little one?” Renaldo says, his tone edging on serious, as he scrunches his nose and squints nervously my direction.

  I shake my head.

  “Nothing yet but give it time. The police are on it,” I say.

  “Yeah, ‘cause they’re so great at finding the bad guys these days,” he snickers. “That’s gotta be hard for you—knowing bad things are happening or could get worse—and not being able to personally intervene. At least, not without going all vigilante.”

  Images of Batman flash through my mind.

  My eyes widen and my lips purse to cut off a snicker. As much as I say I hate the mundane bullshit most days bring, he’s right. I hate knowing when something is really wrong and not being able to step in. Turning it over to the authorities can be one of the most difficult things to do. But then again, I’ve seen what happens the other way around, too.

  “Yeah, it pretty much sucks,” I finally admit. Biting my lip, I cast my gaze to the floor.

  “Hey, you could become a superhero or something. Can I make a costume? Ooooh, tights. A cape,” he says, clapping.

  “M’kay, on that note… See you tomorrow, Ren. On time, this time. Yeah?” I say, quirking a smile.

  I catch his gaze, then lower my eyebrows and squint at him, knowing it will make absolutely zero impact.

  “You bet, super boss o’ mine,” he tips his chin, grinning sheepishly.

  “Thanks for closing up shop,” I say, casting a final wave.

  “Oh, wait. That’s my job?” he says in mock surprise, fingertips pressing against his chest.

  “Goodnight,” I call out without another glance back.

  I slip out the back door of the small cottage I rent as my place of occupation and take in the aroma of dusk. There’s a magic in the air during these twilight hours. This is my favorite time of day. The earth’s scent is sweet, and the cool breeze of evening is starting to settle in. It’s similar during dawn, but there’s something enchanting about the coming of night and the rising of the moon.

  The beautiful crescent is already peeking through the clouds, and acknowledging it makes me smile.

  “Waxing phase,” I mutter to myself.

  Just a week and a half to the full moon.

  I like to keep tabs on where the moon phase is. It helps me to orient myself to the cycles of nature. Besides, it’s kind of my job as a psychic, I suppose. There are plenty of people who have expectations of such things, as dorky as it might sound. All it takes is one Wiccan to walk in and ask when the best moon phase is for starting a ritual or some damn thing. Besides, there are instances where moon placement truly is crucial.

  Already, the energy of the moon pulls on me… but the last full moon’s events seep in, dragging on my already burdened mind and I wish I could release them and be done with it. My body tenses with the anguish tied to the memory of that night. It certainly didn’t go as planned.

  Mental note—I better check in with Demetri again.

  I wish he’d answer my damn calls. We never should have attempted diverting the damn Violet Flame invocation…

  Talk about stupid.

  “This is ridiculous, Diana. It’s happened—there’s nothing you can do now,” I whisper to myself.

  Taking a deep breath, I press onward.

  The walk home is surprisingly enjoyable, despite the cooler, early February air. Could certainly be worse. I could be in one of those godforsaken places where the wind hurts your face and white shit covers the ground this time of year. I’ve never figured out what would drive a person to live where there’s seven months of snow. Who signs up for that willingly?

  Shuddering to myself, I pass the neighborhood park where kids are still out and about, squealing as they chase one another. Ordinarily, I would continue to hurry on my way so I can wrap myself in the silence of my living room. But today, I stop and really watch—my eyes scanning the children playing and
running about.

  Casting my gaze to the tufts of brownish green grass and puddles, I can’t help but see the little girl’s face. The family never divulged a photo, but I didn’t need it. She’s as clear to me as if she were standing beside me. Her bright brown, inquisitive eyes are what haunt me most.

  I’ll check back in with Detective Radovich when I get home.

  Turning on my heel, I pull my sweatshirt a bit tighter. Before I know it, I climb up the front steps to my small, but adorable house. You’d think it was a granny’s house from the outside, but I don’t care. I love the pink embellishments, and ornate ironworks. They remind me of something I can’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it simply reminds me every day the universe is still a mystery on some levels—even to me. Because why else would those two things ever go together?

  With my key in hand, I reach for the door, only to have the handle ripped from my grasp. As the intruder flings open the door, he pushes me aside with a sweep of his broad arm. I slam hard against the iron railing adorning the front stoop, and pain radiates from the middle of my back, down my left leg. Oddly enough, I get no impression of who he is—nothing about him at all, as I instantly push my abilities out in search of who the hell would be in my damn house without permission.

  Nothing. A big fat zilch.

  Twisting around, I catch a glimpse of him before he disappears from sight. I might not be able to ID him with my gifts, but I recognize his perfectly shaped ass as it runs away.

  It’s the same damn guy from this morning. Clearly, he has a thing for trying to topple me over.

  Wow. I’m really off my game.

  Either that, or he’s deliberately warded from me.

  Had I not been so preoccupied with my own thoughts, maybe I would have been able to do something to apprehend the dude. Then again, who expects someone to come bounding outta their house when they live alone?

  What in the hell could he possibly have been looking for?

  Truthfully, nothing I own would be of any consequence to me if it were stolen—not being allowed to have a true past will do that to you, I suppose. However, the idea someone bothered to break into my house—and not just someone—the same guy who nearly knocked me into the street…now that makes me curious.

  I push forward, gaining a more solid footing in my entryway and try to focus. The guy’s scent is familiar, but off somehow—like he’s tried to alter it with too much cologne.

  Pushing past the empty darkness as I attempt to play in his mind, I start seeing glimpses—flashes of knives—ancient ones with runes or something written along the side, an explosion—blood. Lots and lots of blood. The images are old, like they belong in an ancient memory; blurred and obscured. I take a deep breath, letting the world fall away.

  Reaching out with my all of my senses, I search the impending darkness as it threatens to consume me for going where I’m not wanted. A moment later, the door to the memories slams shut. My abilities shut down, and I’m left grasping nothing but air—like every time I try to access my own damn memories. But it’s never happened when I try to read someone else’s.

  Interesting.

  I look down the road, trying to get another glimpse of the man—only to find myself dizzy and disoriented. Stumbling myself inside, I close my door, and have a seat on the couch. The exertion it takes to really dig in—it’s almost too much at times. Especially when the impressions are blocked.

  Once the room stops spinning, I stand up and make my way slowly to the small kitchen. It’s barely big enough to open the cupboard doors without smacking into the other side, but I sorta love the coziness of it. I open the refrigerator, clutch the chocolate bar I’d been saving for when I’m PMSing, and rip open the wrapper. I need to get my blood sugar back up and this is as good a way as any. Besides, it has caramel in it, so ya can’t beat that.

  I take a big bite and edge slowly along, clutching the gray countertop until I can take a seat at the breakfast bar. Before I even settle in, I have another bite of chocolate in my mouth, and my head thumps down onto the cold, hard Formica. Colors roll into one another as my system tries to reset.

  After all this time, I still don’t understand why some uses of my gifts will drain me this way. While others—the incessant, stupid cupid matches, for example—I could do for hours on end. It’s annoying. Someone out there is laughing maniacally knowing they set me up this way.

  There was a time when it wouldn’t matter that I was helping people with their trivial problems. That was a loooong time ago. But good God almighty, it’s getting old dealing with the same old boring questions day in and day out for as long as I have.

  I’d give my left boob to finally be able to answer some of my own damn questions for a change. Today, I’d start with who the hell that guy is and why the hell was he in my house.

  Then I’d track his sorry ass down and make him buy me a new shoe and fork up the cash for some cranial massage work because, damn, my head is killing me.

  I suppose after that, I’d move on to the ones I’ve been trying to answer my whole known life.

  The floorboard behind me squeaks a little too loudly—right as a sunburst flashes through my vision and the darkness consumes it.

  Tap, tap, tap…

  For some reason, my head lulls to the side as I try to place the sound. It’s familiar but doesn’t register in my brain. My eyelids are heavy, weighted down by the over-exertion of using my abilities—and something else. My forehead thumps, and I try to reach for it, only to find my arms as heavy as my eyelids.

  My eyes flicker open, but I can’t keep them that way—they roll in my head and darkness consumes me in twinkling bursts.

  After a few moments, I pry my eyes open again, raising my head to damn near upright.

  “Good lord, took you long enough,” a man says, from across the room. He’s sprawled across my couch, one leg draped over the arm, as he leans back, placing an elbow on the cushion behind him. He has an oddly put-together air about him as his leather jacket falls gently open, revealing his sophisticated style not many straight men know how to pull off.

  His arrogance rolls off him in waves. He knows he looks good and he’s perfectly comfortable with it. Hell, I don’t need to be psychic to pick up on any of that.

  The guy drums his fingertips slowly across the single pane window behind him.

  Tap, tap, tap…

  “Who in the hell are you?” I finally spit out. “And why are you in my house?”

  Finally removing his hand from my window, he spins around to face me head on.

  “Now here I was thinking you should know all those details already,” he says, as the corner of his mouth slides into an obnoxious smirk. The trimmed, dark goatee adorning his face accentuates his cheekbones and broad jaw. The deep brown bordering on black from the top of his head lacks the flashes of red his facial hair has pulled from his genetics.

  I glare back at him.

  Who the hell does this guy think he is?

  His dark eyes twinkle mischievously, inciting the desire to want to punch him right in his smug little face. Instead, I sit up straighter and fight to keep my head upright.

  “I said, who in the hell are you?” I repeat, but more slowly with the hopes he’ll actually understand the friggin’ question. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Apparently, neither do you,” he says smugly, shrugging his shoulders.

  He’s right—I get absolutely nothing from him. No name, no general motive. Not even the food he ate for lunch or the last time he took a piss.

  I tilt my head to the side, trying to clear the fog from my brain.

  “I tried to tell them you were likely a fake, but honestly, I didn’t know it would be so easy,” the man says, his eyebrows furrowed. “Kinda glad, considering the time constraints and all.”

  “How about speaking in English here, buddy? Because I’m lost,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Despite the complete zilch I’m able to read from him, th
ere’s a strange electricity in the room. Almost as though he’s blocking me with a feedback loop, or some sort of electromagnetic something or other.

  Damn, I really should pay more attention to the new-fangled science terminology.

  “I don’t need your damn help,” he says, standing up from the couch in a single, graceful move. “Especially when you’d be wasting my time and their money.”

  He flings a manila packet across the room to my lap and slowly crosses his arms.

  Pressing my hands to the envelope, images of the little girl from this morning suddenly start rolling in—Esther. She’s not alone; someone has moved her. Nearby is a false door of some kind; probably the one she was led through. She’s not hurt, but I sense plans being made in the room adjacent to hers. She’s scared shitless—she knows she’s been gone too long and her parent’s are going to be so worried… The truth is, she doesn’t have much time. They’re planning to move her again—sell her to someone who takes children for a living and prostitutes them. The man with the puppies—Brent—he’s not the real man the cops should be looking for. He was a patsy, thanks in part to his naive nature.

  Now that I’m away from Ted’s guilt, I see that now.

  There’s a small home by the river—it’s not one of those fancy new multi-million dollar builds, though. It’s a well-kept 1980’s style, complete with the original orange shag carpet and olive-green walls.

  “Oh my god—she—she’s not with the man with the puppies. He was the lure. They’re looking in the wrong place,” I say without being able to stop myself.

  The smug man pulls up short, and for a brief moment, I fight the urge to be the one to smirk.

  “What did you say?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  “I don’t have time for this. I have to get this information to the police,” I say, unable to shake the vision of the carpet. There have been many kids who’ve been kept there over the years. Far too many.

  The man rushes to my side, concern sweeping across his features.

  “You’d better not be pulling my chain. How would you know all that?” he asks.