I glance at him, eyes narrowed in silent agreement. But Damen just laughs, too concerned with the proper care and feeding of the twins to bother with what anyone thinks—including me. And while that’s obviously the way a good, responsible, parental-type figure should think, something about it really bugs me.
Miles and Haven continue, teasing Damen about his new, surprisingly stodgy ways, as I tag along, a sliver of energy pulsating between us as he grabs my hand and thinks, What’s going on? Why are you acting like this? Is this because of the cat? I thought you understood all of that?
I stare straight ahead, focused on Miles and Haven, sighing loudly as I mentally reply: It’s not the cat. We settled that yesterday. She’s back at Haven’s, marking her days. It’s just—well, it’s like, here I am, making myself crazy, trying to find a solution so we can be together, and all you seem to care about is manifesting HDTVs and the world’s ugliest babyproof car so you can cart the twins around town! I shake my head, knowing I need to stop, before I go any further and really have something to regret.
“Everything’s changing,” I say, not realizing I said it out loud until the words ring in my ears. “And I’m sorry if I’m acting like a brat, but I’m just so frustrated that we can’t be together in the way that we want. And I miss you. I miss you so bad I can’t stand it.” I pause, eyes stinging, throat hot and tight, threatening to close up completely. “And now that the twins are living with you, and with my new job starting and all, well, it’s like, we’re suddenly thrust into this super stressful, middle-aged life. And trust me, seeing your new car just now didn’t help.” I peer at him, thinking there’s no way I’m riding in that thing. Instantly ashamed when I see him looking at me with such love and compassion I can’t help but fold. “I guess I was hoping this summer would be great, you know? I was hoping we could have some fun—just the two of us. But now it’s not looking so good. And, just to top things off, did I even mention that Sabine is dating Munoz? My history teacher? This Friday night, dinner at eight!” I scowl, hardly believing this pathetic life actually belongs to a supposedly powerful, newly immortal, almost seventeen-year-old girl.
“You got a job?” He stops in place as his eyes search mine.
“Out of everything I just said that’s what you’re focusing on?” I shake my head and pull him along, laughing in spite of myself.
But he just looks at me, gaze fixed on mine as he says, “Where?”
“Mystics and Moonbeams.” I shrug, watching Miles and Haven wave as they turn down the hall and head for class.
“Doing what?” he asks, not ready to drop it just yet.
“Retail stuff, mainly.” I gaze at him. “You know, working the register, restocking shelves, giving readings, stuff like that.” I shrug, hoping he won’t pay much notice to that last part.
Psychic readings? He gapes, stopping just shy of our classroom.
I nod, staring longingly as my classmates spill through the door, preferring to join them than having to finish what I started.
“Do you think that’s smart? Drawing that kind of attention to yourself?” Back to talking again now that we’re alone in the hall.
“Probably not.” I shrug, knowing it’s most definitely not. “But Sabine insists the discipline and stability will do me some good. Or so she says. She just wants to keep tabs on me. And short of installing a nanny cam, this is the easiest, least invasive way. She even had this horrible, soul-sucking, nine-to-five gig all set up and ready to go, so when Jude said he needed some help around the store, well, I didn’t have much choice but to—what?” I pause, seeing the look on his face, eyes guarded, hard to read.
“Jude?” His eyes narrowing to where I can just barely see them. “I thought you said someone named Lina owned the store.”
“Lina does own the store. Jude’s her grandson,” I say, only that’s not entirely true. “Well, he’s not her real grandson, it’s more like, she looks after him. Helped raise him after he ran away from his last foster home—or—whatever.” I shake my head. The last thing I wanted was to start a conversation about Jude, especially with the way Damen’s gone high alert. “I thought it might help, you know, allow unlimited access to books and things that might help us. Besides, it’s not like I’m working there under my real name. I’m using an alias.”
“Let me guess.” He peers into my eyes, seeing the answer displayed in my thoughts. “Avalon. Cute.” He smiles, but only briefly before he’s gone serious again. “But you know how it works, right? It’s not like a confessional where you’re shielded by a screen. People expect face-to-face contact. They want to see you to know whether or not they can trust you. So what exactly are you planning to do when someone you know just happens to walk in for an impromptu tarot card reading? Did you even think about that?”
I frown, wondering why he has to take what I thought was a pretty good deal and turn it into a problem. And I’m just about to deliver some snappy reply, say something like: Hello? I’m psychic. I’ll know before they even get through the door! when Roman appears.
Roman and—someone else—someone vaguely familiar—someone named Marco who was last seen in a vintage Jaguar, pulling up to his house.
Walking side by side, legs moving swiftly, eyes focused on mine. Roman’s gaze taunting, mocking, the proud owner of my dirty little secret.
Damen moves to shield me, gaze on Roman as he thinks: Stay calm. Don’t do a thing. I’ll handle this.
I peer over his shoulder, watching as Roman and Marco barrel toward us like an oncoming train. Gazing at me with eyes so deep, so blue, everything blurs but his moist grinning lips and flashing Ouroboros tattoo. And the last thing I think, before I’m sucked in completely, is that this is my fault. If I’d kept my promise to Damen and stayed away from him, I wouldn’t be facing this now.
His energy swirls toward me, tugging, pulling, luring me in, sucking me into a spiral of darkness, bombarding me with images of Damen—the tainted antidote—my ill-advised visit—Haven—Miles—Florence—the twins—all of it coming so quickly I can barely distinguish between them. But the individual images themselves aren’t important—it’s the whole he wants me to see. All of it meant to illustrate one single thing: Roman’s in charge now—the rest of us are just puppets, pulled by his strings.
“Mornin’, mates!” he sings, releasing me from his grip as my body falls limp against Damen’s.
But despite his sweet murmurings as he ushers me away from Roman and into the room, despite the soft reassurances intended to soothe, convinced that we’ve just dodged a bullet and it’s over for now, I happen to know it’s only begun.
More is coming.
There’s no doubt.
Roman’s next shot is aimed solely at me.
twenty
After lunch I head for Mystics and Moonbeams. Eager to start my on-the-job training, hoping it’ll provide a nice distraction from the mess otherwise known as my life.
It was bad enough when Damen kept disappearing between classes so he could check in on the twins, but by lunch, when I assured him I was fine, that Roman wouldn’t bother me, and that he should just stay home, I headed for our table only to learn that Haven has boarded the Roman train. Picking apart a vanilla-frosted cupcake while gushing about the big part he played in securing her the job at the vintage store, despite her arriving at the interview ten minutes late.
And all I could do was mumble an occasional word of dissent, which didn’t go over so well. So after her third excruciatingly dramatic eye roll, after telling me to relax and unclench for the umpteenth time, I tossed my uneaten sandwich and made for the gate. Vowing to keep an eye on her, do whatever it takes to keep them from getting together. Just one more item on my growing to-do list.
I pull into the alley, parking in one of two spaces behind the store before heading toward the front, half expecting to find the door locked, figuring Jude couldn’t resist the call of killer waves on such a beautiful day, and surprised to find it wide open, with Jude behind the registe
r, ringing a sale.
“Oh hey, here’s Avalon now.” He nods. “I was just telling Susan about our new psychic reader, and you walk in on cue.”
Susan turns, looking me over, scrutinizing, accessing, adding up all the parts in her head. Sure she’s aced the equation when she says, “Aren’t you a little—young to be giving readings?” She gives me a smug look.
I smile, an awkward slanting of lips, as my gaze darts between them, unsure how to respond, especially with the way Jude’s looking at me.
“Being psychic is a gift,” I mumble, nearly choking on the word. Remembering a time, not long ago, when I scoffed at the thought, sure it was anything but. “It’s got nothing to do with age,” I add, watching her aura flicker and flare, knowing I’ve failed to convince her. “You either have it, or you don’t.” I shrug, digging myself a very deep hole.
“So, should I book you a reading?” Jude asks, smiling in a way that’s hard to resist.
But not for Susan. Shaking her head and clutching her bag, she heads for the door, saying, “You just give me a call when Ava comes back.”
The bell clangs loudly as the door closes behind her. “Well, that went well.” I shrug, turning toward Jude and watching him file the receipt before adding, “Is my age going to be a problem here?”
“You sixteen?” he asks, barely glancing at me.
I press my lips together and nod.
“Then you’re old enough to work here. Susan’s a psychic junkie, she won’t resist for long. She’ll be on your sign-up sheet before you know it.”
“Psychic junkie? Is that anything like a groupie?” I follow him to the office in back, noticing he’s wearing the exact same trunks and peace-sign tee as before.
“Can’t make a move without consulting the cards, the stars, what have you.” He nods. “Though I’m guessing you gathered your share of regulars in the course of all the readings you’ve given.” He glances over his shoulder as he opens the door, eyes narrowed, knowing, in a way I can’t miss.
“About that—” I start, figuring I may as well confess since he’s obviously on to me anyway.
But he just turns, hand raised, determined to stop me when he says, “Please, no confessionals.” Smiling and shaking his head. “If I have any hope of enjoying those huge swells out there, then I don’t have the luxury of regretting my decision. Though you might want to rethink that bit about it being a gift.”
I look at him, surprised to hear him say that since all the psychics I’ve met, which, okay, pretty much consists of just Ava, but still, most of them think it’s most certainly something you’re born with.
“I’m thinking of adding some classes to the schedule, psychic development stuff, maybe even throw in some Wicca as well, and trust me, we’ll get a lot more sign-ups if everyone thinks they have a fair shot.”
“But do they?” I ask, watching as he heads for an extremely messy desk and riffles through a pile of papers near the edge.
“Sure.” He nods, picking up a sheet, looking it over, then shaking his head as he swaps it for another. “Everyone has the potential, it’s just a matter of developing it. With some it comes easy, they couldn’t ignore it if they tried, with others—they have to dig a little deeper to find it. And you? When did you know?”
He looks at me, those sea green eyes meeting mine in a way that makes my stomach dance. I mean, one minute he’s talking abstractedly, thumbing through papers as though he’s barely minding his words, then the next everything stops, his gaze is on mine, and it’s like time has stood still.
I swallow hard, unsure what to say, part of me longing to confess, knowing he’s one of the few who would understand, but the other part resists—Damen’s the only one who knows my story, and I feel like I should keep it that way.
“Just born with it, I guess.” I lift my shoulders, cringing at the way my voice rose at the end. My eyes dart around the room, hoping to avoid the topic as well as his gaze when I add, “So—classes. Who’s teaching those?”
He shrugs, tilting his head in a way that allows his dread-locks to fall into his face. “Guess I will,” he says, pushing them back and revealing the scar on his brow. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while anyway, but Lina’s always been against it. I figure I may as well take advantage of her not being here to see if it works.”
“Why’s she against it?” I ask, stomach settling when he leans back and props his feet on his desk.
“She likes to keep it simple—books, music, angel figurines, with the occasional reading thrown in. Safe. Benign. Mainstream mysticism where no one gets hurt.”
“And your way? People get hurt?” I study him, trying to pinpoint just what it is about him that sets me on edge.
“Not at all. My goal is to empower people, help them live better, more fulfilled lives, by accessing their own intuition, that’s all.” He glances at me, green eyes catching me staring, making my stomach go weird again.
“And Lina doesn’t want to empower people?” I ask, feeling all fluttery under his gaze.
“With knowledge comes power. And since power tends to corrupt, she thinks it’s too big a risk. Even though I’ve got no plans to go anywhere near the dark arts, she’s convinced they’ll find their way in, that the classes I teach will only lead to harder, darker stuff.”
I nod, thinking of Roman and Drina and definitely seeing Lina’s point. Power in the wrong hands is indeed a dangerous thing.
“Anyway, you interested?” He smiles.
My eyes meet his, unsure what he means.
“In teaching a class?”
I balk, wondering if he’s joking or serious, then seeing he’s neither, just putting it out there. “Trust me, I don’t know the first thing about Wicca, or—or any of it really. I’ve no idea how it works. I’m better off just giving the occasional reading, and maybe even trying to organize this mess.” I gesture toward his desk, the shelves, just about every available surface that’s buried beneath a mound of papers and junk.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He laughs. “Oh, and just so you know, I clocked out the moment you walked in. Gone surfing if anyone asks.” He gets up, moving toward the surfboard leaning against the far wall. “I don’t expect you to get it completely organized or anything, it’s too big a mess. But if you could get it into some kind of order, well—” He nods, looking at me. “You just might get a gold star.”
“I’d rather have a plaque,” I say, pretending to be serious. “You know, something nice that I can hang on the wall. Or even a statuette. Or a trophy—a trophy would be good.”
“How about your own parking space out back? I can probably swing that.”
“Trust me, you already have.” I laugh.
“Yeah, but this one will have your name on it. Reserved for you only. No one will be allowed to park in it, not even off hours. I’ll post a big warning that reads: CAUTION! THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR AVALON ONLY. ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED AWAY AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE.”
“You’d do that? For reals?” I laugh, eyes meeting his.
He grabs his board, fingers gripping the edge as he heaves it under his arm. “You get this place cleaned up and there’s no limit to the rewards that await you. Today Employee of the Month, tomorrow—” He shrugs, tossing his dreads off his forehead and exposing his amazingly cute face.
Our gazes lock, and I know he’s caught me again—caught me looking—wondering—thinking he’s cute. So I quickly look away, scratching at my arm, fiddling with my sleeve, anything to move past this moment toward something less awkward.
“There’s a monitor in the corner there.” He nods toward the far wall, back to business again. “That, combined with the bell on the door, should alert you to anyone coming in when you’re working back here.”
“That, the bell on the door, and the fact that I’m psychic,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted, though my voice is a little shaky, having not fully recovered from the awkwardness before.
“Like the way you accessed you
r powers when I snuck up on you?” he asks, smiling in a nice open way, though his eyes are holding back.
“That was different.” I shrug. “You obviously know how to shield your energy. Most people don’t.”
“And you know how to shield your aura.” He squints, head cocked to the side, those golden dreadlocks falling halfway down his arm as he focuses in on my right. “But I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”
I swallow hard, pretending not to notice how his vibrant yellow aura goes a little pink at the edges.
“Anyway, it’s all pretty self-explanatory. The files need to be alphabetized, and if you could separate ’em by subject, that’d be great. Oh, and don’t bother tagging the crystals or herbs if you’re not familiar with them, I’d hate to get ’em confused. Though if you are familiar—” He smiles, brow raised in such a way I immediately start scratching my arm again.
I gaze at the gleaming piles of crystals, some of which I recognize from the elixirs I made and the amulet I wear at my neck, but most of which are so foreign they’re not even vaguely familiar.
“Do you have a book or something?” I ask, hoping he does since I’d love to learn more about their amazing abilities. “You know, so I can”—Find a way to sleep with my immortal boyfriend someday—“so I can get them all tagged properly—and—stuff.” I nod, hoping to appear like a hard worker rather than the self-motivated slacker I am. Watching as he drops his surfboard and turns back toward his desk, shuffling through a pile of books and retrieving a small, thick, well-worn tome from the bottom of the stack.
Turning it over in his hands, and gazing at the back when he says, “This has it all. If a crystal’s not in it, it doesn’t exist. It’s also loaded with pictures so you can identify them. Anyway, it should help,” he adds, tossing it to me.
I catch it between the palms of my hands, its pages vibrating with life as the contents surge through me. The entire book now imprinted on my brain as I smile and say, “Believe me, it already has.”