Waysider (The Voyants Book 1)

Chapter 13

Cal had been visiting mediums all morning.

He’d never believed in that sort of thing before. Never believed in ghosts, either, and look how wrong he’d been about that. So when Cal made the decision to stop thinking like his former self, and adapt to his new circumstances, mediums were part of his new plan.

But so far, every single one had been a fraud.

Now he stood outside his fifth shop of the day. Cal was finding them at random, since he couldn’t exactly check the phonebook, but he’d been staying close to the bus line he’d need to get back to Else Bellows. Cal planned to be waiting in the hall when his sister’s last class ended and she walked out. Knowing Cassie, the only friends she’d make would be the local dealer and maybe one of the security guards—it was how she’d snuck out after curfew at her old school.

This would have to be his last stop for the day, Cal thought, glancing toward the sky. The sun was over halfway across and it would take him a while to get back to campus. But despite the ticking clock, he lingered on the sidewalk outside the medium’s garden apartment. Stickers on the window claimed her name was Madame Zola. This didn’t seem like a promising start, and Cal was already trying to think of a Plan B if he couldn’t find a legit medium. There was always another play, he reminded himself.

Thinking about his endgame helped. If this woman didn’t pan out, he’d keep looking. Or he’d try to find someone at Else Bellows who could see him, like the guy at the diner.

But that was one risk he wanted to avoid, if possible.

Cal finally left the sidewalk and went down the short flight of steps. There was a small, potted plant at the bottom, and what looked like a handmade welcome mat. Cal didn’t reach for the doorknob or hesitate at the threshold—he just walked through, like he had with all the others.

Music floated serenely through the air. It wasn’t anything like the bands Cal once listened to, and instead of guitars or keyboards, the instruments he heard were bagpipes and flutes. Faint smoke coiled through the air. Cal couldn’t smell it, since he couldn’t smell anything these days, but he would’ve bet his entire savings account that incense was burning somewhere.

He took the apartment in with a single glance. It wasn’t hard to do, considering the whole thing was five hundred square feet, tops. On the left side, there was a small, dim kitchenette. A vintage couch stood in the center, with glass-topped side tables and beaded, gently-lit lamps resting on top of them. The walls were covered in tapestries, and the room was partially divided by thick curtains, which had been pulled aside and secured with rope. There was only a single window, the one he’d seen next to the door, so the apartment was filled with shadows and pockets of darkness.

But Cal could still see her—Madame Zola. She sat on the right side of the space, framed by the heavy curtains like she herself was an image on a tarot card.

She was younger than the others. Her brown skin was smooth and clear, and she sat straight, her shoulders squared. She wore purple robes covered in moons and stars. Locs were gathered at the nape of her slender neck and gold hoops dangled from her ears. She was gorgeous, Cal thought.

She was also another fake.

He stood right in Madame Zola’s line of vision, but like the rest of the mediums Cal had met that day, her eyes went through him.

“Joseph is here,” she announced. Her voice was strong, certain. Even Cal bought the act for half a second.

The woman sitting across from Madame Zola fell for it hook, line, and sinker. She leaned forward. There was a thick, Irish brogue in her voice as she replied, “He is? You can see him?”

“I can communicate with him,” Madame Zola corrected. “But our connection is weak. I will maintain it as long as I can, and act as a conduit between you two. What would you like to say to your husband, Mrs. Leary?”

Mrs. Leary’s eyes narrowed to slits. She tapped the table with her index finger to accentuate every word. “You tell that lying bastard I know about the other women, and I’m glad he’s dead. Tell him I burned his mother’s precious afghan blanket.”

Madame Zola’s expression didn’t give anything away. “I’ll pass on the message,” she said calmly.

While she continued to scam the widow, Cal went over to the kitchenette—he was hoping to get more information on this supposed medium. She might have friends or other contacts in the business. Within seconds he spotted a telephone bill on the counter, and it was addressed to Miss Laura Stag. It seemed Madame Zola was behind in her payments by several months. Scanning the other unpaid bills, Cal let out a defeated breath. But using a ridiculous name didn’t mean she was lying about everything, he thought. Maybe he just wasn’t trying hard enough, and there was still a chance he might’ve found someone he could communicate with. Someone other than his sister or a stranger in a diner.

With another fresh surge of resolve, Cal swung around and strode across the apartment. He noticed a clock on the wall and determined he didn’t have time to wait until this little con was over. Not if he wanted to catch the next bus back to Cass. So he went up to the small table where the two women sat and said, “Laura Stag.”

She jumped.

She didn’t look at him, but she jumped, as if he’d spoken right in her ear.

Holy shit, Cal thought. This girl could hear him. She was the real deal—a voyant.

His entire being felt like a live wire. Cal circled the table and knelt beside Laura, his eyes glued to her face. What if this thing had a time limit? What if what she’d said to the dead guy’s wife wasn’t total bullshit, and there was a weak connection between them? “I need your help,” he said urgently.

The voyant didn’t answer. Her spine was straight and stiff, and her gaze was fixed on the wall across from them. “Joseph wants your forgiveness,” she told Mrs. Leary.

“Joseph isn’t here, and his wife needs to move on, anyway,” Cal said.

Laura’s nostrils flared. “Stop it,” she muttered.

“Stop what? What is he doing?” Mrs. Leary demanded.

“My name is Cal Ryan,” Cal said, but Laura just turned to the woman next to her and said something soothing. She was ignoring him, damn it. Cal’s jaw clenched, and he scanned the room, helplessly looking for something—anything—he could use to make this medium acknowledge him. But of course there weren’t any magical, ghost-friendly items in sight.

In a burst of anger, Cal swiped at the candle in the center of the table. The stand toppled over, and the candle went flying from the force of his palm. It hit the floor with a thin sound, and the flame sputtered out.

Cal was frozen in shock, staring at the table, but Mrs. Leary’s shriek pierced the stillness. She scrabbled at her enormous purse as if her dead husband was about to snatch it out of her hands, and in her attempt to recoil, she tipped her chair back. Cal swore and reached for her, but his hands passed through. Laura cursed, too, as she launched from her chair.

The widow hit the floor with a thunderous crash.

“Mrs. Leary!” Laura cried, rushing to help the woman. Mrs. Leary jerked her arm away as if Laura were the devil himself, and scrambled to her feet. She flew over to the door and wrenched it open, still holding her purse in front of her like a shield.

“I’m burning your baseball collection too, you bastard!” she bellowed, then whirled and fled, closing the door behind her with a stark, wall-shaking slam.

The second Mrs. Leary was gone, Laura spun around. Her hands were clenched into fists.

“Damn it!” she hissed, glaring at the empty apartment. “That was my only client today. Thanks a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” Cal said, sounding anything but. “This is important.”

But this time, Laura didn’t seem to hear him. She stood there for another second or two, visibly stewing, then seemed to deflate. Sighing, she walked over to the small living area and started turning more lights on. Within seconds, the apartment was far more inviting. “Fucking spirits,” Cal heard her mutter.

“Then help me, and I won’t come here again,” he said.

No reaction again. Cal wondered if communicating with ghosts was like a radio—some of the stations fuzzy, the voices and music coming and going. Laura took off her robes and hung them on a coat rack near the door, revealing ragged clothes that looked like she’d been sleeping in before Mrs. Leary came, and she planned to go right back to bed now that the woman was gone. But Cal was just getting started. He’d found someone who could hear him, and he wasn’t leaving. Not until they actually got somewhere.

“I need to protect my family,” he pressed, following Laura to the kitchen. “They might be in danger, and I can’t just sit around and let something bad happen to them.”

The voyant paused with her fingers wrapped around the refrigerator door. Something about her expression made Cal’s pulse quicken again. She’d heard him, he knew she had. A second later, Laura confirmed it.

“Protection,” she murmured, still wearing that concentrated frown. “You’re seeking protection?”

“I’m seeking a person,” Cal said urgently. But Laura stood silently, her head tilted, as if she were still listening. Cal started to look for something to write with, then remembered for the millionth time that he was fucking dead. He couldn’t even pick up a pen. Frustration and desperation sliced through him. He was so close!

Fuck it, Cal thought.

Steeling himself, he squared his shoulders and walked right through Laura.

And as their bodies overlapped, he pictured the stranger who ruined his family’s lives.

Cal didn’t know his name, but he knew his features. He’d committed them to memory on the bridge, and he would never forget the exact moment—the boy reaching out, shoving Cass’s shoulders, and then his sister tipping back, back, back.

It had all happened in a split second. That night, Cal moved faster than he ever had in his life. When he’d jumped in after Cass, there hadn’t been any time to think about the people he loved or the things he would never get to do. He just saw their faces like the flashes of a camera. Mom. Dad. Cass. Gavin. Teresa.

And his. The asshole who did all this.

A soft gasp brought Cal back to the present. As he finished passing through Laura Stag, he realized he was seeing things in her mind, too. He had to be—these memories certainly didn’t belong to him. Cal had only meant to share the images in his own head, but he was still new at this. Fuck, Cal thought, grimacing as he invaded Laura Stag’s innermost thoughts.

He saw a woman’s body on a dirty kitchen floor, a needle sticking out of her arm.

He saw a big, unshaven man filling a sagging doorway, holding a gun at his side.

He saw beams of sunlight shining around Laura and a guy in a hammock, the two of them entangled together, all long limbs and secret smiles. That memory had a tint of sadness, too.

Finally free again, Cal caught his balance on the other side of the small kitchen, feeling sick and dizzy all at once. Laura recovered faster—in his peripheral vision, her blurred shape stood upright. By the time Cal’s vision cleared and he was alone in his mind again, the voyant had fetched a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.

“Did it work?” Cal asked, hoping he sounded normal. But guilt and intrigue battled inside him. He felt like he’d just invaded a complete stranger’s privacy, and yet… he’d never experienced anything like that before. Of feeling someone else’s soul, and for a handful of seconds, knowing them better than he’d known anyone. Not just their memories or their secrets, but the essence of them. Laura Stag was guarded and wounded, that was undeniable… but she was also kind. Brave.

She reminded him of Teresa.

Cal’s question floated between them, but Laura didn’t answer. She gulped down the rest of her water, then set the glass down with a hollow thud. Cal watched as she walked over to the coffee table and bent, rifling through some magazines and papers piled on top of it. After a moment, Laura took a big sketchpad out. She found a half-chewed pencil next to the stack, picked it up, and sank onto the couch. Still not saying a word, she flipped the sketchpad to a fresh page and began to draw.

Curiosity piqued, Cal dared to draw close to her again. Whatever shape was taking form on the paper was too premature to study. The motions of Laura’s pencil never faltered, her lips puckered with determination, and Cal decided to let her focus. He sat in an armchair nearby, resting his elbows on his knees as he waited.

Ten minutes later, Laura straightened. She set the pencil down and flexed her fingers. Cal stood and leaned over the drawing. “Hey,” he said, surprised, “that’s really good.”

“Thanks,” Laura muttered, startling him.

It was a crude depiction, considering the portrait had been done in minutes, but Cal could still see the face clearly. He felt something hard and tight form inside him—it was the same feeling he’d gotten that night, when he spotted the figure standing on the bridge.

“Is this guy dead or alive?” Laura asked abruptly.

Cal raised his gaze back to her. “I don’t know.”

He had no idea if she’d heard him this time, but the voyant’s frown deepened, as if something else had occurred to her. “Why do you want to find him?” she asked.

Cal fell silent.

As if she could see his hesitation, Laura raised her chin. “I won’t help you until I know why.”

Shit, Cal thought. He could tell she meant it, not to mention that he’d felt her stubbornness, while the two of them had been… sharing. Cal knew he would have to give this girl part of the truth, if he had any chance at convincing her to help him.

At the exact moment he opened his mouth to speak, a sudden, sharp burst of fear went through him. Fear that wasn’t his own. Cal completely forgot about Laura Stag as he jerked, his gaze darting in the direction of Else Bellows. A single thought seared his mind, followed by the hot rush of panic.

Cass.