Chapter 15 #2
I frowned. “I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it,” I answered, realizing that I probably wasn’t supposed to, since it was both ongoing and a really big deal.
My news feed had contained at least one story—or non-story—a day about the Gates-Adams murder, the senator’s response, proposed legislation about anti-Arcanid violence, or reactions from anti-Arcanid groups like the MFM explaining that this was exactly why we shouldn’t trust shifters—because clearly if a woman was murdered in a hotel room, it had to be her fault and she was undoubtedly a prostitute.
I hated to think what they’d say about it if they found out that she’d been paying a blackmailer.
I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone.
“Oh,” came Sam’s response as Melissa opened the door to let us in. “Why?”
“Why what?” she asked.
“Because in an ongoing criminal investigation,” I replied, deliberately avoiding using the word murder, “you’re not supposed to talk about the details.”
“You’re involved in a criminal investigation?” Unlike Sam, who had seemed almost excited by this, Melissa sounded horrified.
“I’m not the one being investigated,” I replied. “I’m helping investigate.”
She still looked scandalized as she mounted the top step of the stairs leading up to her apartment. “Are you safe?” she asked, sounding nervous.
“I don’t think anyone other than people at work know I’m involved, so I don’t know why I wouldn’t be.
” It wasn’t something I’d actually thought about.
I supposed it was possible for someone to have figured out that I was involved, or that someone had followed us to the crime scene and seen me, but I didn’t think so.
“It’s exciting!” Sam said as Melissa let us into the apartment itself. I sniffed appreciatively, noticing the thick aroma of garlic, tomato sauce, onions, and bread. “Ooooh,” he said. “Pizza’s already here!”
Melissa flushed a little. “Yeah, I preordered. Should still be hot, though.”
Sam had made his way over to the table and opened one of the five boxes. “Mmmm. Breadsticks.”
I put the ice cream in the freezer and whipped cream in the fridge, and we loaded up our plates—Melissa kept one of mine in her cupboard that I washed and put away every time—and settled around the other end of the table from the pizza, where she’d dumped out the puzzle pieces.
I had a moment of worry about this—the last time we’d done a puzzle night, I hadn’t been nearly as sensitive as I’d become, and I wondered if Melissa and Sam touching the pieces, however briefly, would be enough to trigger impressions on the laser-cut cardboard.
My concern must have shown on my face.
“What is it, Rayn?” Melissa asked.
I swallowed. “Well… I’ve been using my abilities at work, and it’s made them more… sensitive,” I explained. “I just… didn’t think about the fact that this might trigger something.”
“On die cut pieces?” Sam asked.
“No—but if one of you touches them first, it might.” I felt my face flushing.
“We can just look,” Melissa offered.
I shook my head. “No, that’s not fun. I—I’d rather be the one not touching things. Or only touching some of them.”
Melissa looked like she might object, but then decided not to, taking a bite of pizza instead.
“Your psychic powers or your magic ones?” Sam asked.
“Psychic,” I answered. “My magic seems to be… well, normal for me.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Melissa asked. “Having them be used like that?”
I frowned. “Like what?”
She fiddled with a piece of crust. “Making you see crimes and stuff,” she replied softly.
“I—” I hesitated, trying to figure out how to answer honestly without freaking her out. “I don’t like that part,” I replied. “But at least I get to help people.”
“But it makes your powers worse,” she said, and her voice had gotten softer.
“I don’t know that I’d say worse,” I replied, a little surprised to find that I’d felt a little defensive about what I was doing.
“Stronger, yes. But…” I thought for a minute.
“I guess it’s a little like when I first started trying to control them.
Except now it’s more like…” I swallowed.
“Like I have much more control over how much I get from things. I can’t control if I get things, but I can decide to see more or to stop seeing things, usually, once it gets triggered. ”
Seeing wasn’t accurate, of course, but it was hard to talk about my abilities in a way people could understand without talking about having visions.
“That’s good, yeah?” Sam asked around a mouthful of meat-lovers pizza. “Being in more control?”
I nodded. “I think so,” I replied. “I don’t like the fact I’m more likely to trigger, them, though, so if either of you has any thoughts on how I might stop that…” I trailed off hopefully.
“Sorry, bro,” Sam said, shaking his head.
Melissa, however, looked thoughtful. “Do you remember what Dr. Nayak used to say?” she asked me.
“I remember she told me to build a brick wall,” I replied. “But I don’t have time to do that every single time I want to use my abilities.”
“No,” she said. “Not that. The part about it being ours and no one else’s.”
I nodded, still skeptical. I also remembered Dr. Nayak saying that we should compartmentalize our magic, which was what had led me to the walls in the first place.
“Well, I know she also said some other stuff that I don’t think was particularly useful,” Melissa admitted, reaching out and taking a breadstick, which she began to pull apart into bite-sized pieces that I knew she’d dip into the tomato sauce one at a time.
“But that part I’ve found helped me to figure out how to control my magic. ”
“How?” I asked.
“I mean, what works for me probably won’t work for you, because we’re not the same person,” she replied. “I thought about what it made sense for me to do—not what it made sense for a person to do. Me. What I like to do when I’m stressed or worried to calm down.”
I frowned at her. “So what do you do?” I asked.
She dipped a piece of bread and then ate it, smiling a little as she chewed. “I imagine a candle flame,” she said simply. “Like one of those big smelly ones.”
“Like in the commercials?” Sam asked. “With the windchimes and blowing curtains and some white lady breathing in deeply?”
Melissa laughed, her cheeks coloring. “Yeah, like those,” she replied. “But not that. Just a candle, in the dark, the flame reflecting a little off the glass sides, the wax pooling in the middle. Sometimes it smells like roses. Or sandalwood. Or pine. Whatever I feel like.”
I was frowning. “But how does that help you control your magic?” I asked, confused.
“It kind of doesn’t?” she replied. “It’s not about my magic, but about me. It’s what makes me feel calm and in control, not about keeping my magic from doing anything.”
I thought about this. It was like what Mason kept telling Jackson and I about being calm—counting to ten, taking deep breaths, that kind of thing. It wasn’t about controlling the magic, but ourselves.
I didn’t know what I needed to do to control me in the context of my psychic abilities, though. With magic, it made sense. My magic got more erratic the more emotional I was. But I didn’t feel like the same thing was true of my psychic abilities.
I said so out loud, then took a bite of my pizza.
“Maybe not,” Sam replied mildly. “But isn’t there something that just feels… I dunno, psychic-y?”
Both Melissa and I stared at him.
“Psychic-y?” I asked, after swallowing my pizza.
“Yeah,” Sam replied, nodding. “Like, sometimes I smell something or taste something, and it makes me feel… ghoul-y. Like there’s something about what I am that just sort of resonates. Buzzes. Feels more like itself.”
A glance at Melissa told me she was just as confused as I was.
“I don’t have any idea what feeling psychic-y would feel like,” I said.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Sam replied, still cheerful, as he took another bite.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, becoming a bit exasperated.
“That you don’t know what you are,” he replied.
I gaped at him.
I did know what I was. Didn’t I?
Well, now, that was an interesting question. Because I knew I was a death witch, and I could control that. And I knew I was a dreamwalker, and I could control that very well.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Sam said suddenly, after apparently I’d been quiet for too long.
“I’m not offended,” I replied honestly. “Just… thinking about it.” I offered Sam a smile. “I’m not sure what a psychic is supposed to feel like, so maybe you’re right.”
He smiled back. “I hope you can figure it out,” he replied, then stood and grabbed another two pieces of pizza and a breadstick. “Puzzle time?”
The puzzle pieces hadn’t been that bad.
I’d gotten the occasional flash of worry from Melissa and a kind of odd optimism—along with concentration on the puzzle—from Sam, but both were being careful to only touch pieces very quickly. I appreciated it.
I was glad that I’d decided to do this, even though I was exhausted.
It had been a good reminder that people really did care about me—that they liked spending time with me.
That I had friends. Real ones, not people who were friendly to me because they had to be or because they thought I was nice enough and we worked together.
These were people who loved me for me.
And Sam’s suggestion that I had to be more of a psychic—although not in so many words—was something that I thought had some potential. I wasn’t sure quite what it meant yet, not really, but it would be worth thinking about, at least.