4. Cheribelle #2
He stared at me with a neutral expression. I tried to peer harder at his emotions, but it was as if a wall made of brick surrounded him, barring me from looking inside so easily.
He wasn’t the first person I’d met who’d been walled off, and he likely wouldn’t be the last. I always ended up seeing through their guard one way or another.
Something I said must have clicked with him, because he tilted his head in what could be considered a nod, then sat down at my table.
“Your mother passed her abilities down to you?” he asked, voice still exceedingly polite and neutral. I held his gaze right back, even though I felt the real Cherry pushing past my psychic persona.
“I am an oracle, yes,” I answered—it wasn’t actually a lie—but it wasn’t what he’d asked. “As was every eldest Donmoue daughter for the past millennium.”
“Yet only your mother gained any relative acclaim.”
A statement, not a question. I narrowed my eyes slightly at the handsome man and swore I saw the slightest flashes of oil-slick iridescence of doubt shimmering against the brick of his emotional fortress. But there, just barely visible in the mortar, was the pale coral shine of hope.
He wanted me to be able to help him.
And really, I wanted to help him. I didn’t know why he was here yet, but I had a feeling it was more than worth my time.
“Only my mother used modern technology to advertise,” I said.
It was kind of fun that someone who knew about my mother wasn’t all starry-eyed about her allure.
Don’t get me wrong, my mom deserved every word of praise she got, but it was nice when people realized that it took a lot more than some psychic razzmatazz to get as far as she got.
“She wanted to show people that there are those of us who have been gifted with all sorts of different kinds of sight, and that we weren’t all scammers who took advantage of people. ”
“That’s… admirable.”
“She was a very admirable woman.” I softened my tone as those bricks in front of me began to shake and crumble slightly.
“The world can feel like it’s become a smaller, much less magical place than when our grandparents were running around, especially yours.
But the truth is, the magic is always there, we often just need help reconnecting to it. ”
“And that’s what you’ll do?”
“That’s what I’ll try. No money exchanged if I can’t.” Maybe I was hiding the fact that I was an empath and not a psychic, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do my damnedest to make sure I was a net positive for my clients and my mother’s rep.
“I don’t think what I need is a reconnection to magic.”
I didn’t let him ruffle my feathers. I got the distinct impression that this guy wasn’t being antagonistic, just thorough. “Then what do you need?”
“I need to know if whoever murdered my father and brother is still trying to kill the rest of my family. And, if the fates are especially willing, maybe even who the hell murdered our alpha and alpha-heir.”
Oh.
Uhm.
That ruffled my feathers.
“I think your issues might be a little above my pay grade,” I blurted, horrified right down to my core. Sure, dealing with cheating and whether dead loved ones had any last regrets was one thing, but an active murder case? That was a whole different stratosphere.
“I trust your judgment,” he said, rising from his seat. “I read that Ophelia often helped with such cases, but I respect if it’s beyond the scope of your abilities.”
Beyond the scope of my abilities! Where did he come off?
I don’t even know the scope of my abilities!
While there were some general rules and trends it tended to follow, trying to nail down my abilities to an exact science was a lesson in frustration I didn’t need.
Sometimes the range of what I could see was impossibly far, making the world such a dense amalgamation of colors and sensations that I’d get a migraine.
Sometimes, especially with particularly neurodivergent people, I could misinterpret things or make mistakes.
Sometimes I could see even through the most guarded person in the blink of an eye, and sometimes it took a little probing.
But you know that’s not what he’s actually asking!
I mean… it is beyond my scope of abilities as an empath, but HE doesn’t know that.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly, although part of my mind reminded me that was exactly what I meant. “It’s just that a double homicide is a very serious matter, and the police should be involved. Not just a psychic.”
“The police are involved. In fact, they were my first call when all of this was discovered.” Hmm, something about the way he said it made my brain itch, and I got the pretty strong impression that he had been the one who discovered what had happened.
How awful.
“I see,” I said slowly, and it did help ease my conscience.
If the cops were involved, I wouldn’t be hindering an actual investigation.
But maybe I could help give the man closure?
I didn’t know what his relationship with his family was like, but losing my mother peacefully had been traumatic enough.
I couldn’t imagine stumbling across her. ..
No, I wasn’t going to think about that. Sometimes it was far too easy for my mind to conjure up a situation, and some paths simply weren’t worth treading.
“If you have professionals on it, then I don’t mind lending a hand to give you clarity. It never hurts to have extra eyes on things.”
And if I stopped to think about it— Hah, when do I stop to think? —having Haus de Donmoue’s name tied to a double homicide of an alpha of what seemed to be a well-to-do wolf pack was exactly the sort of thing that could get people back in the door.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t. And I suppose I should be forthwith, the police?—”
“Don’t think someone’s trying to kill the rest of your family and you’re being paranoid?”
His eyes went wide, and I felt a sliver of satisfaction. “How did you—” Then realization settled on his handsome features. “A teaser of your ability?”
“That depends, do you feel like you’re being teased?”
Maybe I was outright delusional, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth perk up. Some of the bricks at the top of the wall surrounding him shook slightly with an interested pink.
“If I did, that might just be unprofessional.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It would, wouldn’t it?”
Although his tone was amenable and his face entirely placid, I took that as his polite way of telling me to move it along. Fair enough. I was probably being insanely rude, anyway. We were talking about a very serious matter, and not everyone handled grief and negative emotions with humor.
“Your father and brother were the leaders of your wolf pack?” I continued, getting back on track.
“Yes. Your psychic powers didn’t tell you I was a wolf shifter?”
“They don’t work like that.”
He raised one of his thick eyebrows, and although the situation was quite grim, I couldn’t lie—I was enjoying the banter. Sure, maybe I’d enjoy it a bit more if the context of his visit was more banal, but I had to commend the guy for how he was holding himself together.
It explained those brick walls. Do I have brick walls?
Is it weird that I can never see my own emotions? Maybe I’d be too powerful.
Certainly wouldn’t need as much therapy.
…did I remember to schedule my next therapy appointment ?
“How do they work then?”
I extended my hands to him, and there was a crackle of electricity between us. But instead of being intimidating or scary, it was pretty damn intriguing.
“Let me show you.”
He looked down at my palms, his stare lingering with an almost physical weight. But what I didn’t expect was for the brick wall in front of him to suddenly shoot up by about six more layers, like his emotional stonemason took a bump of something really effective.
But before it could get awkward, he rested his palms on mine. For a split second, I was distracted by how broad and warm they were, but I managed not to let my thoughts get off track. Really, quite the accomplishment for me.
“Close your eyes, breathe in deeply through your nose, then out through your mouth.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all for now .”
As his eyes shuttered closed, I wrapped my thumbs around the side of his hand, tightening my grip just enough for our palms to have full contact.
And finally, I was in.
The wall he had so meticulously curated, whether intentional or not, ascended into the heavens brick by brick, as if time were reversing itself. And as they flew into said heavens, I got sight of the swirling miasma within him.
If I thought my client, whose husband was cheating on her, had been a lot, this guy blew her out of the water. He was a category five storm, with new emotions emerging almost as soon as my mind processed the previous one.
I saw dread. It zipped around the edges of my vision like those marks in my eye that I tried to chase on a bright day but always stayed just out of focus.
Like it wanted to be known but refused to be pinned down.
Below that, like tentacles reaching up and desperate to grab anything they could, was a vicious and sickly purple-brown that reminded me of rot.
When its reaching grasp managed to connect with another emotion, it left decrepit stains wherever it touched, like a disease trying to spread as far and as quickly as it could. Nauseating.
“There you go. Keep breathing for me. In, then out. In, and out.”
There was the crackling crimson of anger, not shining bright or hot like it usually did with people, not burning or sparking.
More like it was simmering. Like it was barely being held back and just waiting for the opportunity to blow.
Yes, the brick wall was making more sense with every passing second.
The man before me wasn’t just trying to keep other people out.
He was also desperately trying to keep things in.