5. Paul
Paul
And the Walls Came Tumblin’ Down
It was as if someone had slapped me.
I’d been doubtful when I’d entered the modest home that supposedly belonged to one of the greatest proven psychics of the current century.
That doubt had almost turned to outright rejection when I saw the woman waiting for me was not Ophelia.
No, the apparently late and great seer was no more, and instead her daughter had taken over.
She was gorgeous in a way I hadn’t expected.
She had a strong jaw and nose, but piercing, mismatched eyes—one emerald, one baby blue—framed by thick lashes and incredibly full lips.
Her cheekbones were strong enough to perhaps slay forty Philistines, but there was a delicate softness to her skin and complexion.
But I wasn’t here to see a beautiful woman. I’d nearly turned right around and left right then, sure I’d wasted my time, but something about the younger woman’s words and the way she’d stared at me, like she was really seeing me, had made me stay.
Fool that I was.
“Absolutely not,” I said, jerking my hands away from her. The plight of my family wasn’t some tragic tourism spot for someone to get their true crime jollies!
“Why not?” she asked in surprise, like I was the one who was strange for rebuffing her.
“Why not?” I repeated. “Because it’s ridiculous. Not only is it utterly insane to have a stranger at the crime scene—which, mind you, has already been forensically cleaned by an entire team, both physically and with magic—but for all I know, you’re a fraud.”
The temper that had leaked out with my siblings bubbled to the surface again, cracking like a whip through me. I was a fool. Chris was right. I was looking in inappropriate places to deal with my grief.
“Enough of this,” I said, standing up.
I didn’t really have any expectations for how the psychic would react; pondering it hadn’t even crossed my mind. That changed in a millisecond when her eyes drilled into mine, her face going slack while she began to speak.
But something was different. Her voice was lower. Raspier. Instead of the honey-smooth drawl she’d had before, it was something more primal, as if she had been possessed by something not of this time.
“Me? A fraud? Of course. A fraud who knows that you haven’t slept for more than an hour since this happened, that every time you manage to slip under, you have nightmares of what that room looked like when you first stepped into it.
And how you are relying on that wolf healing of yours to deal with the effects.
But as time passes, no amount of food, no number of cigarettes that you started smoking again, or stimulants will be able to restore you. ”
What was that now?
“A fraud who understands that even after the most horrific event in your life, you have to somehow take on more responsibility.
That those older than you do not provide the stability that the younger ones need.
That you think you should feel sorrow, but mostly you feel guilt.
And shame. As if you could have prevented it.
“A fraud who sees your anger, sees your fear, but also the determination within you to make sure your family is safe. The fates can see that you want to be wrong, that you want there to be nothing more to this nightmarish situation, but that your instincts won’t let you.”
My mouth went dry, and while my jaw wasn’t hanging open, it most certainly wanted to. Only years of discipline and how I presented myself emotionally stopped me from outright reacting. Could she really see so much? She couldn’t possibly know the things she was saying unless she was psychic, right?
While I was a son of one of the most powerful alphas on the East Coast, that didn’t mean people would know my face on sight.
I hadn’t told her my name or given her my financial information.
She couldn’t have Googled me before I came in, or even when my eyes were closed, because she’d been touching me the entire time.
“You may call me a fraud, and I understand why, but if you want a fully clear reading, I need to see and read the emo— energy of the scene where all of this happened. It’s the only way I can see if malevolence is lingering and pursuing the members of your family.
If you mean no, then it’s a no, but I beseech you to make sure you are absolutely certain before you refuse.
“Tell me, who is more of a fraud? An oracle who needs to be at the location where this happened, or a middle son with a middling name who can’t even work up tears to shed for his lost kin because he’s too lost within the tempest?”
I stared at her, completely gobsmacked. My mouth opened and closed as I struggled to find words.
The truth was, I had been dubious about this whole tricky thing even after Googling her mother furiously once I found that magazine ad.
But the top two articles had confirmed she was legit—at least as legit as such a person could be—so I’d closed my phone to keep from obsessing.
Naturally, I hadn’t slept at all. I’d stayed at my father’s desk until dawn before hurrying away to my own chambers to do as much research as I could.
When I had passed out, I was pretty sure I only got a couple of hours, and as soon as I awoke, I called the number I’d found for Haus de Donmoue .
There was no way the woman in front of me could know all of that if she wasn’t psychic.
And for the first time, in a very long time, I realized I was looking at someone I couldn’t really hide anything from.
This woman saw all of me, even the less professional, less polished parts that I tried to keep in check with my mantras, my idioms, and my breathing exercises.
Then, the woman gasped and that primal, possessed tone vanished as her body slumped forward.
“I apologize, really, that was?—”
“I’ll take you,” I said so quickly that it seemed to surprise the psychic just as much as it surprised me. Hmm, so even someone who could see the future didn’t quite see everything. She had mentioned that her powers didn’t really work that way...
“Oh! Really? When?”
“Right now. If you are available.” Was I being rather impetuous compared to my usual cautious, analytical nature? Yes. But as far as I was concerned, the woman’s little display showed me that if anyone could put my worries at rest and confirm that I was delusional, it was her.
“ Hell yes!” she exclaimed before clearing her throat and seeming to collect herself. “We should leave forthwith.” Another pause as she looked down, then looked up at me. “I’m going to change into something a little more appropriate for visiting such an important site.”
As much as I had tried to withhold my judgment about the gaudy robe and the ridiculous hat, I was relieved that she was getting rid of them. Well, I hoped that’s what she meant. “Good idea.”
“I’ll be right back, if you wanna just wait here,” she said, standing and opening the door to our left. I hadn’t noticed it due to the thick beads of crystals hanging down from the wall, but when she opened it and descended, I saw a normal stairway to a normal house.
A bit incongruous, but for some reason it comforted me.
The oracle reading me like that had shaken me more than I wanted to admit, so it was nice to see her doing something as normal as going upstairs to change.
I wasn’t quite sure how long she would take, so I pulled out my phone to continue answering the litany of messages I had.
From my brother, other members of the pack, all our business contacts.
There were so many people to inform about what had happened.
I was trying to get ahead of the wave before gossip really got going, but that was like trying to catch a particularly greased piglet wearing Hermes’s sandals.
However, I ended up being less focused on correspondence and more on an absurd amount of banging upstairs, as if a marching band was on the loose, and a few truly catastrophic crashes.
What is going on up there? Are the fates wrestling her over her wardrobe?
While the image was laughable, it did cause that ever-present trickle of worry that I was doing something wrong to well up again.
While I was truly impressed—actually, that didn’t even feel like the right word—with the oracle’s prophecy and how she had said things that no one else could possibly know, a feeling of surreality that made everything seem a bit incongruous by nature settled over me.
But eventually, the cacophony of violent collisions eased off, and I heard footsteps approaching the stairs. Sometimes, there was a benefit to enhanced hearing, and sometimes, it led to more questions than answers.
I glanced up the stairs, and while I hadn’t exactly had an idea in mind of what more appropriate clothing would be for a psychic, I certainly wasn’t expecting what I saw when the woman came into view.
Gone was her massive, over-the-top hat, instead revealing long, pale pink wavy tresses that cascaded down her strong shoulders.
That, combined with her piercing, mismatched eyes, fair skin, and the rosy hue of her plush lips, had me realizing that she really was a modern woman, and likely younger than me.
No longer was she just some sort of kitschy fortune-teller character, dressed in an oversized robe.
It was almost as if she were moving in slow motion, her casual band T-shirt grazing the waistband of her bell-bottom jeans.
Even the way she moved—sure, confident, occasionally frenetic—was captivating.
It was so far outside of how I often felt I had to hold myself.
Anachronistic? Yes. Alluring? Abso?—
Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t go down that particular line of thought. I was supposed to be grieving. Just days after my father and brother were murdered wasn’t exactly an appropriate time to be noticing the attractiveness of a professional.
Especially since she was trying to help me get closure.