11. Paul
Paul
Fill in the Gaps
“Can I get you an energy drink?” Cherry asked, pacing back and forth in her kitchen.
I had to admit, when I walked behind the curtain of her reading room, I was surprised to see half of a completely normal residence and half of an art studio, divided by a very cluttered hallway that went all the way to her back door.
“No, thank you.” The last thing I needed was more caffeine. Not that it really worked on me, but sometimes the placebo effect was more than enough.
“Juice? I’ve got orange-mango, orange-passionfruit-guava, and, uh, orange. No pulp, of course. I’m not a heathen.”
“No, thank you.”
“Tea? There’s some ginger-green tea, Sleepy Time, mint tea, dandelion tea, Tummy Trouble tea, Earl Grey, French Breakfast, chamomile, black tea, chai, Darjeerling?—”
“I’m good.”
“Coffee? I got dark roast, cold brew, and some instant café latte mix.”
“I’m fine, Cherry.”
“Bottle of water? Room temp or col?—”
“ Cheribelle. ”
She paused in her fluttering, and her mismatched eyes finally landed on me. “Right. I suppose you have questions.”
“That is the only reason we’re still talking, yes.”
There was no logical reason for me to feel guilty when she looked like a kicked puppy. She was the one who’d lied to me.
“I… okay, yeah. That makes sense. Let’s sit down.
” She was twisting her hands nervously, but her smile was as fresh as ever.
My wolf grew irritated at the idea she was wearing a mask in front of us, and I would have to give him a reality check later that of course she was.
Our entire professional relationship was based on a lie. A really insidious lie.
She led me over to what might have once been a nice, modest dining table for two people, but was now splattered with paint and dye. An unfinished cardstock model spaceship sat in the center, and half of the table was covered in paintbrushes.
“So…” she said slowly, and I was relieved that she was taking point in the conversation. This wasn’t a staffing issue, or even a diplomatic one between my family and another well-to-do shifter pack. It was…
Personal.
“First off, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, I really am. What I did was wrong. I knew it and I did it anyway.”
Huh.
She was confirming that it was all a lie. The part of me that had been hoping otherwise withered and died, leaving me to wonder why .
I supposed I was about to find out.
“I hope you know I didn’t mean to cause any harm, and I really thought I was helping. When I saw how the office in your home looked…”
“What do you mean?”
She gave me a curious look. “What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’?”
“You’re not psychic, right? What do you mean by what you saw in the office if it wasn’t precognitive visions?”
“I…” She shook her head, and I could practically see her thoughts rattle around and rearrange themselves like an Etch-A-Sketch. “I swore I mentioned I was an empath.”
It doesn’t matter that she’s a dryad, because I’m a fucking empath, not a psychic!
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying not to get distracted by how enchanting I found the woman, especially when she was being earnest. That was just a part of her con, no doubt.
“Doesn’t everyone and their mom claim to be an empath?” I asked. “And what does being sensitive to others’ emotions matter in this?”
Cherry huffed. “No, not like that. Ugh, I hate how pop psychology terms have been ruined by people using them for what they don’t mean.
” She let out a heavy sigh. “When I say I’m an empath, I mean in the literal way.
The old, mythological way. I see other peoples’ emotions like physical things that exist in this world, and with touch, sometimes I can share those same emotions.
“I’ve had some success with manipulating emotions, but that’s much harder to do, and I’ve only managed it with inebriated people or children.
My mother said it was more of a subconscious thing, so that might be why I have an easier time making connections like I did in the black market, but I prefer to think that’s my sparkling personality and endless list of factoids to pull from.
“Everyone loves a factoid.”
Did… did that change anything? For some reason, it felt like it did.
“Why would you lie and say you’re an oracle, then?”
“Because I am an oracle!” I was surprised how sharp her voice was, sharper than I’d probably ever heard it, but the biting tone was gone when she spoke again.
“Look, oracle is an umbrella term for any number of gifts.
My mother had precognitive abilities and was very good at reading people.
People thought she could see their inner thoughts or spirit, but it was just a combination of observation and future sight.
“My grandmother was a medium. She could commune and channel the dead. There have been telepaths. Telekinetics.Dreamwalkers. You name it! All different, but all oracles. ”
I digested what she was saying, and slowly, my hackles began to descend, even if a part of my mind hissed that I was being far too soft.
“So, your mother wasn’t a true psychic either?”
“I mean, I would say she was, just by the fact that she could see the future. And sure, you could say her understanding and connecting with people wasn’t magical, but it was her. And she taught me to see people in ways others don’t put the effort or time into.”
“Why lie?”
“Because people already have their own preconceived notions of everything. What an oracle is, what a psychic is, what an empath is. They don’t get it, and they have all these ideas that aren’t fair to us or them!
” She seemed to be getting wound up all over again, but I felt like I was seeing a more vulnerable side of her, one that had always been hidden behind artifice and a dazzling smile.
“My mom wanted to help people. She started out with providing proof for some college girls who found out they were all roofied at the same bar. It was rocky, and she almost beefed it at first, but in the end, they caught the guy, and the law did what it was supposed to do.”
I was getting a whole lot of information all at once, but instead of overwhelming me, it was a bit like it was settling me. Data was safe. Facts were shields. Surely, if I armed myself with both, the conversation couldn’t be that dangerous.
Unless Cherry was lying again.
And how would I know if she was? The absolute trust I had in her abilities and psychic powers had been obliterated and there was no putting that back together, was there?
“She then moved on to helping domestic violence victims, then infidelity cases—back then, you needed certain legal reasons to get divorced, and you needed proof. Then she helped kids in abusive situations. It wasn’t until she met my father and wanted to settle down that she decided to go commercial.
” Cherry gestured to the room around us.
“That’s when she turned her home into the Haus de Donmoue.
Instead of being a name whispered by those in the know, she became…
well, not quite a household name, but certainly a local celebrity. ”
“And where is your father?” I asked, realizing that I’d never heard her mention the man. Only the late, great Ophelia. And for that matter, I’d never heard anyone else mention him either.
“Eh, they didn’t work out. Different people in different places, you know? It turns out that having a partner who can tell what you’re going to do before you do it puts a heavy strain on a relationship.”
“I… I can see how that would be difficult.”
This was not what I expected; sitting calmly in Cherry’s craft room and discussing her family history. In my mind, there had been more cursing, more her being aggressive and trying to trick me into believing her con.
But no, she was being painfully honest.
Was it a trick?
“So yeah, he spent a lot of time backpacking through Europe, traveling the world. He went on cruises and safaris. He sent letters. He hasn’t written much since she passed, but he did stay with me for a couple of weeks after the funeral. He’s not… neglectful, I would say. But he’s also not…”
“Present?”
She snapped her fingers. “Yes, exactly! That’s exactly what it’s like! And don’t get me wrong, I consider him kind of a friend, but not really someone I’d rely on.”
“I see…”
What else to say about that? How did I even get the conversation back on track?
Oh yeah, sorry about your dead mother and lack of a father figure but can we get back to you being an unrepentant con?
Maybe Chris was right, and I really was too soft.
“So, you lied about being a psychic because your mom lied about being psychic. It’s a made-up human word and you’re all just oracles with different powers?” I said instead. Sometimes it helped to repeat things out loud, but no, it still sounded crazy.
“Yeah, that’s a much more succinct way to put it.” She crossed her arms and finally opened her energy drink. “A bit sterile, though.”
I saw the possible paths of our conversation stretching out and splitting off from each other like branches in those video games Jackson liked to play. Suddenly, there was this pressure within me to pick the right one or I’d ruin the conversation.
Which was stupid, of course.
I guess I’m understanding what Penelope said about my anxiety…
“How does seeing emotions allow you to do the things you do?” I said finally.
“Pardon?”
“The things you said to me, Chris, even knowing that the assassin was in Jackson’s penthouse. How could emotions tell you all that?”
“When I say I can see them, I’m not being metaphorical, Paul, I’m being literal.
For example, right now, I can tell you’re angry.
I can tell you’re ashamed. I can tell you’re conflicted.
And I can tell you’re fond of me.” Although her tone was matter-of-fact, her expression was one of distress, which made my alpha side want to comfort her, to provide and soothe.
Stupid animal instincts.