Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
ROMAN
I've narrowed my search to ten possibilities—a bookstore, a handful of healers, tarot readers, and astrology joints. Google turned up nothing under Raven’s first name.
So now I get to play detective, hitting every psychic shop in town until I find her.
At least Carmel's small. If she were in LA, I'd be screwed—that city's crawling with hundreds of crystal-waving, card-reading New Age types.
I arrive in town and head straight for the first listing in my search results—a tarot reader tucked somewhere in Carmel's downtown. The streets are lined with faux-Tudor facades, wrought iron signs swinging above doorways, and storybook cottages with thatched roofs.
They call Carmel a "fairy tale city," and walking through it, I half expect to see dwarves whistling their way home from a diamond mine.
The irony is that none of this English whimsy belongs here historically—the Spanish missionaries were the ones who settled this stretch of California coastline in the 1700s.
Unlike places that grew organically from their immigrant roots—Holland, Michigan with its authentic Dutch windmills and tulip festivals, or New Glarus, Wisconsin where Swiss chalets and fondue make cultural sense—Carmel's Olde English charm is entirely manufactured to make this place a tourist trap.
But the quaint facade doesn't fool anyone with real money.
Behind those storybook cottages and cobblestone streets lurks a playground where Taylor Swift once held hands with Travis Kelce over dinner with Bradley Cooper and Gigi Hadid, where Clint Eastwood once governed from a mayoral office, and where CEOs pretend they're just regular folks enjoying ice cream cones while their security details hover nearby.
I approach a tarot reader's storefront, where purple velvet curtains frame a window display of crystal balls and ornate decks. A handwritten sign on parchment paper announces the next reading at 11 AM.
Undeterred, I next try a reiki healer's bamboo-framed doorway next door, then a chakra balancer with its rainbow-colored wind chimes, followed by a sound healer's studio where Tibetan singing bowls gleam in the window, and finally a place with "pranic healing" painted in flowing gold script above a doorway draped with beaded curtains.
Each place is the same story—hushed voices behind closed doors, the faint scent of incense, and not an employee in sight.
I run my hand through my hair, frustrated.
I just need one conversation with one person wearing flowing clothes and too many rings.
Surely this Raven character is part of their little crystal-clutching community—in a town this size, all these mystical types must gather at the same full moon ceremonies.
Frustrated, I finally duck into a bookstore with a wrought-iron sign hanging above the door.
The place smells like incense, and some new age music plays softly from speakers I can't see.
Behind the counter sits a blonde woman in a blue dress, her hair catching the light from several salt lamps around the shop.
She has a small silver nose ring and eyes that remind me of sea glass.
When she looks up at me, she nods like she was expecting me.
"You must be looking for Raven," she says, and something in me lifts.
I don’t even pause to ask her how she knows I’m looking for Raven. The woman is psychic, after all. I’m starting to grudgingly accept that some people actually do have a gift, and this woman is evidently one of them.
“I am. Where is her shop?"
She writes down an address on lavender stationery with a peacock feather pen, and I thank this mysterious lady before heading straight there.
I pull up to the address in my rented Maserati, tires crunching over the cobblestone streets.
The storefront window of Raven’s store, called White Light, displays a hand-painted "CLOSED" sign, the letters swirling in purple and gold against weathered driftwood.
I shake my head, jam my hands into the pockets of my tailored slacks, and take three steps back toward my car before something freezes me mid-stride.
A prickling sensation crawls up my spine—that inexplicable awareness Lilith always describes as the "third eye opening.
" My breath catches. The late morning sun glints off the crystal wind chimes hanging in the window, casting rainbow prisms across the sidewalk at my feet.
Despite myself, I pivot back toward the darkened shop.
I peer through the smudged glass window, my breath fogging the pane, but see only darkness beyond.
The lights are off, and I shake my head, running my fingers through my hair in frustration.
Why are the lights off? The antique brass clock on the building across the street reads 10:17 AM, but Raven's shop sits abandoned in shadow.
The heavy velvet curtains, deep purple with silver moons embroidered along the hem, block any hint of California sunshine from penetrating the gloom.
My stomach tightens. The shop's ornate wooden sign swings slightly in the breeze, the hours "9AM-7PM" mocking me as I glance down at my steel-toed boots, the leather still new enough to creak when I flex my foot.
Something told me to wear them this morning instead of my usual loafers—some primal instinct I couldn't name—and now I understand why as I position myself to kick the wooden door in.
I get into the shop and freeze. A man has a gun trained on Lilith and a woman with auburn hair—must be Raven.
Just like that, the gunman swings around to face me.
Perfect. My gaze drops to my steel-toed boots—the ones I'd inexplicably decided to wear this morning.
Funny how intuition works. The voice in my head that said "wear the boots" apparently didn't think to add "and maybe grab a weapon while you're at it. "
Something primal takes over. All those years with Caspian in the ring crystallize into this one moment—this is what we trained for.
I pivot toward the gunman, my leg already arcing through the air.
The weapon skitters across the floor. My body moves on autopilot: feint, jab, roundhouse.
He crumples like wet cardboard. Only then does the burning in my shoulder register.
Blood soaks my shirt—the bastard got a shot off.
The pain hits me like a freight train, delayed by adrenaline's mercy.
Christ, it feels like someone drove a hot poker through my flesh.
No matter. I grind my boot heel into his spine, pinning him to the floor while he thrashes like a dying fish, still clutching that pathetic crystal. My eyes snap to Lilith and the redhead huddled behind the counter, trembling violently.
Fuck. My chest caves in at the sight of Lilith—her face drained of color, eyes wild with terror.
This woman who walks barefoot through Venice at midnight, who laughs in the face of my rage—now reduced to this quivering shadow.
The radiance that's always pulled me toward her like a goddamn magnet has been snuffed out.
It hits me like a sledgehammer—I've been basking in her light without even knowing it, and now that it's gone, I'm drowning in darkness.
I'd kill this bastard with my bare hands to bring that light back.
I call the police while grinding my Italian leather boot into this bastard's spine, feeling each vertebra crunch beneath my heel.
Lilith's jade eyes are wide with terror, her olive skin paler than usual, and somehow that sight drowns out the searing, white-hot pain radiating from my shoulder.
Warm blood soaks through my custom Tom Ford shirt, the crimson stain spreading like spilled wine across the Egyptian cotton.
A metallic scent fills my nostrils. I know that significant blood loss leads to unconsciousness, but I force my vision to stay clear, my muscles taut as steel cables.
The police better hurry—if I pass out, this piece of garbage will lunge for Lilith again. Mind over fucking matter.
I hear the sirens wailing closer, then the heavy thud of tactical boots as cops storm into the shop.
My vision blurs at the edges. I close my eyes, picturing Lilith's face—those amber eyes, that gentle smile. The cops are here, so she’s safe.
That's all that matters now. The world tilts sideways, colors swirling into darkness as my consciousness slips away like water through open fingers.