Chapter 19
God, she hated spring allergies.
She’d just sneezed so damn hard she’d walked into the stupid doorway like she was drunk or something.
If only.
Ward would kill her if she came to work drunk—not that she actually wanted to. But allergy season in Richmond was absolute murder, and anything to take the edge off the snarfing, sniffling, sneezing, itchy eyes…
Benadryl just wasn’t cutting it.
I grimaced down at the fingers that had accidentally brushed the door frame to the kitchen, and then made a point to wash both hands thoroughly. My allergies weren’t nearly as bad as Beck’s or Ward’s—which were genuinely awful—but even I had been a bit sneezier than usual the last few weeks.
That didn’t mean I wanted Beck’s snot on my hands.
I grabbed my mug, then concentrated on making my mind blank, slowly and carefully opening the fridge with my bare hand, taking out and pouring myself some creamer, and then putting it back.
I paused, reminded myself to breathe—since I tended to hold my breath when I did this—and then repeated the careful mind-wiping while pouring myself a mug of coffee, letting the liquid stir the creamer in.
I let out a long, pleased breath at the end of the procedure before grabbing my coffee and taking it back to my desk.
I’d spent most of the last week working very hard on trying to keep other people’s thoughts out of my head, which had been extremely difficult for the first few days after coming back from Tranquil Brook, both because of how raw the experience had made me and because I hadn’t really slept for those two days, which meant I’d been exhausted on top of that.
Ward had given me a few days to recover—probably at Hart’s request, since he’d just texted me to tell me to take a couple days off—and I’d been almost human by the time I’d dragged myself back in on Friday, knowing that Ward and Mason had yet another adoption meeting that day and that Beck had headed out to another out-of-state gig in Tennessee somewhere.
Sylvia had apparently taken one look at me, even after my time off, and announced that I needed to work harder on blocking thoughts, since everything I even remotely brushed against was triggering me.
So that had been my Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
All of us had been back this morning, bright and early, although not what Beck would call bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Beck and Ward were both snot-filled due to pollen, and Mason looked like he’d been up most of the night, apparently with Jackson.
I was the only one who had even the slightest bit of optimism, for two reasons.
First—I’d managed to come up with a fairly reliable way to keep other people’s thoughts out of my head, if I concentrated.
It didn’t stop the casual-brush-of-fingers problem, obviously, but it did mean that I could now do things like very carefully pour myself a cup of coffee.
I knew that wasn’t a big deal for most people, but it was a victory for me, and I was going to take it.
Second, Violette was meeting me for lunch again—and it was my turn to take her somewhere. Specifically, I was going to take her to the little Cuban place a handful of blocks away that made amazing tostones and black bean soup.
I took a sip of my coffee, then pulled up the inventory spreadsheet, checking to see what Beck had taken with her to Tennessee and whether or not it was pushing something into the refill category.
Ward color-coded the list into things that were actually important—chalk, charcoal, sage, rosemary oil—and the things that Beck called ‘the flair.’ Those were the things that people tended to think did things, but which were actually there for theatrical rather than metaphysical reasons.
Those things included crystal balls, carved wands and chests, crystals, pendulum-style pendants, incense, and so on.
Most of those were re-usable, so we didn’t often have to replace them, although sometimes the client wanted something very specific that we then had to make, order, or otherwise procure.
The Tennessee gig, for instance, had required a duster made out of black chicken feathers. None of us had any idea why.
I’d asked why they didn’t just ask the people in Tennessee, and Ward had explained that many clients would actually refuse to work with us if we asked too many questions, because they believed so deeply in their superstitions or faith (or both) that if we questioned them, they decided we didn’t know what we were doing.
Ward and Beck had both lost clients that way, more than once.
So Mason had managed to hunt down someone who could make something resembling an occult black-chicken-feather duster, which had then been added to the list of supplies, currently marked as having gone with Beck to Tennessee, along with the required necessities, a crystal ball, two ‘divining’ pendants, an oak wand, palm ashes, and two vials of holy water.
And, yes, Beck did actually get an actual priest to bless the water.
She got a lot of requests for it and had a standing order.
Apparently, she hadn’t unpacked the kit yet, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Beck liked to get all her paperwork done first, then unpack the kit. Ward was the opposite—kit first, then paperwork, which he hated, last.
Sometimes, if Ward was in a hurry or, like now, I didn’t have much else to do, I would be the one to unpack a kit, redistributing any of the usable supplies like charcoal or chalk back into their bins and putting the reusable objects on one of the storage shelves where the little labels indicated they belonged.
I would need to make a new label and spot for the black-chicken-feather duster.
I finished my coffee, took a deep breath, then stood up, deliberately leaving my gloves behind on my desk.
I made it about three steps before turning around and snagging them, just in case there was too much in Beck’s carved supply chest for me to handle blocking out all of it.
She looked up, sniffling, when I poked my head in her office. “Yeah?”
“Would you like me to put back your supplies from this weekend?” I asked her.
She smiled at me. “God, yes.” She sniffed heavily. “You’re my hero.”
I smiled back, then came in and picked up the trunk to take it back to the inventory room.
“Hey, Rayn?”
“Yes?” I turned and looked at her, half balancing the trunk on the side of my thigh. It wasn’t as easy to keep my mind blank when someone asked me a question, but I was willing to push my limits a little.
“No gloves?” she asked, and her expression told me she was excited for me.
I smiled again. “I’ve been working on it,” I told her. “I might have to give in and use them before I get done, but I’m getting better.”
She grinned. Then sneezed. “Shit! Sorry. I’m happy for you,” she said, pulling out a tissue and wiping her nose. “It’s gotta be better than constantly having to deal with other people’s thoughts, right?”
I nodded. “Definitely,” I agreed, deciding not to tell her about the fact that I’d gotten one of hers that morning.
It seemed like an appropriate end to the conversation, so I took the trunk back to inventory and got to work.
When I finished—having put the gloves on about a third of the way through, which I decided I was still going to accept as what Hart would call ‘a win’—I came back to my desk and re-ran through the inventory spreadsheets, unbolding everything I’d just put back.
Then I tallied up our needs and placed the orders, then updated the spreadsheet by italicizing everything on order so that anyone who checked would know that we had those things coming in.
While I’d been in the back, sorting and organizing, a few emails had come in, and I forwarded two of them to Mason—both requests for genealogy assistance—and the other three to Ward, as they were all requests for séances.
One looked like some sort of party, the other two were both business of some sort.
Wills or inheritances or something along those lines.
Then I shot an email to Beck, asking her if she wanted me to log her receipts for her, since I wasn’t doing anything else.
A few minutes later, she came out of her office, then set a handful of semi-crumpled receipts on my desk.
“You’re the best, Rayn,” she said, her expression what I’d come to recognize as a little guilty.
Before she’d come to work at Beyond the Veil, I knew she’d done her own paperwork, so we both knew she could, but I didn’t mind doing them.
Especially when I had nothing else going on.
I was just finishing them up with the bell rang over the door. I looked up and saw Violette’s dark brown locks framing her fair face and grey-green eyes, an electric green mask covering her nose and mouth. She waved as she came over.
“Hey, big bro!” I could see the lines made by her smile deepening around her eyes.
I got a funny feeling in my stomach at being called ‘big bro.’ I rather liked it. “Hi, little sister,” I replied, feeling my mouth getting pulled into a smile.
She half-bounced over, then threw her arms around my shoulders without letting me get up out of my chair. I used an arm to hug her back.
“How are you?” she asked me. “How’re things? Have you been working on that case still?”
I smiled at her. “Let me just finish this, and then we can go to lunch and I’ll answer all of those questions.”
It hadn’t taken me long to finish up the receipt reports, maybe a minute or two, and then I’d grabbed my gloves and the fleece I was using as a spring jacket—just in case—and we headed outside and down the street as I led the way.
As soon as we were outside, Violette pulled off her mask and bounced up on her toes, hugging me again and planting a kiss on my cheek.
I smiled at her again, feeling my face flush a little. It was nice, having someone care about you enough to give you a kiss on the cheek.