Soothsayer

by Cari Z

  “You will,” he’d replied. “Or you’ll die. Very simple. You have a month.” He’d left me, and that was the last time I saw him in person. After that it was just his stooges, his bodyguards―his sons. All of them were his family, and I’d chosen the weak link, the sweet one who’d panted when I swallowed around his cock, who’d begged to reciprocate, who’d cried the night before he let me go and sacrificed himself for me, letting me change his fate.

  Maybe Sören had broken the geas somehow, maybe he hadn’t. Either way, I’d sentenced him to death. I should have left him alone and gone after one of his brothers, someone who was already a killer, but I hadn’t. I’d taken Sören, twisted him up and thrown him away, and I’d never forgotten that. I never would.

  I sensed Phin before he spoke, but I only bothered to open my eyes when I heard the click of a lighter followed by the scent of smoke. I accepted the proffered cigarette and took a drag, letting the smoke fill me up, drowning in it like I imagined Sören drowning.

  “She wouldn’t tell you not to do it,” Phin said after a brief silence. “Mari might be a wee bit flighty, but she trusts the cards. You’re in for a world of change whether she wants it or not. She just wants to make you feel better.”

  “I don’t deserve to feel better.” It was the most honest thing I could say, and glancing at Phin, I knew he understood. “I really don’t.”

  “Then put on a good face, at least. How is she supposed to feel? You’re shot up, you’re her best friend’s child and her guest, and now you’ve got something to handle that she doesn’t understand and you can’t explain to her. Try not to be a berk about it.”

  “Good pep talk, thanks.” Only it was kind of good, pulling me out of my funk enough that I could think again. “I have to find him.”

  “Who, the guard?”

  “Yeah. I need to see if he’s real.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Well then.” He stole my cigarette and stubbed it out against the brick. “I guess you’ve got some calls to make.”

  Chapter Eight

  I really only had one call to make, and that was to the author of the article on Egilsson. Andre Jones was a multitasker―I had to give him that. He’d written about half the articles in this month’s Modern Parapsychia, in addition to posting articles on completely different subjects on two different news blogs. He was a freelancer, willing to go almost anywhere to get a story, including a three-month stint in Turkey last year that had led to a piece being picked up by Rolling Stone. We’d chatted a little bit before he’d interviewed me, and he was a surprisingly relaxed guy, not dogmatic or demanding about how he expected things to go. He didn’t ask me to do any parlor tricks to prove I was psychic, but he didn’t go out of his way to debunk the idea either. It had been pretty balanced, all things considered, which was why I didn’t think he’d reject me out of hand for asking about his sources for the other article.

  “I’ve gotta say, I didn’t expect I’d hear from you again,” he said once I got through, his voice every bit as smooth and soothing as I remembered. He’d laughed at me last time when I’d mentioned that he sounded like he gave good voice, saying he could get his newborn daughter to sleep in under five minutes by singing to her. “No offense, but I got the feeling you only did that interview because you’d been forced to.”

  “That’s exactly why I did it,” I agreed. “But I’m not calling about the interview. You wrote another article about a guy called Ólafur Egilsson.”

  “Right, that.” His laugh sounded a little self-deprecating. “I was basically just looking for filler at that point, man. The guy’s way better known for his business interests than for anything potentially supernatural, but the fact that he’s basically uprooted an acre of his home country and brought it all the way over to the US is pretty strange.”

  He was right, that was strange, but it danced around the information I was looking for now. “Do you know if he’s still in Chicago?”

  “No, I haven’t done any work on that story since last month.” Andre’s tone sounded considering. “Why? Is there more there I should be considering?”

  Now came my crisis of conscience. I wasn’t prone to them, but occasionally they hit me like a shovel to the back of the head. I had a gift, but it was specific to whoever I made eye contact with. I couldn’t just predict the future, and Marisol’s cards had already been less than helpful. What I wanted―what I needed―was a researcher, someone to help me figure out what was going on before I walked into a bear’s den and got myself mauled. I wasn’t a coward, but there was no way I was getting anywhere near Egilsson, even with Sören as bait, without some serious prep work. But I couldn’t guarantee that it was going to be safe, not for myself and not for anyone I enlisted to help me.

  “Cillian?”

  “Sorry,” I said, focusing back on the call. “Listen, about that story―there might be something else there, but I’m not asking you to get involved in it.”

  “Something else like freaky, supernatural shit, something?”

  I scoffed at the phone. “You don’t believe in the supernatural, remember?” That hadn’t been hard to suss out. I didn’t have to look into Andre’s eyes to know he was working for Modern Parapsychia because he needed the money, not because he was a true believer.

  “Just because I haven’t seen any evidence of it doesn’t mean it’s not there. What, you gonna make a believer out of me?”

  I just might. “Look, I need as much information as I can get on Ólafur Egilsson, his crew, and his cargo. I’m coming to Chicago, so if you could just point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I thought you didn’t like flying.” Another tidbit he’d gotten out of me with his subtle chatter before the interview.

  “I don’t.” Stuck in a plane with nothing to look at but the back of the seat in front of me, in case I picked up fates from the people around me? Flying brought out the worse kinds of anxieties in people, and when someone was emotional, they were a lot easier to read. It was safe to say that I hated flying. “But I need to go there regardless.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’ve got no fucking clue. Somewhere close to wherever that warehouse is, I guess. Feel free to pass that info along any time,” I added sarcastically.

  “There aren’t any hotels in that part of town. Not to mention, if you’re interested in the people and less on the cargo, you’re not gonna find them there.”

  “Where will I find them?”

  “Tell me why you want to know and I’ll tell you where they were as of three weeks ago.”

  “The why is the dangerous part.” Time to lay it out there and see if he still wanted a piece of this once he had a better idea of what was going on. “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know anything about why they’ve brought part of Iceland to America, but I know this guy. There’s something really, really wrong with what’s happening, and I need to find out what that is.”

  “Is this some kind of psychic premonition?”

  “No. More like what I’m hoping is a case of mistaken identity, but I don’t think it is. I have to know one way or the other, though.”

  There was a moment of silence. “How do you know Egilsson?”

  “I was a guest of his for a while.” Let Andre make of that what he wanted. “I can’t promise you a story out of this. I can’t give you any information that will make helping me out worth your time. I just need to know how to find these guys, and then I’ll leave you alone.” That was as honest as I could be. I wasn’t going to reduce myself to hunting down Andre and forcing our eyes to meet in order to get the information I needed. I wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

  “But the situation might be kinda dangerous?” He didn’t sound like he minded the prospect.

  “Missing your war zones already?”

  “Hey, you can only write so many op-eds on diaper choices and formula comparisons before you sta
rt to go crazy,” Andre replied. “I’ve got some free time right now. I can get you the information you need, maybe help you do a little digging once you get here. My standard rates apply, of course.”

  “Of course.” The swell of relief sweeping from my chest to my knees made me glad I was sitting down. “I can do that. Thanks.”

  “When are you getting in?”

  “Sometime today or tomorrow, I haven’t actually booked the flight yet.” But I would. I had a pile of cash upstairs, courtesy of Roger. Hopefully it would be enough to see me through whatever happened in Chicago.

  “Let me know. I’ll pick you up at the airport. We can talk about things then.”

  “You don’t have to go out of your way for me,” I cautioned him. “You don’t even know me. I might be a complete jackass for all you know. I could be wasting your time.”

  “Maybe.” He drew the word out like he was pulling on a thread, curious to see what would happen. “But even if you are a jackass, it’s an interesting situation, and you might have a story here worth looking at. Why else would you have called me up? I know you don’t like reporters, man. I don’t have to be psychic to get that you were basically coerced into talking to me. Why do it if you dislike the idea so much?”

  “My mother made me. Don’t laugh,” I added as I heard his quick intake of air. “You try having a mother like mine and see if you ever get out of anything.” I’d wondered at the time why my mom had been so invested in getting me to do a stupid interview, and…

  Suddenly the pieces fell into place. I’d needed to do something that would get me to look at Modern Parapsychia, because it was probably the only publication in the world that bothered to write about what was, at best, a human interest story about a man and his land. She had known I would see it; she’d known I’d remember the name. She’d known I’d recognize Sören. She’d―holy shit.

  “I’ll text my flight info when I have it,” I said and hung up the phone so I could take a moment just to breathe. Thank god I was still outside. I didn’t have to worry about what Marisol and Phin might be thinking and could just have a nice little panic attack all by myself.

  How much had she known? How much had my mother known the first time around, when I got kidnapped and ultimately made a decision to destroy a young man’s life? How much could she have prevented?

  It was useless to speculate, and it was even more useless to blame my mom for any of it. I’d gotten sick of that years ago and couldn’t go back to it, not now, not even with a bullet wound in my arm and an undead lover staring out of a picture on my phone. Still… I dialed her number. It rang through to voice mail.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I might not blame her, but I couldn’t help the frustration that bled into every word, squeezed through my viselike throat. “I figured it out, okay, just the beginnings of it, and I just hope that―you know I’m not like you.” That was both my failing and my greatest achievement, not being as far-seeing as my mother, not able to be as objective and decisive. I knew that fate couldn’t be changed, not without extreme circumstances, but my mother couldn’t see every specific of my fate either. Whatever was happening, whatever she’d planned, most of it was based on extrapolation. Psychic guesswork. “Fuck.” I hung up on her and didn’t feel any better for it.

  Marisol was waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to ambush me before I could retreat upstairs. “Cillian―”

  “Where’s Phin?” I asked, gaining another little moment to collect myself.

  “He had to go and supervise repairs in that rathole of a club they run.” The bitter twist to her lips seemed to intimate that she’d be happier burning it than repairing it. “Cillian, what’s going on? What do you need?”

  One simple sentence was enough to remind me of why I loved Marisol. She understood the forces at work well enough to know that things had gotten beyond my control―that the situation was bigger than just me. She knew I had to act. “I need to go to Chicago.”

  She sighed, obviously unsurprised. “To find out more about the man who drowned?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, shit.”

  I choked out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly.”

  She stepped forward and put her hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. The right one ached despite her care, but I didn’t flinch. “You better let me help you pack, otherwise it will take you hours. When do you need to leave?”

  “Soon.”

  “Fine.” She nodded and let go, glancing around the kitchen. “I have enough for a decent good-bye dinner, I suppose. I’ll drive you to the airport after we eat.”

  “We just had breakfast,” I pointed out.

  The fire that suddenly rose in her eyes was almost enough to make me take a step back. I sometimes forgot that Marisol could be a force of nature when she wanted to, as wild and dangerous as anyone I’d ever met before. “The cards don’t lie. You’re about to leap into something that will test everything you are,” she snapped. “I’m not going to let you go before I know I’ve done everything I can to help you, and that includes feeding up your skinny ass so you don’t starve on your first day in Chicago when you forget to eat. Idiota.” She turned me around and swatted me on the butt. “Go. I’ll get the chicken started and then I’ll be up.”

  It would be pointless to argue, and I didn’t really want to anyway. I left, feeling the little bits of give in the stairs as I climbed, listening to the creak of old wood as I walked into my room. Tavo’s room, but my room too. This was the closest place to a home I’d ever had, and I wasn’t quite ready to let it go. I knew I had to, though.

  Feeling a little ridiculous, I grabbed one of Marisol’s many tiny bronze Buddhas off the windowsill and stuck it in the side pocket of my bag. It was a tiny reminder that I had somewhere to go if all this went to hell.

  I had the feeling I’d need it.

  Chapter Nine

  The fastest flight I could manage included a layover in Michigan, of all places, before doubling back to land at Chicago O’Hare at noon the next day. Michigan, right, because that made so much sense. The worst thing about flying was being part of a group of people with nothing in common other than their desire to get from point A to point B, forced into close contact for hours on end. The next worst thing about flying was the way the whole process seemed completely arbitrary when determining who, what, when, and where we stopped along our journey. I didn’t believe in arbitrary, but goddamn, airlines could test even my patience.

  For the first flight, I was seated between a teenager who kept his headphones in for the entire trip, and a chatterbox of a lady who was clearly nervous and took it out on me with loquacity.

  “My sister said it would be hot, even in Michigan. And we’re going to be on the lake, and I knew I was going to forget something on this trip, and you know what? I completely forgot to pack my bug spray. How am I going to be outside without bug spray? I’ve already had malaria once, and I don’t want to get it again, blah blah blahhhh…” She dropped off for an hour in the middle of the flight, thank god.

  Upon arriving, I glanced at her eyes once, quickly, and said, “Don’t forget to use sunscreen.”

  “Oh…you know, I didn’t even think about that.”

  Yeah, I knew that. This lady had plenty of first-degree burns in her future, but hey, I’d done my part.

  The second flight was faster, quieter, and by the time I landed in Chicago, I was more than ready to get to work.

  I made my way out of the morass that was the baggage claim and called Andre. “I’m here.”

  “Great. I’m twenty feet behind you.”

  I jumped, honestly jumped, and whirled around to face him. Andre Jones was taller than me by a few inches, with dark brown skin and an angular, attractive face. He didn’t look like a reporter; he looked like a Marine. A smirking, smug Marine who dabbled in covert ops.

  “Feeling a little edgy?” he asked as he lowered his phone and walked over to me.

  I put my phone away and holstered
my sudden desire to yell at him. It wasn’t Andre’s fault I was working on less than three hours of sleep and my perforated arm hurt like a bitch. The bullet wound bothered me, beyond the normal “oh damn, there’s a hole in my body” type of unease. It was a weakness―it would slow me down. With the people I was going up against, I couldn’t afford to be slow. I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only person I had to help me out in Chicago, so I plastered on a smile.

  “Long flight.”

  “Yeah, not that long.” His eyes immediately went to my sling. “How bad is that?”

  “Nothing I can’t manage.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he said cryptically. “My car’s out this way. You got that?” He gestured toward my duffel bag. “’Cause you don’t need to be ripping stitches just to prove you’re a man or anything. I’m happy to help.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m overly concerned with my masculinity? I’ll take the assist.” The duffel bag wasn’t really heavy, but it was unwieldy, and I’d already strained myself back in Denver hoisting it around.

  “Got it.” He picked it up like it was nothing. “C’mon.”

  His car was a Prius that smelled like baby powder and dog hair. I wrinkled my nose, and he laughed. “You’re welcome to take a cab, Cillian, but my ride’s cheaper.”

  “Not for what I’m paying you,” I replied, but I got in and, after a moment of awkward staring, buckled myself in with a sigh. “Where are we going?”

  Andre started up the car and began to weave his way out of the airport parking lot. “We’re going to lunch.”

  “Lunch.”

  Well…that wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but then, waiting for him to say, “We’re going to the mob boss’s secret hideout!” probably wasn’t in the offing. “Anywhere in particular?”