Donn's Shadow

by Caryn Larrinaga

  He pulled me into a tight hug. “Thanks, Mac,” he whispered into my hair.

  “Hey, get a room, guys.” Kit’s voice rang out from behind us. “Not at the Oracle, though. I hear it’s run by a backstabbing beast-monster.”

  She stomped past us in a tattered Vandals t-shirt and pushed her way through the crowd until she found a waiter. She grabbed two glasses of champagne and disappeared past another clump of guests.

  I started walking toward the party, pulling Graham’s hand behind me, but was forced to stop when he didn’t move.

  “Do we have to stay for long?” he asked.

  “We’ll leave whenever you want. When you’re ready, do this.” I lifted my right hand, touched my pinky and third finger together, held my pointer and middle fingers slightly apart, and stretched my thumb out at far as it would go. I did the same thing with my left hand, but flipped it around so that the two shapes faced the same direction. I let them rise and fall through the air a few times, flapping my fingers lightly.

  Graham laughed. “What is that supposed to be?”

  I scoffed. “A sculptor who can’t even see the shapes right in front of him. It’s two birds soaring the skies together.” I repeated the flapping motion, nodding my head toward the shadow of the birds cast on the ground by the twinkling lights ahead. “As in, ‘Let’s fly!’”

  He was still laughing, but he humored me and tried to mimic the way I held my hands. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “My dad.” I reached out and helped him make the shapes, pressing his fingers together. “He always dragged me to these boring parties at the university, and he hated it when I’d tug on his jacket and whine to go home.” I smiled at the memory. “This was his way of giving me a quiet way out.”

  Graham’s shadow puppets were messy and hardly looked like birds. We giggled, ignoring the stares of passing guests for a few more minutes before he finally sighed, straightened up, and nodded. He was ready.

  As I’d suspected, every single table held one of Graham’s pieces. Small metal placards asked guests not to touch the sculptures and displayed tiny prices in the high triple digits. At the far end of the cramped lot, an enormous, wooden bar blocked the entrance to the Ace of Cups. Atop a pedestal in the exact middle of the bar, a huge bust of the Irish god for whom the town had been named scowled at the crowd. A small clump of people had gathered around Donn, the guardian of the afterlife. The onlookers ooh-ed and ahh-ed and restrained themselves from running their fingers down the intricately sculpted details on Donn’s armor.

  I nudged Graham again. “See? They love it.”

  He snatched two glasses off a passing tray and handed one to me. “Look, let’s just pretend none of my work is here. As far as I’m concerned, this is just one of Penny’s over-the-top parties.”

  “Deal.”

  We meandered up and down the cobblestone path for a while, admiring the way the neighborhood had been transformed for the party. None of the shops were open, but their windows displayed occult supplies, books of folklore and fairy tales, and collections of crystal jewelry. As the champagne glow kicked in, a smile spread across Graham’s rosy face. I relaxed, looping my arm through his and pulling him toward a buffet table laden with food provided by the Ace of Cups.

  We joined Kit near a tray of bruschetta, but she wasn’t much for small talk. She clutched a champagne flute in each hand and glared at something across the party. I followed her gaze; Yuri and Penelope were laughing together near the bar. Kit set down one of her glasses, angrily snatched up a slice of bread, and stuffed it into her mouth. Knowing better than to try to talk her down out of a rage, I grabbed Graham’s hand and led him away, leaving Kit to wallow in her own miasma.

  “Graham!”

  I twisted and caught sight of a tall, thin man in his early forties, side-stepping his way through the crowd with a glass of champagne in his hand. We stopped at a table where a carving of the two-faced god Janus was watching the bar with one set of eyes and the street with the other, and waited for the man to catch up to us. Like me, Stephen Hastain was a recent transplant to Donn’s Hill. He’d moved here in June to be part of The Enclave’s inaugural set of residents and had made fast friends with Graham, joining my boyfriend on fishing trips and talking to Graham’s dad about modern life in Ireland, where Stephen grew up.

  The rune caster, who specialized in throwing small objects and interpreting the results, reached us and clinked his glass against each of ours. “Sláinte!”

  “Cheers,” I replied, sipping my champagne. “How come you’re not in your shop?”

  Not far from our table, the window of a salmon-colored building announced that visitors could seek guidance within Ancient Answers. Like many other residents of The Enclave, Stephen kept his business on the first floor and lived on the second. Tenants could rent units for far below the going rate, provided they practiced some form of arcane art. The only exception was the Ace of Cups, and even they claimed their bartenders were gifted with a psychic ability to sense the drink you really needed, regardless of what you actually ordered.

  I’d expected all the stores and psychic parlors to be taking advantage of the large crowd here, but the sign on every shop’s door read CLOSED.

  “Penelope expressly forbade anyone from working tonight. No unfair competition.” Stephen laughed and ran a hand through his long curls, his cheeks pink with excitement. “I don’t mind. I’d hate to miss a party this good.”

  “You’re still in for tomorrow, right?” Graham asked his friend.

  The Irishman grinned. “All signs point to ‘yes.’ Who else is coming?”

  “The Soul Searchers.” I elbowed my date lightly. “And Graham.”

  “Well, I knew that already.” Stephen smiled at him. “Thanks again for asking your better half to include me.”

  “You’ll be great,” Graham said. “But I’m not sure why she wants me there.”

  “You helped with my first smudging,” I reminded him. “I’ll just feel better if you’re there.”

  He grabbed my hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Then I’m in.”

  “Who else?” Stephen asked.

  I nodded and swept the room with my eyes, seeking out the other two local psychics—more often called “intuitives” in Donn’s Hill’s social circles—who’d agreed to help. I spotted my volunteers near the buffet and gestured at them with my glass. Daphne and Nick Martin’s dark-haired heads huddled together over plates of canapés, their dour expressions at odds with the lively chatter and energetic jazz music that filled the air. Daphne swept her long ponytail back over one shoulder and returned my wave, a small smile creeping onto her face.

  “The twins?” Stephen asked.

  Graham snorted.

  “Twins?” I frowned. Daphne and Nick shared the same thick, straight black hair and heavy eyebrows, but the similarity stopped there. “Aren’t they married?”

  “They are,” Graham said. “Stephen’s just being an ass.”

  Stephen threw up his hands. “Hey, an honest mistake. I’m new in town, remember?” He winked, then nodded at Daphne. “She’s read my tarot before. She’s good. Very calming demeanor.”

  The memory of the howling winds and thrashing trees Richard Franklin’s ghost had summoned the last time I’d seen him filled my mind and sent a shudder through my body. Calm was what we needed.

  “Have you ever seen Nick work?” Graham asked.

  Stephen shook his head. “His readings always sell out. By the way, that photo you sent over gave me the heebie-jeebies. The Franklin kid has a real Charles Manson vibe. Crazy eyes.”

  In preparation for our upcoming investigation, Yuri and I had emailed all the participants a file with details about the location and the spirit who lurked there. We’d included a yearbook photo of Richard Franklin, taken before the budding sociopath had been expelled from his prep school for orchestrating a hazing that resulted in the death of a freshman. He’d been a handsome kid, but the vacancy in his light eyes
betrayed a lack of humanity.

  Just as I was mentally casting around for a change of subject, Kit pushed her way between us and slammed a hand down on the tabletop. The statue of Janus wobbled. Graham winced.

  “What’s the holdup?” Kit growled, swaying slightly. “Is this prick gonna make us wait all night or what?”

  Stephen raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Big Raziel fan, huh?”

  Kit grabbed a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waitress and snorted. “You couldn’t pay me to watch his crap. The only people who follow that idiot”—she punctuated the word by banging on the table again—“are idiots.”

  I stared at her. I’d never seen her drunk before. Her normally friendly eyes had become fiery slits, and the frown on her face erased the illusion of agelessness she usually enjoyed. It was a familiar expression; I’d seen it in the mirror anytime I caught a glimpse of myself remembering what my ex-boyfriend had done to me. It screamed of heartbreak and betrayal.

  “Kit.” I rested a hand on her elbow and kept my voice low. “Do you want to get out of here? We could—”

  She swore quietly, but it wasn’t directed at me. Her eyes were fixed on the Ace of Cups. A hush fell over the crowd, and I turned to see a tall, thin man wearing honey-colored sunglasses standing at the open doorway of the pub.

  Raziel Santos had arrived.

  Chapter Five

  He looked as calculatedly pompous in person as he had online. His thickly lined eyes swept the party from behind his ridiculous glasses, his face expressionless. His thin arms crossed tightly in front of his deep V-neck tee, through which I could see writing tattooed across his chest.

  Everyone watched the guest of honor in silence except for the musicians, and I half expected a footman to materialize from beside Raziel to announce His Royal Highness to all the peasants. Instead, a young woman with deep brown skin and a shaved head pushed him gently from behind. His movement broke the hush, and the babble around us started up again. Raziel moved down the steps toward the bar, waving to Yuri and Penelope as the bald woman smiled at the crowd.

  I turned back to Kit, expecting to find her glaring at Raziel, but her gaze was fixed on the woman he’d been with.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She finally looked at me, her brown eyes wide with panic. “I’m not ready for this.”

  Without another word, she bolted toward the street. I moved to follow her, but Graham grabbed my arm.

  “Stay,” he said. “I’ll get her home and come back.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a break from all this. And you should stay here and try to network or whatever.” He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head forward, indicating something behind me. “Start by talking to her.”

  I turned around to find Raziel’s companion making a beeline for our table through the crowd with a cocktail glass in her hand. Stephen gasped audibly, and I kicked him under the table.

  “You’re Mackenzie Clair, right?” she asked when she reached us. Her voice was strongly accented.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Amari Botha, Raziel Santos’ manager.”

  “Oh.” I shook her hand, then laughed. “This is kind of awkward… I’ve never introduced myself to someone who already knows my name before.”

  “Get used to it.” She grinned, revealing dimples in both cheeks. “Your show is very popular and growing every week. You’ll be a household name before you know it.”

  In an effort to hide my discomfort, I sipped my champagne. In Donn’s Hill, psychic gifts were so normal that even the local sheriff’s department didn’t bat an eye when the only “evidence” I had to back up my tips were based on a conversation I’d claimed to have with the murder victim.

  But I hadn’t been living in Donn’s Hill long enough to forget what the rest of the world thought of psychics and mediums. Most of what the average person knew came from campy horror movies. Based on the video comments Kit kept telling me not to read, half our viewers only watched our show because they were hoping we’d do something that proved we’d been faking things all along. Very few people were true believers, and they usually kept it to themselves. Publicly believing in religion was one thing. Believing in ghosts? That was something else entirely. Best-case scenario in which I’d become a household name: I’d be a very famous freak.

  “This is Stephen Hastain.” I gestured to my tablemate, who was currently making a big show of rubbing his shin beside me.

  “Pleasure to meet you. And… did I see Kit over here a moment ago?” Amari asked.

  “Yeah…” I eyed Amari, trying to read her expression. It definitely didn’t match the panic on Kit’s face. If anything, she was too relaxed. Too casual. “She wasn’t feeling well. She went home.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment flashed across Amari’s eyes. She cleared her throat, and I waited for her to continue.

  She didn’t.

  “Do you know Kit?” I asked.

  Amari flashed her dimples again. “We met in L.A. last spring. We promised to keep in touch, but I’ve done a bad job of it.”

  I stared at her. Kit had been in Los Angeles earlier that year; that much was true. She and Yuri had gone to meet with the executives at ScreamTV about the contract for Soul Searchers, successfully negotiating an additional season with the network. That was all she’d talked about when they got back. Well, that, and how angry she was that she’d missed getting to see me banish a poltergeist for the first time.

  I racked my brain for any memory of her talking about someone named Amari. She had never mentioned her, and given the way she’d nearly vomited all over the cocktail table the second Amari walked into the room, it was odd that Kit had never uttered her name to me before.

  Odd… and irresistibly intriguing. I wrestled a grin off my face as I forced myself to stop imagining the grief I was going to give Kit about it later. Once she felt better, of course.

  “Well,” I said, “welcome to Donn’s Hill. Have you been here before?”

  Amari shook her head. “It’s been on my list of places to visit for a very long time. I was thrilled to receive the invitation from Mrs. Bishop.”

  I glanced at Penelope; she and Yuri were having an animated conversation with Raziel. She waved her arms at the buildings around us, no doubt explaining how much work they’d put into restoring them.

  “And what are you, Australian or something?” Stephen asked. “Your accent’s pretty thick.”

  Amari didn’t miss a beat. “You should talk, Irish boy.”

  I hid a smile behind my champagne glass, enjoying the banter. But Stephen’s eyes narrowed; he didn’t seem to catch the playful tone in Amari’s voice.

  “That’s no answer,” he said.

  Amari looked taken aback. After a moment, she said, “Johannesburg.”

  “Oh,” Stephen said.

  We all sipped our drinks in awkward silence. Amari stared at her martini. I stared at the cobblestones beneath our feet. Stephen stared at Amari.

  After a minute, she swirled the vodka in her glass and smiled at me. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. I need to check on a few things with Raziel. Please tell Kit I said hello.”

  “I will.” I gave her a farewell wave, then whipped my head around to fire a few eye-daggers at Stephen. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” His eyes were wide and innocent, like he honestly didn’t know he’d been acting like a total weirdo the last few minutes.

  “The gasp? The staring? Asking about her accent in the rudest way possible? Were you trying to make her uncomfortable, or are you that good by accident?”

  He laughed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Raziel Santos is a class-A arsehole. I don’t care if Penelope thinks he’s the key to year-round tourism. He’s the enemy.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and Stephen rolled his eyes.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you’re okay with hi
m being here. He hates people like us. Look at his website—he calls us criminals.”

  “Yeah, I saw it.” I nodded toward Amari, who was chatting with another group of people across the room. “But why be rude to her? She’s just his manager.”

  Stephen laughed again. It was a bitter, harsh sound. “She’s his biggest disciple. Did you know she gave up a cushy job in Silicon Valley to follow him around like a puppy? She’s some kind of marketing genius. The only reason that gombeen has a following at all is because of her.”

  “‘Gombeen?’” I repeated.

  “Eh, huckster, I suppose. You know, snake oil salesman.” He bolted down the rest of his champagne, burped, and reached for another flute from a passing waiter. “Anyway, he’s the devil, and she’s the devil’s publicist.”

  A heaviness was building inside my stomach. I didn’t like the pattern emerging around me: too much champagne combined with too much negativity. I patted Stephen on the arm then made my way back to the best part of the party.

  Two huge buffet tables were laden with food, and I headed straight for the trays of pastries, cookies, and other bite-size sugar bombs. I scanned the offerings for any sign of Penelope’s famous lemon bars, then saw a small sign reminding me the pub had provided the catering. I settled for a plate of brownies and several light, fluffy cream puffs, my logic being that they’d combat the anxious weight at the bottom of my belly.

  Across the table, Daphne and Nick piled food onto their plates. Daphne shot me a sheepish grin and nodded toward my stack of cream puffs.

  “Careful,” she said. “Those things are dangerous.”

  I returned the smile. “I think I can handle them. Not to brag, but I’m a snacking expert.”

  “You and my husband both,” she said.

  Nick elbowed her. “Which one of us put away more shrimp kabobs on the 4th of July, huh?”

  The two of them laughed, which accentuated the similarity in their features. I suddenly understood why Stephen had called them twins; they kept mirroring each other’s facial expressions and punctuating jokes with the same playful tones. I wondered if they’d had those things in common to start, and that’s where the attraction had begun, or if they’d picked up each other’s habits unconsciously over time. Would that happen to Graham and me? I counted myself lucky that we didn’t already look alike.