by Nina Walker
“You’re almost here,” his voice says in that teasing, happy way of his. I smile. I’ve missed him so much.
My boot catches on a fallen tree and I stumble, going down hard. My momentum carries me over the rest of a hill and I’m rolling, branches and stones pummeling my exposed skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and tuck my arms in against the pain, fisting my hands against my chest. It all happens so fast. I’m spinning and then I’m not. I blink, the beginnings of winking sun momentarily blinding my vision. I find myself on flat earth and sit up with a groan to glare at the hill that I just tumbled down.
“Owen?” I ask, rubbing the side of my head. I pull my fingers away to find blood and wince. “Where are you?”
“Over here,” the voice replies.
Once again, I’m confused if I’m hearing it in my head or aloud. But does it matter? It’s Owen! “Over where?”
“Don’t you see me?" the voice continues. “Look up. I’m right here.”
I search the forest and then I see… something.
“Is that you?”
“Yes,” he says, breathy. Eager.
“Why are you lying like that?" I rush forward to my friend. He’s lying on his front, his face buried in the dusty ground. And he’s dressed funny, not in his normal princely attire, but in aged clothing that’s practically rotting off his body. But his hair is that same dusty blonde curly mess and his skin is the tanned honey I know so well.
I kneel at his side and roll him toward me. “Owen?”
I yelp. The man that stares up at me isn’t Owen. Before my eyes, his hair turns to orangish copper, and his face changes to that of an older man’s. His brown eyes are glassy, vacant. But his skin is warm, his cheeks pink. A light breath of exhaled air tickles my arm.
“Who are you?” I growl.
Gripped in his hands are piles of gemstones and then I know.
I stumble away, scurrying across the dirt floor on my hands and knees until I can manage to stand.
“Where are you going?” the voice calls after me. It still sounds like Owen but I know that it is all an illusion. I don’t know if it’s the man somehow doing this, or the forest, but I’m not going to stay and find out.
“Khali, come back,” the voice laughs. “It’s not so bad here. You might like it.”
Tears burn my eyes and I glance around the clearing. Horror overpowers me at what I find. There are more people here. At least ten more. And all are lost to a cursed slumber with shining gemstones clenched in their hands. The trees grow around them and over them as if they don’t exist.
I need to get out of here.
I run back, trying to find the way I came in, fighting with the hem of my dress, climbing the hill, holding my hands in tight, fighting the barrage of panic. I’m almost to the top when I see a woman. She’s flat on her back with a peaceful expression on her sleeping face. Her eyes are closed, and her raven hair curls around her in perfect symmetry. She looks to be young, my age. But her dress is of a style from centuries ago. Her bowed lips and cheeks are painted cherry red. Straight through the center of her stomach, a silvery sapling grows, encrusted with spiky rubies.
It’s not magic that the trees feed on. It’s not the elements. It’s blood.
I scream.
17
Hazel
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Harmony says the moment I step into the shop.
I point at her. “So. Not. Funny.” But I’m shaking, and even though I want to sound like my happy-go-lucky self, my voice doesn’t come out even a little bit playful. The tone is akin to a strangled kitten. Not cute.
She wiggles her gray eyebrows but stops short when I shuffle closer. “No, really, you don’t look right, Hazel. Are you okay? What happened?”
I swallow, not quite sure how to put it into words. “Someone followed me,” I finally choke out. “He chased me down that back alleyway between Main and Crestmont.”
Her eyes widen into milky-blue saucers and she closes the distance, wrapping me in a motherly hug. I sink into her, tears springing instantly.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming,” she mutters. “I’m so sorry. Paths can change so quickly, I don’t always see these things in time. But I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d never showed up for your shift today.”
“Neither do I.”
She takes my hand in her weathered palm and leads me to the little back room where we do the readings. “I’m going to call the police. They can come take your statement in here.”
I want to say no, want to put this whole thing behind me and pretend it wasn’t real, that it didn’t happen. But I also want the police to catch this guy, whoever he is, because he’s still out there and it’s very possible that he’s the creep responsible for the missing women. He could come back for me. But why? What’s the pattern? What am I missing? What am I forgetting? I can feel the truth nagging at me, so close to coming into focus, but I can’t see it yet.
“I didn’t get a good look at him,” I mutter hopelessly, falling into the soft brown couch and sinking into its homey caress. I can finally breathe again, but it doesn’t help. I can’t stop shaking. I sit on my hands.
“That’s okay. We still need to report it.”
An hour later, the police have come and gone. I told them everything I could. Of course, I left out the encounter with the spirit dragon—or any spirits—because I’m not a moron. The police were eager to write down every bit of info like it could be the missing puzzle piece. And maybe it could be. The head detective, a stout, balding man with a wiry mustache, left me his card in case I remember anything else or run into trouble. I hold the flimsy cardstock between my fingers, staring at the black ink: Detective Sanders. I quickly type the number into my phone, saving it to my contacts, then shove both items into my pocket.
The surreal terror of the afternoon has started to fade into the quiet of newly minted evening. I don’t know when I stopped shaking but I’m calm now. And exhausted. My eyelids are anchors but I’m terrified that if I close them and sink into sleep, I’ll end up reimagining the incident over and over again, unable to escape it.
Harmony pops her head into the back room, looking me up and down with pity. And I hate it. A fresh anger burns bright against my ribcage. How dare this guy take something away from me? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, let alone the rest of the school year. And the worst part is, there’s nothing I can do about it. He was going to hurt me. No question about it. And if he was so brazen in broad daylight, who else has he hurt? What else has he gotten away with?
“I’ll be giving you a ride home after work from now on,” Harmony says matter-of-factly, snapping me from my torrent of angry thoughts. “Even if you’re working the shop alone, I’ll come back at closing and take you back to your dorm. And we have cameras here. Keep that detective’s number on speed dial.”
“You hired me to make your life easier.”
She tilts her head. “So what? I don’t want you out walking in the dark, at least not until they catch that man. Okay?”
I nod once. “Okay,” I say, but in my head I’m thinking about the possibility of them not catching that man, or anyone. That whoever chased me today, and whoever hurt those girls, will get away free and clear. Free to live their sick life. Cora, the true crime-obsessed girl that she is, informed me and Macy that a third of the murders in the United States go unsolved. So that’s a fun statistic to keep in my back pocket right about now.
I stare at the lavender wall, studying the way the plaster underneath creates the faintest pebbly pattern. The anger from moments before has been eaten by an emptiness, a hollowness that scares me. I spring up and brush myself off. “Enough of that,” I say. “I’m not going to wallow in what happened or feel sorry for myself. It’s over. I’m lucky to be here. And I’m not going to think about that creep anymore or let him stop me from living my life.”
“Oh, hone
y,” Harmony sighs. “I think we should close up early tonight––”
“No!” I cut her off so abruptly that she jumps. “I want to stay busy. I need it. Give me something to do, please. Let’s just go on, business as usual.”
She wrings her hands together. Her dreadlocks are piled on top of her head, like a basket of wiry snakes, but her eyes are kind and her rosemary and sage scent is a familiar balm to my emotional wounds.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asks carefully.
“I’m absolutely, infinitely, utterly sure. Please, I need this. I need to work.”
Harmony stares for a long second before her eyes become hazy, like she’s seeing right through me. Probably to my “paths”. Her eyes stay like that long enough for me to get nervous. But then they clear and she nods, relaxing into an easy smile.
“Yes,” she says. “I have a new client who’s interested in a reading. She’s from out of town and called in last night. She’d like to meet you. And I think it will be okay. Despite what happened today, I see it as a positive path for you to take.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, pushing down any lingering feelings of fear or worry. Time to move forward.
“I haven’t met her in person yet,” she continues. “So I don’t know any specifics as to how the reading will go because I can only see her paths if I can get close. I see it going well for you, but I don’t—”
“It will be fine,” I cut her off like I have all the confidence in the world. I think back to Dean, and how I refused to work with him and what a disaster that whole experience was. But that was last week and that was different. Since then, I’ve done three readings for Harmony’s best clients. Each one was just as she said it would be. Easy and natural. All I had to do was go into that quiet room with them, invite any spirits of the light to join us, and tell the clients what images I saw.
I couldn’t always make sense of what the images meant, but that wasn’t my job and nobody seemed to mind. The clients knew what to make of the images that came into my mind. And by the end of the hour-long session, all three clients left in tears. They would smile and thank me for a job well done and head over to the cash register to pay. It felt good. It felt like I was turning my curse into a gift, into a future, like Mom always said I could.
Maybe doing it again today will soften the empty feeling in my gut.
Thirty minutes later, the client arrives. She’s polished and put together in the kind of “high-gloss” way that doesn’t fit into an earthy place like The Flowering Chakra. But then again, Dean didn’t fit in here either. I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions about who needs this woo-woo stuff. Everyone probably needs some version of it. Not that half of the population would even consider it. But then again, people can be full of surprises.
Surprises and secrets.
The client tiptoes into the shop like she’s not meant to be here and is desperate not to touch anything, like the crystals might reach out and bite her. When her manicured fingers smooth out a sheath of crimson hair, a massive diamond ring catches the light. Her high heels click-clack on the wood floors.
I blink at her, worry sweeping wide. Will she believe a word I say?
Harmony greets her with a smile but after a few moments, she shakes her head and puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this? It might be harder on you than you realize.”
“What?” the woman sputters. “Of course! I came all this way. I’ve been on standby to meet Hazel.”
“No,” Harmony continues. “I’ve changed my mind. Hazel had a bit of a scare today. She isn’t in the right frame of mind to do this reading.”
All my senses are alive, trying to figure out why there’s a sudden change in Harmony. Her tone is protective, so it must have something to do with getting a look at this woman’s future paths. But it doesn’t matter. I want to do the reading. I want to be distracted, even if I’m not in the right frame of mind.
I hurry over to intervene. “I can do it,” I assure them both, offering a pleasant, and totally fake, smile.
The woman’s eyes soften when she takes me in, and Harmony looks like a ripened tomato, her face has grown so red. She keeps shaking her head. I know this is Harmony’s shop, this is her thing, and I need to trust her. But right now, I don’t care. I must take my mind off that alleyway and what could have happened if that man hadn’t tripped.
“Right this way,” I say brightly and lead the woman back into the lavender room. Before Harmony can stop us, I close the door. Now it’s just me and this woman and the unknown of whatever’s next.
If this lady were an animal, she’d be one of those million dollar race horses. Everything about her is power and money and winning at life. And her eyes are alight with so much gratitude for me that I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t want to let her down. I gesture for her to have a seat so we can get started.
“What’s your name?” I ask, settling into my chair.
“Evangeline Connelly.” She has a slight southern accent and there’s an alarm in the back of my mind. Like I should know that name. Do I? I eye her again, but I’ve never seen her before today.
“I now invite any spirits, angels, or guides of the light to enter the room with me and Evangeline Connelly.” I unclasp my obsidian necklace and place it on the side table.
They come. They materialize, surrounding her on all sides. Ancestors, and what I’ve figured out are guides by they way they glow like a nightlight is lit from within. And then there are the angels. She has two. They stand on either side of the room, stoic and massive.
I’ve seen all this stuff since I was a child. But the angels don’t always show themselves, so when they do, it’s hard not to stare. They look exactly like they’re depicted in the Bible. Gigantic wings and warrior-like garb and massive energy. But they never say anything to me. They don’t show me images. They don’t interact. Ever. I’m sure they’re here for a reason, but I can’t say what that reason is. All I know is they’re not my angels, they’re hers.
It’s the spirits, the ghosts of those who’ve lived here before, that I can connect with, that can send me the images. And it’s one of them in particular that I now gape at.
Charlene Connelly.
She was that freshman girl who went missing two years ago. She looks exactly like the photos that popped up in the news over the weekend. They never found her body. Now I know why.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking again.
“Do you see her?” Evangeline Connelly asks gently, breaking the tension. “Do you see my daughter? Is she dead?” Her voice is laced with the kind of deep unresolved sadness that reaches into my soul and rips it wide open.
I don’t want to be the one to tell her. But I have to.
I take a deep breath and meet her eyes. They’re hopeful. They’re broken. They’re two years of living without knowing what happened to her daughter.
“Please, just tell me. I need to know. Is she dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
She nods, the pain seeming to settle in deep, but also, some other emotion right along with it. Something I can’t quite name yet. “Is she okay?”
I look over the woman’s shoulder to where her daughter hovers. Oftentimes I see the spirits caught in between this life and whatever comes next. I don’t know where they go. They don’t either, I don’t think. They seem to be stuck here, trapped by the things that happened to them on Earth.
But not always.
Sometimes they come through from a far off place that I can’t see, traveling to come to me. Sometimes they’re happier than anyone walking this earth. And as for Charlene, her smile is genuine and she glows with the light of pure, unfiltered joy. And when I look at her, I don’t see the pain, or the horror of what happened to her, or a young woman who had her life stolen away. I wish I could somehow allow Charlene’s mother to see her this way.
“Yes, she’s okay,” I say. “Sometimes what I see is... disturbing. But with your
daughter, all I see is her happiness. She’s smiling. She’s full of love. She’s at peace.”
Tears fall from Evangeline Connolly’s eyes. Moisture instantly pools in mine, too.
“Do you know what happened to her?” she asks, so hopeful and needy.
I was afraid of this. I almost don’t want to know what happened to this girl. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. But I do ask because I must. For Evangeline’s sake, but for mine too. Mine and every other young woman at Hayden College. I look up at the peaceful spirit hovering over her mother and ask the question that can only have a terrible answer.
I meet Charlene’s gaze. “What happened to you? Will you show me?”
But she doesn’t show me anything of her death. No water, like with Katherine’s ghost. No death or screaming or terror, like with so many others. Instead, her spirit shows me a memory, a memory she wants me to share with her mother.
“She’s seven years old,” I begin. “Charlene is in first grade and she doesn’t want to go to school because the other girls have become friends and have left her out. You and Dad don’t let her stay home. Nobody is allowed to stay home from school unless they’re sick. Not her two older brothers, either. It’s the rule.”
Evangeline nods along, mesmerized by the story, as if she’s seeing it all again in real time.
“But on the drive to the elementary school, just as Charlene is about to burst into tears in the back seat, you look at her through the rearview mirror and you tell her that it’s a girl’s date day. Then you turn away from the school and the two of you spend the day shopping at the mall and go to the movie theater to see The Emperor’s New Groove.”
“She loved that movie,” Evangeline says, tears streaming down her face. I hand her the box of tissues and she dabs at her makeup gingerly.
“She loved it because you made it special. After that day, the two of you kept the girl’s date day a secret, a secret that became a yearly tradition. Once a year, you would ditch school and work and do the same thing, go shopping and then eat a bunch of candy and popcorn while watching a matinee.”