It emanated out of him like electricity.
“Hi, I’m Jolie,” I said, remembering myself.
“How do you do?” And to make me drool even more than I already was, he had an accent, a British one. Ergh.
I glanced at Christa as I invited him into the reading room. Her mouth dropped open like a fish.
My sentiments exactly.
His navy blue sweater stretched to its capacity while attempting to span a pair of broad shoulders and a wide chest. The broad shoulders and spacious chest in question tapered to a trim waist and finished in a finale of long legs. The white shirt peeking from underneath his sweater contrasted against his tanned complexion and made me consider my own fair skin with dismay.
The stillness of the room did nothing to allay my nerves. I took a seat, shuffled the tarot cards, and handed him the deck. “Please choose five cards and lay them face up on the table.”
He took a seat across from me, stretching his legs and rested his hands on his thighs. I chanced a look at him and took in his chocolate hair and darker eyes. His face was angular, and his Roman nose lent him a certain Paul Newman-esque quality. The beginnings of shadow did nothing to hide the definite cleft in his strong chin.
He didn’t take the cards and instead, just smiled, revealing pearly whites and a set of grade A dimples.
“You did come for a reading?” I asked.
He nodded and covered my hand with his own. What felt like lightning ricocheted up my arm, and I swear my heart stopped for a second. The lone red bulb blinked a few times then continued to grow brighter until I thought it might explode. My gaze moved from his hand, up his arm and settled on his dark brown eyes. With the red light reflecting against him, he looked like the devil come to barter for my soul.
“I came for a reading, yes, but not with the cards. I’d like you to read … me.” His rumbling baritone was hypnotic, and I fought the need to pull my hand from his warm grip.
I set the stack of cards aside, focusing on him again. I was so nervous I doubted if any of my visions would come. They were about as reliable as the weather anchors you see on TV.
After several long uncomfortable moments, I gave up. “I can’t read you, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. I shifted the eucalyptus-scented incense I’d lit to the farthest corner of the table, and waved my hands in front of my face, dispersing the smoke that seemed intent on wafting directly into my eyes. It swirled and danced in the air, as if indifferent to the fact that I couldn’t help this stranger.
He removed his hand but stayed seated. I thought he’d leave, but he made no motion to do anything of the sort.
“Take your time.”
Take my time? I was a nervous wreck and had no visions whatsoever. I just wanted this handsome stranger to leave, so my habitual life could return to normal.
But it appeared that was not in the cards.
The silence pounded against the walls, echoing the pulse of blood in my veins. Still, my companion said nothing. I’d had enough. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
He smiled again. “What do you see when you look at me?”
Adonis.
No, I couldn’t say that. Maybe he’d like to hear about his aura? I didn’t have any other cards up my sleeve ... “I can see your aura,” I almost whispered, fearing his ridicule.
His brows drew together. “What does it look like?”
“It isn’t like anyone’s I’ve ever seen before. It’s bright blue, and it flares out of you … almost like electricity.”
His smile disappeared, and he leaned forward. “Can you see everyone’s auras?”
The incense dared to assault my eyes again, so I put it out and dumped it in the trashcan.
“Yes. Most people have much fainter glows to them—more often than not in the pink or orange family. I’ve never seen blue.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “What do you suppose it is you’re looking at—someone’s soul?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I do know, though, if someone’s ailing, I can see it. Their aura goes a bit yellow.” He nodded, and I added, “You’re healthy.”
He laughed, and I felt silly for saying it. He stood up, his imposing height making me feel all of three inches tall. Not enjoying the feel of him staring down at me, I stood and watched him pull out his wallet. I guess he’d heard enough and thought I was full of it. He set a one hundred dollar bill on the table in front of me. My hourly rate was fifty dollars, and we’d been maybe twenty minutes.
“I’d like to come see you for the next three Tuesdays at 4:00 p.m. Please don’t schedule anyone after me. I’ll compensate you for the entire afternoon.”
I was shocked—what in the world would he want to come back for?
“Jolie, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to our next session.” He turned to walk out of the room when I remembered myself.
“Wait, what name should I put in the appointment book?”
He turned and faced me. “Rand.”
Then he walked out of the shop.
~
By the time Tuesday rolled around, I hadn’t had much of a busy week. No more visits from ghosts, spirits, or whatever the PC term is for them. I’d had a few walk-ins, but that was about it. It was strange. October in Los Angeles was normally a busy time.
“Ten minutes to four,” Christa said with a smile, leaning against the front desk and looking up from a stack of photos—her latest bout into photography.
“I wonder if he’ll come,” I mumbled.
Taking the top four photos off the stack, she arranged them against the desk as if they were puzzle pieces. I walked up behind her, only too pleased to find an outlet for my anxiety, my nerves skittish with the pending arrival of one very handsome man.
The photo in the middle caught my attention first. It was a landscape of the Malibu coastline, the intense blue of the ocean mirrored by the sky and interrupted only by the green of the hillside.
“Wow, that’s a great one, Chris.” I picked the photo up. “Can you frame it? I’d love to hang it in the store.”
“Sure.” She nodded and continued inspecting her photos, as if trying to find a fault in the angle or maybe the subject. Christa had aspirations of being a photographer and she had the eye for it. I admired her artistic ability—I, myself, hadn’t been in line when God was handing out creativity.
She glanced at the clock again. “Five minutes to four.”
I shrugged, feigning an indifference I didn’t feel. “I’m just glad you’re here. Rand strikes me as weird. Something’s off …”
She laughed. “Oh, Jules, you don’t trust your own mother.”
I snorted at the comment and collapsed into the chair behind her, propping my feet on the corner of our mesh waste bin. So I didn’t trust people—I think I had a better understanding of the human condition than most people did. That reminded me, I hadn’t called my mom in at least a week. Note to self: be a better daughter.
The cuckoo clock on the wall announced it was 4:00 p.m. with a tinny rendition of Edelweiss while the two resident wooden figures did a polka. I’d never much liked the clock, but Christa wouldn’t let me get rid of it.
The door opened, and I jumped to my feet, my heart jack hammering. I wasn’t sure why I was so flustered, but as soon as I met the heat of Rand’s dark eyes, it all made sense. He was here again even though I couldn’t tell him anything important last time, and did I fail to mention he was gorgeous? His looks were enough to play with any girl’s heartstrings.
“Good afternoon,” he said, giving me a brisk nod.
He was dressed in black—black slacks, black collared shirt, and a black suit jacket. He looked like he’d just come from a funeral, but somehow I didn’t think such was the case.
“Hi, Rand,” Christa said, her gaze raking his statuesque body.
“How has your day been?” he answered as his eyes rested on me.
“Sorta slow,” Christa responded before I could. He didn’t
even turn to notice her, and she frowned, obviously miffed. I smiled to myself and headed for the reading room, Rand on my heels.
I closed the door, and by the time I turned around, he’d already seated himself at the table. As I took my seat across from him, a heady scent of something unfamiliar hit me. It had notes of mint and cinnamon or maybe cardamom. The foreign scent was so captivating, I fought to refocus my attention.
“You fixed the light,” he said with a smirk. “Much better.”
I nodded and focused on my lap. “I didn’t get a chance last time to ask you why you wanted to come back.” I figured it was best to get it out in the open. I didn’t think I’d do any better reading him this time.
“Well, I’m here for the same reason anyone else is.”
I lifted my gaze and watched him lean back in the chair. He regarded me with amusement—raised eyebrows and a slight smirk pulling at his full lips.
I shook my head. “You aren’t interested in a card reading, and I couldn’t tell you anything … substantial in our last meeting …”
His throaty chuckle interrupted me. “You aren’t much of a businesswoman, Jolie; it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me and my cold, hard cash.”
Enough was enough. I’m not the type of person to beat around the bush, and he owed me an explanation. “So are you here to get a date with Christa?” I forced my gaze to hold his. He seemed taken aback, cocking his head while his shoulders bounced with surprise.
“Lovely though you both are, I’m afraid my visit leans more toward business than pleasure.”
“I don’t understand.” I hoped my cheeks weren’t as red as I imagined them. I guess I deserved it for being so bold.
He leaned forward, and I pulled back. “All in good time. Now, why don’t you try to read me again?”
I motioned for his hands—sometimes touching the person in question helps generate my visions. As it had last time, his touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I had to fight not to lose my composure. There was something odd about this man.
I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to focus while millions of bees warred with each other in my stomach. After driving my thoughts from all the questions I had regarding Rand, I was more comfortable.
At first nothing came.
I opened my eyes to find Rand staring at me. Just as I closed them again, a vision came—one that was piecemeal and none too clear.
“A man,” I said, and my voice sounded like a foghorn in the quiet room. “He has dark hair and blue eyes, and there’s something different about him. I can’t quite pinpoint it … it seems he’s hired you for something …”
My voice started to trail as the vision grew blurry. I tried to weave through the images, but they were too inconsistent. Once I got a hold of one, it wafted out of my grasp, and another indistinct one took its place.
“Go on,” Rand prodded.
The vision was gone at this point, but I was still receiving emotional feedback. Sometimes I’ll just get a vision and other times a vision with feelings. “The job’s dangerous. I don’t think you should take it.”
And just like that, the feeling disappeared. I knew it was all I was going to get and I was frustrated, as it hadn’t been my best work. Most of the time my feelings and visions are much clearer, but these were more like fragments—almost like short dream vignettes you can’t interpret.
I let go of Rand’s hands, and my own felt cold. I put them in my lap, hoping to warm them up again, but somehow my warmth didn’t quite compare to his.
Rand seemed to be weighing what I’d told him—he strummed his fingers against his chin and chewed on his lip. “Can you tell me more about this man?”
“I couldn’t see him in comparison to anyone else, so as far as height goes, I don’t know. Dark hair and blue eyes, the hair was a little bit longish, maybe not a stylish haircut. He’s white with no facial hair. That’s about all I could see. He had something otherworldly about him. Maybe he was a psychic? I’m not sure.”
“Dark hair and blue eyes you say?”
“Yes. He’s a handsome man. I feel as if he’s very old though he looked young. Maybe in his early thirties.” I shrugged. “Sometimes my visions don’t make much sense.” Hey, I was just the middleman. It was up to him to interpret the message.
“You like the tall, dark, and handsome types then?”
Taken aback, I didn’t know how to respond. “He had a nice face.”
“You aren’t receiving anything else?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
He stood. “Very good. I’m content with our meeting today. Do you have me scheduled for next week?”
I nodded and stood. The silence in the room pounded against me, and I fought to find something to say, but Rand beat me to it.
“Jolie, you need to have more confidence.”
The closeness of the comment irritated me—who was this man who thought he could waltz into my shop and tell me I needed more confidence? Granted, he had a point, but damn it all if I were to tell him that!
Now, I was even more embarrassed, and I’m sure my face was the color of a bad sunburn. “I don’t think you’re here to discuss me.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s precisely the reason I’m …”
Rand didn’t get a chance to finish when Christa came bounding through the door.
Christa hasn’t quite grasped the whole customer service thing.
“Sorry to interrupt, but there was a car accident right outside the shop! This one car totally just plowed into the other one. I think everyone’s alright, but how crazy is that?”
My attention found Rand’s as Christa continued to describe the accident in minute detail. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been about to say. It had sounded like he was here to discuss me … something that settled in my stomach like a big rock.
When Christa finished her accident report, Rand made his way to the door. I was on the verge of demanding he finish what he’d been about to say, but I couldn’t summon the nerve.
“Cheers,” he said and walked out.
AVAILABLE NOW!
KINDLE or NOOK
Also Available From HP Mallory:
Turn the page for chapter one!
ONE
There was no way in hell I was looking in the mirror.
I knew it was bad when I glanced down. My stomach, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was five times its usual size and exploded around me in a mass of jelly-like fat. To make matters worse, it was the color of overcooked peas—that certain jaundiced yellow.
“Wow, Dulce, you look like crap,” Sam said.
I tried to give her my best “don’t piss me off” look, but I wasn’t sure my face complied because I had no clue what my face looked like. If it was anything like my stomach, it had to be canned-pea green and covered with raised bumps. The bumps in question weren’t small like what you’d see on a toad—more like the size of dinner plates. Inside each bump, my skin was a darker green. And the texture … it was like running your finger across the tops of your teeth—jagged with valleys and mountains.
“Can you fix it?” I asked, my voice coming out monster-deep. I shouldn’t have been surprised—I was a good seven feet tall now. And with the substantial body mass, my voice could only be deep.
“Yeah, I think I can.” Sam’s voice didn’t waver which was a good sign.
I turned to avoid the sun’s rays as they broke through the window, the sunlight not feeling too great against my boils.
I glanced at Sam’s perfect sitting room, complete with a sofa, love seat and two armchairs all in a soothing beige, the de facto color for inoffensive furniture. Better Homes and Gardens sat unattended on Sam’s coffee table—opened at an article about how beautiful drought resistant plants can be.
“You have nine eyes,” Sam said.
At least they focused as one. I couldn’t imagine having them all space cadetting out. Talk about a headache.
Turnin
g my attention from her happy sitting room, I forced my nine eyes on her, hoping the extra seven would be all the more penetrating. “Can you focus please?” I snapped.
Sam held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Sheesh, I guess getting changed into a gigantic booger put you into a crappy mood.”
“Gee, you think?” My legs ached with the weight of my body. I had no idea if I had two legs or more or maybe a stump—my stomach covered them completely. I groaned and leaned against the wall, waiting for Sam to put on her glasses and figure out how to reverse the spell.
Sam was a witch and a pretty damned good one at that. I’d give her twenty minutes—then I’d be back to my old self. “Was it Fabian who boogered you?” she asked.
The mention of the little bastard set my anger ablaze. I had to count to five before the rage simmered out of me like a water balloon with a leak. I peeled myself off the wall and noticed a long spindle of green slime still stuck to the plaster; it reached out as if afraid to part with me.
“Ew!” Sam said, taking a step back from me. “You are so cleaning that wall.”
“Fine. Just get me back to normal. I’m going to murder Fabian when I see him again.”
Fabian was a warlock, a master of witchcraft. The little cretin hadn’t taken it well when I’d come to his dark arts store to observe his latest truckload delivery. I knew the little rat was importing illegal potions (love potions, revenge potions, lust potions … the list went on) and it was my job to stop it. I’m a Regulator, someone who monitors the creatures of the Netherworld to ensure they’re not breaking any rules. Think law enforcement. And Fabian clearly was breaking some rule. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned me into a walking phlegm pile.
Sam turned and faced a sheet of chocolate chip cookie mounds. “Hold on a second, I gotta put these in the oven.”
She sashayed to the kitchen and I couldn’t help but think what an odd picture we made: Sam, looking like the quintessential housewife with her apron, paisley dress and Stepford wife smile, and me, looking like an alien there to abduct her.
Better Off Dead: The Lily Harper Series, Book 1 Page 25