The Oracle Series: Vols. 4, 5, & Grave Endowments

by Cynthia D. Witherspoon

  I scowled at Joey as he disappeared with Terrence down the hallway. I was sure they were heading towards the kitchen. Reena stayed behind Jonathan as Jonah dismissed us with a wave of his hand and went through a pair of impressive double doors.

  "Jonah, your presence is still required."

  Jonathan spoke with a quiet tone, but apparently, the man heard him. He popped his head back through the doors, rolled his eyes, and stepped back into the foyer.

  "Would you like to rest before we speak?" Jonathan dusted off a piece of imaginary lint from his sleeve. "Or can we get you anything?"

  "Wine, if you have it. It's too late for coffee." I sat my bag down on a table which lined the wall. "We may as well get everything out into the open. The sooner the better."

  ***

  Jonathan was a master at hospitality. He got us settled in a large family room with drinks and a plate of cut vegetables to stave off Joey's hunger. He and Terrence attacked the plate with a fervor that was embarrassing. I took a minute to glance around the room as everyone else took their seats.

  "I swear, I've seen this place before."

  I took a sip of my wine and sat it down on the wooden coffee table. Jonah scoffed as he took the overstuffed chair farthest away from me.

  "Where? In a dream? A premonition?"

  "A comic book." I raised my eyebrow in his direction. "With a small sign at the gate announcing it as a school for gifted students."

  Terrence chuckled. Joey smirked. Cyrus simply sighed as he stood behind me.

  "It is an accurate description of the Grannison-Morris Estate, Eva." Jonathan entered the room and took a seat across from us. "But I am most interested in your own story. Tell me about yourself."

  I hated this part. I hated having to tell the story over and over again. But I did it each time I asked. It was all part and parcel of my role. So I started from the only place I could. The beginning. I explained to those in the room how I had been tricked—or so I thought—by my predecessor into speaking Apollo's oath. I told them about the mirror, and the history behind it. How the first Sibyl became immortal as punishment for breaking a deal with Apollo. How Persephone took pity on the girl and granted her the ability to speak with the dead. Apollo awarded that same girl with the mirror to break her immortality if she wished it. But only if she passed it onto another woman who would take her place.

  But that was all they’d get. It wasn’t their business that Apollo was my actual father. Only the gods and Cyrus knew the truth, and I planned on keeping it that way.

  I told them the basics. But what I needed to tell them, what I had to tell them, was much more important. I took a deep breath, ignored the skeptical looks from our new roommates, and continued.

  “Look, I pose a very serious threat to you and yours while being here, Jonathan. I know that Cyrus has already told you that Elliot Lancaster, a producer for Grave Messages, has become something...horrible. The official name for what he has become is—”

  "Skinwalker." Terrence piped up as he leaned forward. "So that Montana episode

  wasn’t theatrics for the show? He really is a crazy monster?”

  "Everything you see on the show is real, I'm afraid." I took a gulp of my drink as Cyrus squeezed my shoulder to let me know he was still there. "And yes. He has become a Skinwalker. A monster transformed by Hera. He is a killer. The problem is, I haven't figured out how to stop him yet. Not without Hera bailing him out every chance she gets."

  Terrence shook his head. “I wonder if the Helakos woman knows about that.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I let it pass. I knew nothing about Elliot’s dealings with the billionaire woman from the tabloids. It paled in comparison to everything else.

  Now that Terrence mentioned it, though, it was a bit of a surprise that Elliott hadn’t offered her up to Hera for slaughter, too. Maybe he relished her company too much to kill her. Maybe she was a physical means to an end. Who knew?

  Jonah broke out into laughter, which ended the brief silence in the room. He started to applaud before standing.

  "You tell a good tale, Superstar, but surely you don't think we’ll fall for it. Me thinks you've been out in the California glitz too long."

  I stood up to face him with my arms crossed over my chest. "You may think so, Rowe. I wish it was fake. My life would be far less tragic if it were. I've had to fight for, then fight against, a man I loved once. A man who is hell bound to see me suffer at his hands."

  "Fight? Right." Jonah chuckled. "I don't see that happening. You might mess up your hair in the process."

  "Jonathan, may I demonstrate something to your charge?" I turned to face my host. "It involves a weapon, but I won't use it. Yet."

  Jonathan gestured his approval as the others tensed up around me. Reena leaned forward on her seat. Even happy-go-lucky Terrence looked as if he were ready to strike. I took a deep breath and willed for my weapon to appear. Cyrus had taught me how to call it forth when he gave it to me, but he never explained the mechanics of it. Truth was, I

  didn't think to ask.

  Chalk it up as another thing I needed to talk to my Keeper about.

  My right hand shimmered just before my short sword appeared out of thin air. The blade was white gold. The handle? Gold as well. I balanced it between my hands before sitting it on the table next to my wine. In the late afternoon sunlight, the Phoenix symbol rising out of the Sun gleamed, as did the swirls of yellow gold that crossed the white of the blade.

  "The official name for my weapon is the Ceremonial Sword of the Sibyl. According to Zeus, it was crafted by Hephaestus himself. The weapon was a gift, but it has come in handy more often than I would like to admit."

  The four strangers leaned over the sword, each studying it with veiled expressions. Finally, Terrence spoke up.

  "It's beautiful, but, um—" He scratched the bridge of his nose. "Who is

  Hephaestus?"

  "The weapon maker of the Gods." Cyrus finally spoke. "Who is also a son of

  Hera."

  "Still trying to convince us this whole Greek mythology thing is real, aren't you?" Jonah slumped back down in his chair. "I don't think some fancy trick of the light is going to make your case for you."

  I took up the sword, forcing myself not to use it as it disappeared. Some people were believers. Some were not. It didn't matter to me one way or the other what this Jonah thought.

  “Look, I’m sure you’ve all heard about my supposed suicide attempt. It wasn’t suicide. Elliot enlisted Kampe’s help through Hera. He nearly killed me. He won’t hesitate to do the same to any of you.”

  "Dinner." Terrence rubbed his hands together, a little eager to change the subject.

  "Let's talk about that. What can I make you, Eva? I can throw anything you'd want."

  I shook my head to cut him off, but his look of disappointment was so strong, I felt horrible. "Let me take a rain check, Terrence. I would love to try your cooking. Tomorrow. For now, I really just want to see my room and crash before we head to the site tomorrow."

  Cyrus offered me his arm, but I shook my head. "No. I'll be fine. I'm sure you have much to discuss with Jonathan. I'm going to unpack and get some sleep."

  "I'll join you as soon as I can." Cyrus dropped his arm. "There are some matters I wish to cover with the Eleventh."

  I frowned, knowing that Cyrus had called the Grannison-Morris Estate the home of the Eleventh Percenters, but I didn't ask him to elaborate. When Cyrus started talking about different planes of existence and “ethereal” powers, I knew my eyes glazed over. Just as I knew they would now if I stuck around for this conversation.

  "Tell me later?" I waited until he nodded before Terrence hopped up from his seat on the couch.

  "Let me show you to your room, Eva."

  "Alright." I turned to follow him, trying to hide the smile this man elicited from me. He was as excited as a puppy as he explained how to get around the massive house.

  Finally, he stopped before a wooden door.

/>   "This is it. Yours for a week." He grinned as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "And don't pay Jonah any never mind. We have all had a—a trying few months. He's spun about concerning this, but he'll get over it."

  "Yeah? Me, too." I started to open the door but stopped before I could open it. "Terrence, I didn't see any mirrors in the rooms we went into earlier. Are there any in my room?"

  "No." He swelled up, quite proud of himself. "I took them all down the minute

  Jonathan told us you were arriving. I know how dangerous they are to you."

  I leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Terrence. That means a lot to me."

  I slipped through the door before he could fall over. I knew how excited fans got and he was obviously a fan.

  I took in my room. The pile of luggage stacked up neat in the far right corner by the closet. I knew I had a lot of work to do before tomorrow. We were going to view the Covington property. Joey had even scheduled an interview with the owner. But I couldn't handle it right now. I collapsed on my bed with a sigh.

  I rubbed my hands over my face as I considered how important this was. I had been gone from Grave Messages for a long while. First, with the deaths of my parents.

  Then, while I healed up from Elliot’s attack. And lastly, the magic goddess boot-camp.

  If I could survive Charleston, Hecate, and Medusa, then I could survive anything. At least, I hoped I could.

  Chapter Three

  Jonah Rowe

  Jonah had had enough. Superstar McRayne was allowed to go to bed, so he excused himself.

  Jonathan and Cyrus looked as though they’d speak for hours, so his departure was seamless. Reena was in pragmatist mode. She could be the voice of reason here. There was no point in a conversation with Terrence because he was too enamored to be of much use at the moment. Looked like Jonah was on his own for this one.

  How dare McRayne condescend? How dare she say, “Leave it to the professionals?” The estate was their zone. This wasn’t a damn Hollywood studio where fantasy became reality courtesy of lights, makeup, and clockwork. What the hell did she know about fighting?

  As a writer, he had to give her credit. Her story was superb. Her producer, who was also her ex, was now a Skinwalker slave to Hera and wanted to kill her.

  It was definitely original. But Terrence had already said that that Lancaster dude was in Beverly Hills, mooching off of a billionaire heiress. What man in his right mind would be thinking about murder when he had it like that?

  Eva had storytelling down. Her little sleight of hand with the sword? Cute. The hallmark of a bona fide Hollywood illusionist. But when you got down to the root of it?

  Eva McRayne was indeed a superstar. A superstar bitch.

  Jonah had taken a spiritual endowment before they’d used the Astralimes to get to

  Raleigh. He didn’t know how vigilant he’d have to be with the celebrities around, but Joey was cool, and Cyrus seemed too reserved to be an asshole. But Eva?

  Whatever.

  One week, Jonah, he thought to himself. You tolerated Essa, Langton, and Bane for months. You can deal with the diva medium for a week.

  He could do it. He’d been through worse. Seven days. Seven little sunsets, and Superstar would be gone, and life would be uneventful once again. With that satisfied thought, he fell asleep.

  He was standing on the lushest lawn he’d ever seen. It was like Superbowl grass, and even better than the grounds at the estate, and that was saying something.

  But the lawn was nothing compared to the house.

  It was huge, and done in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright. That was the only style he knew and enjoyed, so he knew it when he saw it. A sudden weight in his pocket caught his attention, and he reached there. They were keys.

  Jonah stared at them. They hadn’t been there before. Had they? So this house was—

  “Yours, darling,” said a smoky voice.

  Jonah actually jumped. There was a woman on the porch whose smile was disarming as hell. She had a perfect figure. On a scale of one to ten, she was a two hundred fifty. Her attire was simple, but daunting. A snow-white top that left little to the imagination, and a skirt that was so short it should have been criminal. How could Jonah have not noticed her before?

  “Um…” murmured Jonah, “who are you?”

  “I’m whoever you want me to be.” The woman descended the steps, chuckling as she did so. “I’m yours, just like this house.”

  Then it all came back to Jonah. Had he forgotten things that quickly? He’d written a five-book steam punk series that had struck gold. The books were a resounding success. It was like he could do no wrong. No one could explain how his books had been such runaway hits. He’d negotiated a book deal for an amount of money so high that it could cause vertigo. He’d just closed on this beautiful new house last week, which he’d dubbed Beech in honor of his grandmother’s maiden name. That was all familiar. But he didn’t know the woman. She was a blank.

  “I—I remember everything now,” said Jonah slowly. “I just don’t know you.”

  Even though the woman descended the steps, she hadn’t come any further. “Think of me as your housewarming present,” she purred. “And I’m not alone. My sisters are here for you, too.”

  She gestured to the front porch, and two women sauntered out of the front door.

  Their figures were as perfect and outfits as scandalous as hers. Jonah didn’t know what to make of it. It was quite a sight.

  “What are you waiting for, Jonah?” said Smoky Voice quietly. “It isn’t like you don’t deserve what you’re about to receive.”

  Something about that statement didn’t sit well with Jonah, but he let it pass.

  Seduction could be an uncomfortable thing, after all.

  Jonah was tempted. No sane man wouldn’t be. His books were successful now. He could remember every award, every signing, every convention—all of it. He was the real deal. Finally! Why shouldn’t he enjoy his success? This success felt great. Perfect. Maybe a little too perfect.

  But wasn’t that the way it was sometimes? Huge successes that felt too good to be true? Too perfect?

  “Why do you doubt this, my dear?” said Smoky Voice. “Your mystery novels are simply the best! Now come on in here and let’s enjoy ourselves!”

  “Mystery?” Jonah frowned. “I do steampunk.”

  “That’s what I meant to say,” said Smoky Voice hastily. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? A book’s a book, no matter the genre!”

  “Let’s not worry about books right now,” said one of the women on the porch.

  “Let’s just think about all of the fun that the four of us are about to have.”

  But now Jonah was just a bit rattled. They were adamant about getting him into that strange house. It seemed to go a little beyond seduction.

  Wait. Strange house? Where had that come from? It was his house! Right?

  “How exactly did you all get in my house?” he asked them.

  Smoky Voice rolled her eyes. “The keys of course! You left them for us!”

  The first red flag went up in Jonah’s head. “How could I have left them for you if you were a housewarming surprise?” he quizzed. “And the keys are right here! I’ve always had them—no—they appeared in my pocket!”

  Smoky Voice threw a look at her sisters on the porch. The second red flag went up in Jonah’s head.

  “Why do you ask all these questions?” she asked, but her voice seemed a little different. A little colder. “Can’t you just come into this place and bed us?”

  “Bed you?” repeated Jonah. “Is this the eighteen forties?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Rowe,” said Smoky Voice, whose seductive tone was now nonexistent. “Now, if you please—”

  “No.” These women were the textbook definition of gorgeous. There was no question about that. But this entire thing just didn’t mesh with Jonah. It was a gut feeling. He even doubted his successes as a writer. It was just too per
fect. “I don’t know what this is, but I don’t want any part of it. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Smoky Voice looked stunned. Her sisters looked as if they’d gotten punched in the gut. Jonah didn’t care if he’d hurt their feelings. He turned his back on them, but before he could take a step, a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

  “YOU DARE RESIST US, MORTAL?”

  In the time it took for Jonah to get spun around, the entire landscape changed. The lush grounds were replaced by rocks, stones, and briar patches. The Frank Lloyd Wright was gone, replaced by a bone-ridden cave that stuck out of the ground like a gaping mouth. Only Smoky Voice and her sisters remained, but they, to Jonah’s surprise, were not fazed by these stark changes. They were almost iridescent with rage.

  “What the—?”

  Then the sisters changed. The lustrous hair became patchy clumps. The eyes became bloodred, with black dots for pupils. Their skin became deep-sunk and sallow, and their shapely figures devolved into emaciated, gaunt, and bent postures.

  “HOLY SH—!”

  Jonah didn’t get the chance to finish. One of the hideous apparitions lunged forward and throttled the expletive right out of him.

  “YOU BELONG TO US!” she screeched, her voice now an archaic rasp. “YOU

  WILL NEVER LEAVE OUR LAIR!”

  “Says you, bitch!” snarled Jonah. Due to his struggling against her, the creature’s clutch on his throat wasn’t as tight as she probably desired. He had to think. Fight or flight had kicked in, but Jonah knew that if he simply attempted to flee, he wouldn’t make it far. He had to fight for a chance to flee.

  For some reason, the keys were still in his grasp, even though the house never

  existed. He didn’t question it. He simply swiped the metal across the apparition’s face, rupturing an eye in the process. With a howl, she released him and clutched at the injury. A second one snarled in rage and gave Jonah a hard shove, which knocked him into a briar patch.

  Jonah felt every sting and laceration that the briars made on his legs, but did his best to file them away. He knew that if he didn’t put space between himself and these demon bitches, he’d feel something worse than briar cuts.