Seer in Starlight

by Amanda Hartford

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Your next read

  A Note from Amanda

  Series by Amanda Hartford

  Seer in Starlight

  The Stella Novellas: Book 1

  Amanda Hartford

  Nineteen Cents Press

  Chapter One

  Wishing upon a star is what I do best. As I spend my nights driving rideshare passengers around Phoenix, I wish for a good tipper. Or, I wish for a big grant to fall in my lap so I can get another job in astronomy.

  Tonight, as I pulled into the GPS-enabled parking lot that the airport had set aside for rideshare drivers, I just wished that I had enough cash to treat myself to a serious meal over at the Terminal 4 food court.

  It had been a long day, and it promised to be a long night. I’d spent too many hours in the car this week, trying to get ahead on my rent. There hadn’t been time to go for a run on the canal bank, or even work out in the tiny gym in my apartment building, so I was stiff and sore. Worse, I’d let myself get emotionally run down. I was letting strangers’ troubles get to me, and that was never good.

  I have to be careful about that. I’m psychic, although the label always makes me cringe. I’ve always been able to read people’s thoughts as easily as if I was watching a TV sitcom. It’s not always a good thing.

  I was an only child, so it wasn’t until I hit kindergarten that I realized that knowing what other children were thinking wasn’t “normal.” My teachers thought that it was a shame that the perky little girl with great big eyes and a long ponytail was so shy, but that was far from the truth. I craved friends, but it’s difficult to open up when I constantly have to shut out other people’s thoughts.

  Years of practice have taught me how to block unwelcome psychic intrusions — a talent that serves me well driving rideshare. There are some internal dialogues that you just don’t want to hear, but tonight I was so tired that my guard was down.

  Around 5 o’clock, I picked up a guy at one of the best restaurants in Scottsdale. The man was in his early 30s, beautifully dressed in an elegant bespoke suit. His hair was freshly trimmed, his nails manicured. But something about him was off.

  Whatever had happened back at the restaurant, it had freaked the guy out. He was so upset when he first got into my Prius that I decided I’d better peek inside his head and be sure he wasn’t dangerous — but I couldn’t read him. It was like trying to get cell phone reception next to an electrical tower; waves of anxiety were coming off of the guy as he simmered in the backseat.

  All I could get was that the suit, the manicure, and the haircut were new that day. He was a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy, stepping up his game to impress somebody. A job interview, maybe? None of my business, of course, but the man was metaphysically stinking up my car with his panic.

  In the backseat, the man loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket. He didn’t say anything to me, but the man’s destination, according to the app, was a popular bar. Done for the day, then. Suddenly, I could read his thoughts, all right: it was time to get properly sloshed.

  None of my business, I reminded myself again as I dropped him off in front of the bar. He walked inside with purpose as I pulled away from the curb.

  That’s my New Year’s resolution for this year — and maybe, for this lifetime. I have to stop being the patron saint of lost causes. I’ve rescued countless strays over the years, both the two-footed and four-footed kinds, but seldom with a happy ending. The cost is just too high. I pushed past my exhaustion and got my emotional walls up, ready for the next stranger in the backseat.

  ♦

  My next fare was a middle-aged Latina woman I picked up in front of the Safeway. By the time I loaded the lady’s five over-filled sacks of groceries into the back of the Prius, my ride had settled into the front passenger seat.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” the woman said. “I can’t manage the groceries on the bus.”

  “No problem,” I said as I pulled away from the curb. I waited for the question.

  “How long you been doing this?” the lady asked, right on cue.

  There is a script for this. Most of my passengers ask some version of that question. They have various reasons for asking. Some are just nosy. Some are considering driving rideshare themselves in their spare time. Others are just trying to make conversation to fill the time in a car with a stranger.

  My current passenger fell into that last category. Her vibe was gentle and exhausted. I got mental flashes of the woman's workday, stuck in a cubicle in a call center. Two teenagers and a middle schooler waited at home for her to make dinner.

  I shook the images away. “Not too long,” I said.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s okay.”

  True answer: it’s okay, for now. I thought about the woman’s dismal cubicle job and waited for her to change the subject.

  “I could never do it,” the woman said. “Have to be home at night with my kids.”

  Bingo. I asked the ages of the children and saw my passenger relax. The woman extolled their virtues all the way to the circular drive that fronted her cheap apartment building.

  ♦

  I picked up a couple more passengers and drove until the dinner surge ended, then made my way back to the airport. My home away from home is that GPS lot at Phoenix Sky Harbor.

  Out of habit, I glanced at the placards — the rideshare companies called them “badges” — taped in the lower corner of my passenger-side windshield as I pulled into the GPS lot. Without those badges, I could get towed.

  Some of the drivers have traded their company-supplied badges for LED signs they’d bought on Amazon or eBay and plugged into their cigarette lighters. I could see them twinkling like little Vegas marquees in the dark lot.

  I had no intention of upgrading my badges. I am an astronomer, or at least that's what I tell myself. This layoff is just temporary; I'm just driving to put food on the table until I land my next grant or teaching position. At least with rideshare, I can set my own hours, be my own boss, keep sending out those grant proposals.

  I guess my head is still in the stars.

  ♦

  The GPS lot was filling up fast tonight as the regulars grabbed a place in the virtual queue for the evening surge. Gleaming black SUVS and town cars hogged the first row, but I found an empty space at the far end. I pulled the Prius in next to a beautifully detailed Porsche Cayenne straddling two parking spaces.

  “Hello, gorgeous!” my pal Jack said with a wink as I carefully parked next to the Cayenne.

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Hey, Jack!”

  A hundred and fifty years ago, Jack would’ve been a cowboy. These days, he wrangles millionaires and celebrities. Jack looks dangerous, always in black leather and with a black leather thong tied around his long black hair, but he’s a pussycat.

  We leaned against our cars and chatted for a few minutes, mostly about how many rides were coming in and whether it was likely to be busy later in the evening. Jack took fewer calls with his black car, but he made a whole lot more money.

  My stomach grumbled.

  Jack waved two $20 bills. “I’ll buy if you fly.”

  Free food? “You’re on,” I said. “Keep an eye on my car for me?”

  “Sure, babe.” The airport rules say that rideshare drivers are not allowed to leave their vehicles unattended in the GPS staging lot — a rule that is u
niversally ignored. The drivers cover for each other, and as long as somebody knows where the car’s owner is, enforcement pretty much leaves us alone. Everybody walks around the lot with their cell phones in their hands anyway, waiting for rides, so it’s easy to summon a driver back if their absence is questioned.

  I blew Jack a kiss as I headed for the escalator.

  ♦

  The East GPS lot was just outside of the transportation hub that included city buses and the Metrorail light rail system on the ground level, and a terminus upstairs for the elevated Sky Train shuttle.

  I took the escalator steps two at a time and hit the platform running. I stepped on board just as the Sky Train doors whispered closed. I settled onto a molded plastic bench in the nose of the car just as it pulled out. I enjoyed the views of the city at her feet as the two-car automated train soared across narrow bridges and through the upper level of a parking garage to Terminal Four.

  ♦

  Jack’s “usual” is a burrito — but not just any burrito. I was on a quest for the “Big As Your Head Burrito” at Blue Mesa Tacos. I ordered two, fully loaded, and sat at one of the round food-court tables to wait.

  The food court was crowded, but our food came quickly; after all, it’s an airport and people are usually in a hurry. The server put both orders in a plastic takeout bag and handed it across the counter.

  “Wow — I’m impressed,” said a baritone voice above me.

  I looked up to see a Phoenix police officer standing just off my left elbow, holding a tray from the burger joint a few shops down. I shot him a quick glance.

  “Impressed by what?” I asked, annoyed at the interruption.

  The cop grinned. “I can barely make it through one of those. You must be hungry.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the other one is for a friend.”

  I tried to get a read on the cop. He wasn’t exactly blocking my probe of his thoughts — at least I didn’t think so — but it was like munching on a dry slice of white bread. I decided that maybe he was just an ordinary guy, looking for a little conversation on his coffee break.

  The cop looked around and gave me a friendly shrug. "Mind if I share your table?"

  He was right: all of the other tables were occupied. “Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug, trying not to encourage him.

  The cop set his tray on the table, slid into a plastic-seated chair across from me, and crossed his long legs at the ankles. I slid my own feet back and tucked my ankles around the wire legs of my chair.

  “I’m Cody,” he said, his turquoise eyes twinkling.

  “Stella.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stella. You coming or going?”

  “Excuse me?" he was trying to make small talk, Jack was waiting for his food back in the GPS lot, and I had time to either eat or talk before I started driving the surge. There was no contest: the burrito won.

  “Sorry, got to get back. I’m in the GPS lot, and I don’t want to get a ticket — officer.”

  Cody smiled, in on the joke. My goodness, those turquoise eyes. Snap out of it, Stella, I chided myself.

  “See you soon," he said as I grabbed my takeout bag and retreated to the Sky Train.

  ♦

  Rule one: don’t eat in the Porsche. Luxury customers didn’t want to smell Jack’s lunch in the upholstery.

  Jack's solution was to keep a small teak table in the Cayenne's rear cargo space. The folded table was only four inches tall so it didn't take up much room, but it expanded into a picnic table with four attached seats.

  Jack spotted me coming down the escalator, and by the time I made it back to the lot, he had the table unfolded and waiting between our cars.

  We kept the conversation to a minimum as we demolished our burritos. When the giant meals were half gone, I wrapped up my leftovers and stowed them in the ice chest in my trunk; I’d get at least two more meals out of it.

  “So, how’s school?” I asked as Jack continued to tear into his meal.

  Jack made a face.” Oh, it’s okay, I guess.”

  I loved every minute of college and missed it dreadfully, so I have never understood his ambivalence. “How much longer do you have to go?”

  “Forever.”

  I snorted. “No, really.”

  Jack shrugged. “At least another year. Probably more.”

  “I thought you were almost finished.”

  “I thought I was, too, but my thesis advisor tore the whole thing up last week. He wasn’t buying my premise, so I have to start all over.”

  This was a disaster. Jack’s thesis was the core of his studies; without it, he couldn’t finish his degree.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m not really sure,” Jack said. “This degree was Uncle Ethan’s idea. He and my mother cooked up this whole plan. I wasn’t exactly given a choice.” There was something more, but Jack wasn’t saying.

  “I thought you were excited about going to work for your uncle.”

  “Who wouldn't be? A free condo, a nice allowance, tuition paid…" — He gestured at the Cayenne — "…a free ride, literally. I was supposed to be the son he never had." Jack shook his head. "I hate to let him down."

  “It can’t be that bad,” I said, but his vibe was telling me that it was. Jack was done with school, and there was nothing anybody could say that would change his mind. “So, what’s next?”

  Jack studied the tabletop. “I’ve had an offer.”

  So that was the other thing I’d been sensing. “An offer?”

  “There is this guy… I’ve been picking him up twice a week now for a couple of months. He keeps a villa at the Biltmore.”

  I whistled. That was serious money.

  Jack grinned. “Yeah. His execs are in and out of here all the time, so they use the villa as a base of operations.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Tell me about it. So, the last time I took him over there, he asked for my personal phone number. I’m supposed to be networking, right, so I figured: why not?”

  “And?”

  “And this morning, his personal assistant called. He wants me to drive for him. I’d be on call full-time.”

  “So, how would that work with school?”

  Jack shook his head. “It wouldn’t.” He wolfed down the last of his burrito and carried the wrappings to the trash can.

  He was folding the picnic table when my app pinged. I slid in behind the wheel of the Prius.

  “I guess I have some thinking to do,” Jack said, closing my car door for me. “Thanks for not hassling me about my course correction.”

  There was no point in trying to talk him out of it. I sensed that Jack had made up his mind before he even mentioned the offer to me, but I didn’t let on that I knew. School was already in Jack’s rearview mirror.

  Chapter Two

  I glanced down at the app as I pulled around to the international terminal. Someone had summoned a ride to Pentacle Pawn.

  At the international terminal, I picked up a tiny, elderly man wearing a shiny silk suit that would’ve been right at home in a 1920s speakeasy. He carried a big leather valise from the same period, which he refused to let me put in the trunk. He held his case on his lap the whole trip, tightly gripping the handles. He never said a word.

  I kept my eyes on the road and my thoughts to myself. Pentacle Pawn customers were an entirely different breed of cat, and poking around in their minds was likely to get me in big trouble.

  I had networked like crazy when I lost that last astronomy job, and one of my calls was to one of my undergraduate professors, now relocated to Scottsdale. Maggie Flournoy had been my mentor as well as my physics teacher. Maggie was a witch from a venerable New Orleans family; she’d recognized my special talents and encouraged me. She really helped me get through my college years, but then we both left Louisiana and lost touch.

  When we reconnected, I learned that Maggie had changed careers, too. No
w the proprietor of Pentacle Pawn in Scottsdale, Maggie spent her days dealing with magical objects and their owners.

  She was the one who got me started in rideshare. "Of course, you'll want to find something in your field eventually," Maggie had said, "but I think I know of a temporary gig if you're interested."

  What Maggie had in mind was a special arrangement with me — actually, with my rideshare app — that would route all requests from passengers to Maggie’s shop to my rideshare queue. It was a courtesy to the magical community, and it helped prevent the “normal” world from discovering that Scottsdale was home to some very powerful magical folk. Maggie hailed the rides and tipped generously.

  Maggie figured that I would fit right in, and she was right. Her clients are some of my favorite passengers.

  I dropped off the guy in the speakeasy suit at the end of the alley where Pentacle Pawn was located and got back on the road. Two hours and three rides later, I picked him up in the same spot. Maggie was standing beside him.

  “Would you like a lesson tonight?” she asked me as the man settled himself in the backseat. I noticed he wasn’t carrying his valise.

  “Sure!” I said.

  “It will be quiet after two, so we should be able to work for a while, uninterrupted," Maggie said.

  “See you then.”

  ♦

  Pentacle Pawn operates on the graveyard shift, so, as Maggie requested, I stopped by at 2 AM after I dropped my last passenger off at his hotel.

  The last of the tourists were emptying out of Scottsdale's Old Town, and the parking lot was nearly empty. My sneakers made no sound as I walked down the cobblestoned alley.

  The door at Pentacle Pawn knows me — which is good because it never turns out well if someone tries to enter without an invitation. Maggie was waiting at a round oak table in the center of the room.

  I sat down and pulled a small sandalwood box from my shoulder bag. Inside was an antique doorknob. The clear glass sphere, as big as a baseball, rested within the petals of a transparent rose. Both the sphere and the rose appeared to have been carved from a single block of crystal. The knob was mounted in a beautifully patinated brass cup and screw plate that allowed it to be attached to a door but was now affixed to a lacquered walnut cube.