Gypsy Cradle: a psychic paranormal thriller (The Gypsy Medium Series Book 2)

by Andrea Drew

  Epilogue

  Wednesday 23rd January, 9.07am

  Christie sat upright in bed, her skin warm and the beginning of a smile making its way across her face.

  She reached for the cup of tea on the trolley table to her right, and had brought it to her lips when Ryan rushed in. His face lit up as he saw her. He bounded to her bedside, and she set the cup down just as he enveloped her in a warm hug. Over his shoulder, Christie saw Connor peer around the doorway before he entered the room. A grin and a tight grip of her hand were the only indications of his relief.

  Ryan pulled away and with wobbly legs lowered himself onto the chair beside her bed.

  “Thank god you’re okay,” he said.

  Connor let go of her hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “We’re so glad you recovered. We were so worried about you,” he said, flicking a glance at Ryan.

  “I heard the nurses talking. Gypsy was right, wasn’t she? I was poisoned and too stubborn to listen.” Christie’s chin dropped. “I’m so sorry−”

  Connor brought a palm up before resting it on her arm. He swung his knees around toward her. “That’s nothing to worry about. Gypsy will be as happy as we are that you’re okay. Your safety is all she’s thought about for days.”

  Christie picked up her cup to take a sip and placed it back down.

  Ryan smiled at her. “You don’t know how good it is to see you do that.” Such a simple gesture, one that he had wondered if he’d ever see again. Relief surged through him and he sat forward in the chair with elbows on his knees shaking his head. Connor stood up quickly as Gypsy appeared in the doorway. She bounded in to stand at the bottom of the bed. Her face flushed and her eyes brightened as they met Christies.’

  “Oh my god you’re okay! What a bloody relief!” she said with a shaky laugh.

  Christie extended her arms to Gypsy. “Come here, you.”

  Gypsy moved forward. Christie gripped her in an embrace, rubbing her back. Gypsy turned to face Connor, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

  Gypsy pulled away and Christie spoke. “I heard the staff talking. Apparently they received an anonymous note about what happened.” She flushed. “The poisoning, I mean. You saved me, didn’t you? Even after the shitty way I treated you.”

  Gypsy breathed deeply. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I had to stop this, I couldn’t have it on my conscience. I know how much you mean to Connor.” Ryan met her gaze. “To all of us.”

  Christie’s shoulders curved. “I have a confession.” She licked her lips and swallowed hard. “I’ve been visiting Aaron for a while now.” Her chin quivered. “It was stupid, I know that now. Of course he tried to kill you so I knew he’d be biased.” A smile made its way across her face and her eyes glinted. “Not that you’re entirely blameless Gypsy, but it’s time to move on. I guess I just wanted family near me, some reassurance. He fed me the venom that was meant for you. Can we start over? We’ve got a way to go before we’re best friends but…”

  “Of course we can.” Gypsy’s face brightened even further. “Your hallucinations about torturing evil Gypsy-bitches kind of gave you away.” Gypsy managed a smile, and Christie, Connor and Ryan burst out laughing.

  “Can we give things another try?” asked Christie.

  “Of course we can,” Gypsy said then patted Christie’s knee.

  Wednesday 23rd January, 9.12am

  I’d wondered about Christie’s recovery, but the sight of her pink cheeks told me all I needed to know. We’d come full circle. After clearing the air, I’d never been closer to Connor. Life didn’t get much better.

  After heartfelt apologies and all-round clearing of the air, the conversation took a turn upward.

  I saw a shadow behind me and turned to see what could only be a doctor dressed in white shirt, navy dress pants and ruffled hair. He stood several feet away from us, hesitating to join the conversation.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Dr. Blackmore. I thought your family might like an update.” He came to stand beside Ryan, who rose from his chair and took Christie’s hand.

  “Yes,” Ryan said, color rising back into his face. He stood up and his eyes brightened.

  Dr. Blackmore cleared his throat. “Well, I’m pleased to see you’re feeling better.”

  Christie nodded. “I’m so relieved. I’m not really sure how long I was unconscious for, but I overheard the nurses talking…” Her smile faded, and she fiddled with the fingers on her right hand.

  The doctor glanced at Ryan before transferring his eyes back to Christie.

  “You were affected by antifreeze, that much we do know.” The doctor paused, blinking rapidly. “Have you considered pressing charges?”

  Ryan’s nostrils flared and he raised his eyebrows revealing the whites of his eyes.

  “We have,” he said, speaking through gritted teeth.

  “We need to talk,” said Connor.

  The doctor took events in before moving to Christie’s side. A frown marred her previously smooth forehead. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she managed to speak.

  “We do?” she said.

  “Yeah. We know who the poisoner is.” At that moment, the smell of bleach overpowered me.

  The doctor took a step back. “I’ll give you some private time.”

  “No, don’t! Stay, please.” Christie closed her eyes and fell back against the pillow, shoulders hunched. Connor sighed and retrieved his mobile telephone from a back pocket. “I got a message on the way here. Brenton and Jake are in the same hospital. He’s in intensive care, but Jake should recover. Brenton is another story…”

  “Brenton?” In an instant, Christie jerked up as if her spine had been transformed into a rod of iron. “Not Brenton…” she dissolved into a mess of tears.

  Ryan pressed a hand to the bed head for support and cleared his throat.

  Connor sat on the bed beside her and patted her leg “I’m so, so sorry Christie. This never should have happened.”

  Her eyes filled and her chin wobbled. “But, he’s my best friend, he wouldn’t−”

  Up until this point, I’d stayed in the background, an observer watching events unfold rather than taking an active role. My psychic detective work, of course, couldn’t be mentioned or we’d become laughingstocks. I knew somehow that the slightest word would be the straw that could destroy the entire facade. I’d been there before in my younger years and I damn well didn’t want to go there again. I’d just have to ride this one out.

  I took a step closer to Connor.

  “Why would Brenton do that to me?” Christie sobbed. “We were friends.”

  “Put simply, I believe it was jealousy,” Connor told her. Christie didn’t seem capable of speech, so he continued. “He wanted Ryan.”

  Christie sobbed harder. I detected “Oh my god” amongst her cries.

  The doctor seemed unsure whether to stay or leave. He stood to Connor’s left.

  A breeze blew across my face, but possibly, only I perceived it.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her. She stood between Ryan and Christie, one hand holding his, the other stroking Christie’s hair.

  Isabella.

  For the first time ever, she smiled. Not a grin, but a full-blown, beaming smile.

  Weird.

  “You shouldn’t stress yourself,” the doctor said. “Not in your condition,”

  All four of our heads snapped toward him. Isabella continued to beam.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “When we checked your blood, and tested your urine for crystals of ethylene glycol, we discovered that you’re pregnant. We’ll monitor the pregnancy, of course, but with the antidote administered in time, everything should be okay.”

  In the tears and overjoyed hugging that followed, I barely noticed my spirit child friend preparing to leave. When I lifted my head and wiped the dampness from under my eyes, I saw Isabella wave a goodbye as she drifted away.

  I almost missed her. It wouldn’t be goodbye, though,
simply see you later. We’d have plenty of time to catch up after she was born. I looked forward to getting to know more about her.

  Isabella had saved Christie’s life and had brought us together as no one else could. Maybe she always intended to do so.

  I’d never forget her and her cryptic ways. Sounded like someone else I knew.

  Connor kissed his niece and murmured, “Congratulations honey.”

  “Congratulations. You’re going to be a grandfather.”

  Connor’s mouth flew open and he gasped, posture stiffening.

  “You−you knew all this time.”

  Christie flushed, her smile spreading. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. Neither was the fact that you obviously didn’t want to talk about it.”

  Ryan looked at them both. “You’re her father?”

  “Seems that way,” I said, speaking for Connor who, for the moment, struggled to speak further. “He must have asked for a paternity test at the same time as the blood test. Good news all round.” I rubbed Connor’s back and kissed him on the cheek.

  “We’ll give you two some time alone,” I said before taking Connor’s hand, and guiding him away from the happy couple.

  Ryan tipped his head up and blew out a breath, dropping his chin to beam at his girlfriend.

  Connor took my hand and followed me. I draped my arm around his waist, and he returned the embrace.

  “I can’t believe it!” he said, his smile widening, eyes bright.

  “Believe it,” I said, moving closer. He grabbed me then, his hands in the small of my back burning through my light clothing.

  His lips were soft and urgent, demanding nothing but giving his all.

  “Congratulations, you old fart,” I said when the kiss broke, happiness surging in my chest.

  “Come on,” Connor said, linking my arm through his. “Let’s celebrate.”

  So we did.

  ***

  -THE END-

  Acknowledgments

  For my readers, who make writing these stories the best kind of fun there is.

  Thank you also to my editor, Therese Arkenberg, for taking my ramblings and making some sense of them.

  And of course, to my beta readers for giving me initial feedback on the story. I adore you all, thank you! Amanda Betley, Eve Vennell, Doris Woodruff, Selena Hicks and Paula Rollins.

  About the Author

  Andrea Drew has been a commercial copywriter and resume writer for over a decade.

  She's written for celebrity stylists, assisted business coaches and start-ups, written grants for not for profits, delivered marketing presentations to business owners, and attended Australian writing conventions.

  Andrea has one husband (more than enough), three kids, a pet rock (her daughter’s not hers), and a house in the suburbs, where she's hard at work on the final book in the Gypsy Series and the first in her second fiction series to be released in early 2016.

  The Gypsy Series can be read as standalones or in the following recommended order:

  Also by Andrea Drew

  In 2015

  The Gypsy Series

  Gypsy Life - Prequel/Story

  Book #1 - Gypsy Hunted

  Book #2 - Gypsy Cradle

  Book #3 - Gypsy Curse

  In 2016

  The Sentinel Series

  Return of the Sentinel

  Saved by the Sentinel

  Son of the Sentinel

  Short Story Collection

  Twisted Tales

  Non-Fiction

  Pro Resumes Made Easy

  Government Job Apps Made Easy

  She can be contacted via her blog:

  www.andreadrewauthor.com

  or via GoodReads here:

  https://www.goodreads.com/andreadrew

  Gypsy Life – An Excerpt

  As a child, growing up in the outer eastern suburbs of Melbourne, I never thought of ghosts as strange, weird or shameful in any way shape or form (pardon the pun). As an adult later in life, of course I leaned much more toward the skeptical side of ghostly apparitions and things that go bump in the night, but as events unfolded, I had no choice. I had to accept I could do things other people seemingly couldn’t. My parents managed to knock out any predilection I had towards the spiritual and/or ghostly world well and truly—probably due to their own inbuilt terror of all matters nonphysical. If it couldn't be seen, touched or observed by the majority of the population then quite simply it didn't exist.

  It probably didn't help that I unwittingly talked to the previous property owner, who to all intents and purposes was actually deceased. As a small child, I had absolutely no thought or consideration that this woman was dead, although I did think at the time that she was just a tad bit forceful and not best pleased with my mother.

  Padding softly along the upstairs landing and into mum and dad's room due to yet another nocturnal visitor, I remember vividly lying in between them as most young children are wont to do and having trouble sleeping due to this woman/apparition moving restlessly around the bottom of Mum and Dad's bed, gesturing wildly.

  If anything, she was supremely annoying if not persistent and just would not leave things well alone. She doggedly shoved messages, thoughts and pictures into what was the majority of the time a blank canvas of a mind, from her point of view anyway, I'm sure.

  −Oh for goodness sakes, I said to her mentally. I'll tell her in the morning.

  Nevertheless, no this old dear wasn't taking no for an answer.

  −Wake her up, wake her up or she'll forget.

  −No I won't, she's asleep! I'm not waking her up just so you can talk to her. They already think I'm a bit touched in the head, even though kids aren't supposed to be aware of adults talking about us as if we're not in the room.

  −Yes children should be seen and not heard.

  −Of course you would say that. So why don't you talk to her yourself then?

  −You are an extremely rude and insolent young girl. If you don't tell her, I will and I don't think you'll be too pleased with the manner in which I inform her.

  −All right. I said to this old dear wearily, not knowing or caring what her name was. I did however realize at this point that obviously this old biddy was aware that it would be much easier for her to talk to me than it was to talk to mum and dad which would require an almost herculean effort on her part.

  So she wasn't going away in a hurry.

  Talking to people who no longer technically have a body is, to put it mildly, very draining as a grown up. As a child, however, I had no concept of this. My parents certainly provided me with a few concepts.

  "Stop, don't do that, she won't like it. No!" I said out loud sitting up bolt upright in the bed. "No, it's not. It's my mum's, not yours. No, don't try to pick that up. It's hers now, not yours. You’re confused." The old dear was venturing towards Mum's dressing table, criticizing the items she had on there, in particular an antique hairbrush which she claimed was ‘crass’ and ‘mutton dressed as lamb.’

  I'm sure that mum had woken up prior to this but had conveniently chosen to ignore my rantings as that of an imaginative and sleep-disturbed child. My parents would later tell me I was "a bit nervy" like my maternal grandmother, the Romani Gypsy, Dee. I now prefer to use the term "fae."

  Fae according to Wikipedia (the Mother of all things authoritative or not so authoritative depending upon your viewpoint and the amount of spare time on one's hands) is defined as:

  a. Having or displaying an otherworldly, magical, or fairylike aspect or quality: "She's got that fae look as though she's had breakfast with a leprechaun" (Dorothy Burnham).

  b. Having visionary power; clairvoyant.

  C. appearing touched or crazy, as if under a spell.

  Although of course I'm not sure how I feel about being fated to die soon?

  a. Fated to die soon.

  b. Full of the sense of approaching death.

  Although of course, I love the romantic notion of being a fairy or elf and
a person of magical properties.

  [Middle English feie, fated to die, from Old English fge.]

  In a very un-fae like way, my mother's voice at this point took on a noticeable tone of terror or as terrified as you can be around 3am in the still quiet of morning in a darkened room with a young daughter talking to thin air.

  "Ernie! Ern! Shut her up, will you. She's awake." she was trying to whisper but the hoarseness in her too-quiet voice was giving her away.

  Dad rolled over halfway.

  "Uh? Wha? What are you going on about?"

  "Gypsy. Talk to her, will you. She's woken up. I think she's dreaming."

  "I'm not dreaming! I'm talking to that woman over there. Can't you see her? She's right there. Right there! Look dad there she is!"

  At this point dad sighed, probably filled with the impatience of yet another night’s broken sleep from an "imaginative" child and a wife that called his name whenever something needed to be ‘sorted out’ that she didn't want to bother with, me being too hard to deal with and all that.

  "Gypsy," he said his voice still thick with sleep. "What's all this then? Come on now, back to sleep eh? It's late and we all have to get up in the morning." His voice had taken on a kindly, ‘us against them’ tone but I could sense the condescension creeping in.

  "Da-a-ad! She's right there, look! She doesn't like Mum being in her room! She says it's her room and the furniture's rearranged the wrong way and she keeps trying to pick up mum's things on the dressing table. She says this is her house and doesn't want us here."

  At this point Dad sat up. I almost felt sorry for him, or would if I had understood at this point, what he would go through later in life.

  "Eh? What do you mean she doesn't want us here?"

  At this point, my strong silent Father was beginning to sound a teeny bit alarmed.

  "This is her house dad. She wants to know what we're doing in it. She says that mum's dressing table shouldn't be there, that's where her chair goes. And she says we would be better off finding somewhere else to live."