But he just turns, hand raised, determined to stop me when he says, “Please, no confessionals.” Smiling and shaking his head. “If I have any hope of enjoying those huge swells out there, then I don’t have the luxury of regretting my decision. Though you might want to rethink that bit about it being a gift.”
I look at him, surprised to hear him say that since all the psychics I’ve met, which, okay, pretty much consists of just Ava, but still, most of them think it’s most certainly something you’re born with.
“I’m thinking of adding some classes to the schedule, psychic development stuff, maybe even throw in some Wicca as well, and trust me, we’ll get a lot more sign-ups if everyone thinks they have a fair shot.”
“But do they?” I ask, watching as he heads for an extremely messy desk and riffles through a pile of papers near the edge.
“Sure.” He nods, picking up a sheet, looking it over, then shaking his head as he swaps it for another. “Everyone has the potential, it’s just a matter of developing it. With some it comes easy, they couldn’t ignore it if they tried, with others—they have to dig a little deeper to find it. And you? When did you know?”
He looks at me, those sea green eyes meeting mine in a way that makes my stomach dance. I mean, one minute he’s talking abstractedly, thumbing through papers as though he’s barely minding his words, then the next everything stops, his gaze is on mine, and it’s like time has stood still.
I swallow hard, unsure what to say, part of me longing to confess, knowing he’s one of the few who would understand, but the other part resists—Damen’s the only one who knows my story, and I feel like I should keep it that way.
“Just born with it, I guess.” I lift my shoulders, cringing at the way my voice rose at the end. My eyes dart around the room, hoping to avoid the topic as well as his gaze when I add, “So—classes. Who’s teaching those?”
He shrugs, tilting his head in a way that allows his dread-locks to fall into his face. “Guess I will,” he says, pushing them back and revealing the scar on his brow. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while anyway, but Lina’s always been against it. I figure I may as well take advantage of her not being here to see if it works.”
“Why’s she against it?” I ask, stomach settling when he leans back and props his feet on his desk.
“She likes to keep it simple—books, music, angel figurines, with the occasional reading thrown in. Safe. Benign. Mainstream mysticism where no one gets hurt.”
“And your way? People get hurt?” I study him, trying to pinpoint just what it is about him that sets me on edge.
“Not at all. My goal is to empower people, help them live better, more fulfilled lives, by accessing their own intuition, that’s all.” He glances at me, green eyes catching me staring, making my stomach go weird again.
“And Lina doesn’t want to empower people?” I ask, feeling all fluttery under his gaze.
“With knowledge comes power. And since power tends to corrupt, she thinks it’s too big a risk. Even though I’ve got no plans to go anywhere near the dark arts, she’s convinced they’ll find their way in, that the classes I teach will only lead to harder, darker stuff.”
I nod, thinking of Roman and Drina and definitely seeing Lina’s point. Power in the wrong hands is indeed a dangerous thing.
“Anyway, you interested?” He smiles.
My eyes meet his, unsure what he means.
“In teaching a class?”
I balk, wondering if he’s joking or serious, then seeing he’s neither, just putting it out there. “Trust me, I don’t know the first thing about Wicca, or—or any of it really. I’ve no idea how it works. I’m better off just giving the occasional reading, and maybe even trying to organize this mess.” I gesture toward his desk, the shelves, just about every available surface that’s buried beneath a mound of papers and junk.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He laughs. “Oh, and just so you know, I clocked out the moment you walked in. Gone surfing if anyone asks.” He gets up, moving toward the surfboard leaning against the far wall. “I don’t expect you to get it completely organized or anything, it’s too big a mess. But if you could get it into some kind of order, well—” He nods, looking at me. “You just might get a gold star.”
“I’d rather have a plaque,” I say, pretending to be serious. “You know, something nice that I can hang on the wall. Or even a statuette. Or a trophy—a trophy would be good.”
“How about your own parking space out back? I can probably swing that.”
“Trust me, you already have.” I laugh.
“Yeah, but this one will have your name on it. Reserved for you only. No one will be allowed to park in it, not even off hours. I’ll post a big warning that reads: CAUTION! THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR AVALON ONLY. ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED AWAY AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE.”
“You’d do that? For reals?” I laugh, eyes meeting his.
He grabs his board, fingers gripping the edge as he heaves it under his arm. “You get this place cleaned up and there’s no limit to the rewards that await you. Today Employee of the Month, tomorrow—” He shrugs, tossing his dreads off his forehead and exposing his amazingly cute face.
Our gazes lock, and I know he’s caught me again—caught me looking—wondering—thinking he’s cute. So I quickly look away, scratching at my arm, fiddling with my sleeve, anything to move past this moment toward something less awkward.
“There’s a monitor in the corner there.” He nods toward the far wall, back to business again. “That, combined with the bell on the door, should alert you to anyone coming in when you’re working back here.”
“That, the bell on the door, and the fact that I’m psychic,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted, though my voice is a little shaky, having not fully recovered from the awkwardness before.
“Like the way you accessed your powers when I snuck up on you?” he asks, smiling in a nice open way, though his eyes are holding back.
“That was different.” I shrug. “You obviously know how to shield your energy. Most people don’t.”
“And you know how to shield your aura.” He squints, head cocked to the side, those golden dreadlocks falling halfway down his arm as he focuses in on my right. “But I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”
I swallow hard, pretending not to notice how his vibrant yellow aura goes a little pink at the edges.
“Anyway, it’s all pretty self-explanatory. The files need to be alphabetized, and if you could separate ’em by subject, that’d be great. Oh, and don’t bother tagging the crystals or herbs if you’re not familiar with them, I’d hate to get ’em confused. Though if you are familiar—” He smiles, brow raised in such a way I immediately start scratching my arm again.
I gaze at the gleaming piles of crystals, some of which I recognize from the elixirs I made and the amulet I wear at my neck, but most of which are so foreign they’re not even vaguely familiar.
“Do you have a book or something?” I ask, hoping he does since I’d love to learn more about their amazing abilities. “You know, so I can”—Find a way to sleep with my immortal boyfriend someday—“so I can get them all tagged properly—and—stuff.” I nod, hoping to appear like a hard worker rather than the self-motivated slacker I am. Watching as he drops his surfboard and turns back toward his desk, shuffling through a pile of books and retrieving a small, thick, well-worn tome from the bottom of the stack.
Turning it over in his hands, and gazing at the back when he says, “This has it all. If a crystal’s not in it, it doesn’t exist. It’s also loaded with pictures so you can identify them. Anyway, it should help,” he adds, tossing it to me.
I catch it between the palms of my hands, its pages vibrating with life as the contents surge through me. The entire book now imprinted on my brain as I smile and say, “Believe me, it already has.”
CHAPTER 21
I stare at the monitor, making sure Jude has left before taking the seat behind the desk and gazing at the pile of crystals. Knowing the book alone wasn’t enough—they need to be handled to be understood. But just as I reach for a large red rock marked by streaks of yellow, my knee knocks against the side of the desk, and my entire body grows itchy and warm—a sure sign that something needs my attention.
I push the chair back and lean forward, peering under the desk, noticing how the sensation grows stronger the lower I go. Following the feeling until I’ve slid off my seat and dropped to the floor, fumbling around for the source, the tips of my fingers growing unbearably hot the second I touch the bottom left drawer.
I lean back on my heels, squinting at the old brass lock—the kind of deterrent meant to keep honest people honest, and dissuade those who don’t know how to manipulate energy like me—closing my eyes as I ease the drawer open, only to find a pile of hanging files that are no longer hanging, an ancient calculator, and a pile of old and yellowed receipts. Just about to close it again when I sense the false bottom beneath.
I scoop up the papers and toss them aside before lifting the hatch and exposing an old, worn, leather-bound tome, its pages curled and fraying like a lost ancient scroll, the words Book of Shadows inscribed on its front. I place it onto the desk before me, then sit there and stare. Wondering why someone would go to so much trouble to keep this book hidden—and from whom?
Is Lina hiding it from Jude?
Or is it the other way around?
And since there’s only one way to find out, I close my eyes and press my palm to its front, planning to read it in my usual way until I’m slammed by a surge of energy so intense, so frenetic, so chaotic—it practically snap crackles my bones.
I’m hurled backward, my chair hitting the wall with such force it leaves a huge dent. The flickering remnants of random images still quivering before me, and knowing full well why it was hidden—it’s a book of witchcraft and spells. Divinations and incantations. Containing powers so potent it would be completely catastrophic in the wrong hands.
I steady my breath and stare at the cover, calming myself before I attempt to thumb through it. Fingers twitching, touching only the edges, as I peer at a cursive so small it’s nearly impossible to decipher. The bulk of the pages inscribed with all manner of symbols, reminding me of the alchemical journals Damen’s father used to keep—carefully written in code in order to protect the secrets within.