As much as I wanted to jump into Baxter and go see Gabrielle the instant I got out of bed, the trip would have to wait until the next day. Fridays were Yuri’s half day at Donn’s Hill High School, and he liked to schedule short shoots for his afternoons off. I wouldn’t have time to make it back before I was due at The Enclave, so I spent the morning catching up on housework and reading the visitation guidelines for the prison that had been Gabrielle’s home for the last six months.
When it was time for me to head to work, Graham tagged along with me. He had joined us to film an episode before—one that required a total of nine participants for a séance. We weren’t doing anything so exciting today. I was still waiting for responses back from the feelers I had put out to the owners of a few reportedly haunted places, and until I was able to populate our production calendar with more interesting investigations, we were stuck continuing our assignment from Penelope: shooting more promotional featurettes about local psychics.
Stephen Hastain opened his door with a nervous wave. “Hi, guys. Eh… make yourselves at home, I suppose. I’m at your disposal.”
Graham clapped him on the back. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of being on TV.”
“I’m not.” Stephen’s hands shook as he gestured for us to walk ahead of him into his reading room. “Just feeling a tad off today, that’s all.”
I had been in his shop before but never for a reading. The one and only time he had cast his runes for me, we sat in his kitchen upstairs. That day, he predicted I would soon take a journey, and a month later, we traveled to New Mexico. He had also told me an unseen force was pulling strings and manipulating events in my life. That reading had solidified my belief that Stephen was the real deal, and I was glad he had been included on the list of psychics to film. If he’d been overlooked, I would have lobbied to get him on there.
Today, I surveyed the decor through the eyes of a television producer. Or at least, the way I thought a producer might look at things. The walls had been painted a very pale shade of yellow and hung with large tapestries. Each of the wall hangings displayed various runic alphabets on rich backgrounds of maroon, forest green, ocean blue, and black. Stephen had taken a minimalist approach to furnishing the space, leaving most of the floor open apart from a round wooden table and a hodgepodge selection of mismatched dining chairs. In the center of the table, eight small velvet bags waited atop a black and silver cloth.
I slung my bag over the back of one of the chairs and took a seat. “Where’s Fang? I figured he’d beat me to work since he lives here and all.”
“Oh, Fang moved out.” Stephen rubbed the back of his neck and checked out the front window. “He’s living in that new apartment complex over by the gas station.”
“Really? I figured those would be pretty expensive.”
“They are. He’s subletting a room.” The rune caster shuddered. “Ugh, roommates are the worst. Why’d’ya think I live in that kip upstairs? The rent everywhere else in this town is outrageous.”
“Well, not our house.” Graham grinned. “But only because I like renting to weirdos with no money.”
“Hey.” I lifted a hand to swat his arm, then relented. “Never mind. I’m both of those things.”
“And you’re my favorite tenant,” he said with a wink.
“Well, if I’d met you before I signed the lease on this place, I could have been one of those weirdos.” Stephen smiled weakly. “Just goes to show, the runes don’t always lead you right.”
As we bantered, the tension in his face eased somewhat, but his eyes kept darting to the little sacks in the middle of the table. Each of the eight was tied with a different colored string corresponding to the runes it contained. I wondered which set he would be using for the demonstration today.
Yuri arrived promptly on time with our new production assistant and a cart full of gear in tow. Fang immediately got down on his hands and knees to check beneath the table.
“Where’s Striker?” he asked.
“Her particular set of skills isn’t required for a shoot like this,” I said.
“Oh.” Fang stood, disappointment all over his face. “I saw her in Elizabeth’s episode, so I thought she’d be here. I wanted to show her something.”
A warm feeling spread through my chest at the memory of that day. “That’s because Elizabeth said, and I quote: ‘Only way I’m doin’ this stupid thing is if the little puff sits in my lap.’”
“I’d say the same if I wasn’t so allergic to cats,” Stephen said. “It’s bad enough Mac always shows up with a sweater made out of fur.”
“If you’re so allergic, how come every time you visit Graham’s studio you feed her half a bag of treats?” I teased.
He looked stunned. “You mean we don’t have to give the little queen everything she wants? I honestly didn’t know I had a choice.”
“What did you want to show Striker?” I asked Fang.
The young production assistant bounded across the room and dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He held it up in front of me, displaying a photo of a thin black cat with startlingly large green eyes. The cat’s ears were both notched and scarred in several places, and his long fur was dirty and matted.
“This is Shadow. He’s a lot friendlier than he looks,” Fang said happily.
“Congratulations! You’re now the proud property of a cat.” I tested out a few ways to tactfully ask why Shadow looked so unhealthy, finally settling on, “Did you get him from the animal shelter?”
“No, he just sort of showed up the day I moved into my new place. He’s a real loudmouth—he sat outside my bedroom window and shouted at me until I opened it and let him in.” Fang smiled down at the photo with paternal pride. “He comes in whenever he wants now, and he eats the food I leave on the floor. He won’t let me pick him up yet, though. Do you think he ever will?”
“Maybe. Striker is my first and only cat, so I’m not really an expert. I hope he does.”
“Me too. I’m going home to visit my parents next week, but when I get back, I want to take him to the vet and make sure he’s healthy.”
My heart swelled. I wanted to hug this kid. He had gone from fleecing tourists to literally opening his home to an animal in need.
His eyes darted to the door, and he lowered his voice. “Don’t say anything, okay? I’m not supposed to have pets.”
I mimed zipping my lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Mac?” Yuri called. “Would you help bring in the rest of the gear? I want to show Fang how to rig up the lighting.”
“Sure thing.” I gave in to my earlier urge and gave Fang a quick sideways hug. “Give that to Shadow for me, when you can.”
The men started setting up the lights, and I pulled the empty cart back out to the street. There, parked against the curb, was something I had never expected to get to see again: a black cargo van with a smashed-in front fender and Kit behind the wheel.
I opened the passenger door and climbed inside. “You got it running again!”
The Soul Searchers van had taken a lot of damage when it crashed into a tree the month before. Kit had been driving, and the official accident record stated that she lost control of the vehicle. But I maintained that something else had taken over, yanking us toward it when it sensed we were near.
“I can’t take any credit. Dad loaned it to the auto shop class at the high school, and they did all the repairs.” She ran her hands down the sides of the steering wheel. “Man, I missed driving this thing. I wish I could’ve taken it to LA with me.”
“But then what would your limo do all day?” I joked.
Her only answer was an epic eye roll.
I nudged her knee with my foot. “So are you helping with the shoot or just chauffeuring the crew?”
“Is there even room for me anymore?”
“Of course, doofus. You can help me carry this stuff in, for one.”
Together, we loaded the remaining equipment cases onto Fang’s handcart. Kit steered it up the path to Stephen’s shop, grunting a grudging approval at the easy way the little four-wheeled contraption handled.
We set up to shoot in a three-camera interview style just like the one we had used with Alexi at the Ace of Cups. Fang was a fast learner, and he quickly had Stephen mic’d and ready to go. Kit pitched in, mounting cameras and positioning lights, but her efforts didn’t last long.
When Noah arrived with an apology for letting his bartending shift run long, he moved through the room, changing Kit’s camera settings and rearranging the tripods.
“Sorry,” he said, ducking his head. “I’m just used to things being a certain way. I’m sure you’re the same way on your shoots.”
“No problem.” Kit pulled her lips into a thin smile that disappeared the second she turned her back on him. She stalked past me toward the back corner, and I recognized a muttered Russian obscenity as she passed.
Before long, we were filming what felt like a fairly casual conversation between Yuri and Stephen, who sat on opposite sides of the large round table. The rest of us sat around the room, spectators and, in Graham’s case, silent cheering section for his surprisingly camera-shy friend. But the longer the two men talked, the more comfortable Stephen became, and soon he was relating his rune-casting history with a genuine smile.
That is, until Yuri asked if he would mind doing a reading for the camera. At that, Stephen’s face paled.
“Eh, sure.” He reached a shaking hand across the table toward the sacks of runes, then stopped himself. “Whoops. Why don’t you go ahead and pick a bag? Any of them that calls to you.”
If Yuri noticed Stephen’s sudden nervousness, he didn’t acknowledge it. He smiled warmly and leaned forward to pluck out the bag tied with a thin piece of red string.
“Elder Futhark,” Stephen murmured. “Good choice. Any questions you want answered? Anything on your mind, maybe?”
Yuri cupped his chin in his hand. “Nothing in particular. Could you look ahead? Tell me what the future might hold?”
With zero pomp or pageantry, Stephen tossed the bag of runes onto the table. Three small wooden rectangles shot out and flew in every direction. The first skidded to a gentle stop in front of Yuri. The second skittered off the edge of the table and landed a few inches away from my shoe; the symbol resembled a backward Z. The third bounced off a nick in the table’s battered surface and reversed course, coming to a halt beside Stephen’s hand.
Yuri bent over his rune and adjusted his glasses. “Interesting. It looks like a capital F with the horizontal prongs pointing downward. What does it mean?”
Stephen didn’t answer. He stared down at the rune beside him. His clammy palms left his curly hair damp and stringy when he pushed his clawed hands backward through his scalp, and a few beads of sweat broke out along his forehead.
Graham moved across the room, heedless of the cameras. “Stephen, are you okay?”
“No.” Stephen’s voice was dry and raspy.
I hopped out of my seat and grabbed a glass of water. Stephen accepted it gratefully but had to use both hands to bring it to his lips. As he drank, I examined the rune in front of him.
It was composed of one long vertical line with two shorter lines that jutted off to the right at opposing angles. The smaller lines formed a triangle about half as tall as the primary line and were perfectly centered on it, like a sideways drawing of a witch’s hat.
I had seen this one before, several times.
It had been burned inside Camila’s jewelry box and painted on Horace’s ceiling.
This was the third rune of the word Stephen had identified as a spiritual invitation. But for whatever reason, this single symbol seemed to have knocked the air out of him even more than seeing the full word had done to me in New Mexico.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Thurisaz,” he whispered. “Always, always thurisaz.”
His voice quavered, as though he was about to start crying. I shot a worried look in Yuri’s direction.
“Noah, let’s cut the cameras,” Yuri said quietly.
“I’m sorry.” Stephen stood and gripped the back of his chair for support. “I think I need to go lie down.”
“We’ll take you upstairs.” Graham took hold of Stephen’s arm and nodded me for to take the rune caster’s other side.
Together, we supported Stephen up the narrow staircase to his apartment. I expected him to feel better once we were away from the cameras, but his whole body shook as he lowered himself onto the sofa in his living room. With a deep, guttural sigh, he cradled his head in his hands.
“You don’t look so good,” Graham told him, worry etched across his narrow face. “Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not my body.” Stephen lifted his head and locked eyes with me. “Mac knows what I mean.”
“I do?” I stared at him, puzzled. It took me several moments to realize what he was talking about. “Oh. You’re out of bent spoons.”
Disappointingly, neither of them laughed. They just watched me, saying nothing.
“You know,” I said. “Spoon theory?”
Graham shook his head. “I don’t get it. Is this some sort of coffee analogy? Because I can go grab a to-go mug from the Ace of Cups if that’s what you think Stephen needs.”
“No, it’s a chronic illness thing. My dad started talking about it after he developed his heart condition. A spoon is like… a unit of energy. Dad said his younger self was spoiled with unlimited spoons. He could spend weeks in the hot desert on a dig, stay up all night with the other grad students, and hit the ground running the next day. But when he got older and his condition got worse, he started every day with fewer spoons. He had to be smart about how he spent them—less time in the field, more time in the classroom.” I shrugged. “Stephen looks as wrecked as my dad did when he overspent his spoons.”
Stephen chuckled weakly. “And my spoons are bent because you think I’m psychic. Cute.”
I frowned down at him and crossed my arms. “Well, isn’t that what you meant? You burned through all your psychic energy, and now you’re beat, right?”
“I keep telling you. I don’t have that kind of gift. The power doesn’t come from inside me—it comes from the runes. I just read them.” He collapsed back against the cushions and flung an arm over his eyes. “But can’t a road feel tired when too many feet have trod upon it?”
I perched on the arm of his couch and considered his words. He always said anyone could read runes or cards or palms, as long as they were open enough to what the instruments were telling them. But as far as I was concerned, there was no difference between what he did and what I did. Not really. For whatever reason, by accident or by design, I was able to be more open to what the spirits around us were trying to say.
Now seemed like the wrong moment to try to argue the point, however.
“Have you been doing a ton of readings lately?” Graham asked.
Stephen dropped his arm from his face. “No more than usual. Business has been good, but last night wasn’t anything special. It wasn’t until this morning that…” He trailed off, face draining once more.
I touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. Tell us about it.”
“I read my own runes every morning when I wake up. Just to check in with myself, prepare for the day ahead. But today…” He shuddered. “Today, I read them four times. No matter which set I used, it gave me the same message. Thurisaz. The blackthorn. Even my curio set kept spitting out that damn seashell.”
“What does it mean?”
His brown eyes filled with fear. “Something bad is coming. And I don’t mean a poor harvest or a bad investment. The runes don’t hammer you over the head about something unless it’s really, really important. This… If this were a sound, it’d be a death knell.”
I swallowed. “It could be a coincidence.”
But I didn’t really believe that. And from the way his hands trembled, it was clear Stephen didn’t believe it either.
“I’ll be all right,” he said, stretching out on the couch and pulling a blanket over himself. “I just need a good nap.”
Graham and I headed back downstairs, where the Soul Searchers crew was loading out our gear. Kit didn’t bother trying to help; she marched out to the van with nothing but her keys in her hand and waited, engine idling, for the rest of us to bring out the equipment cases.
“Should we try again another day?” I asked Yuri as he closed the cargo door.
He dusted his hands off on his thick wool coat. “I don’t know. We might be able to use what we have and splice in some stock footage of rune casting. I can check with the editing team and let you know. Will Stephen be okay?”
I glanced back up the walkway to his salmon-pink building. “With a few days off, I think so.”
“He scared me in there. He looked the way you did at Cambion’s Camp last month, just before you fainted.”
That wasn’t a memory I particularly loved looking back on. I had felt completely drained after that. More evidence, I decided, that Stephen was psychic. When he felt better, I’d tell him so.
“Any word on other bookings?” Yuri asked.
“Still waiting to hear back. Is it usually this slow?”
“It can be. Keep looking. Cast the widest net you can. Let me know if you need help.”
He climbed into the van, and he and Kit pulled away. Fang and Noah trudged away up the footpath toward the Ace of Cups. I thought about joining them for a drink, but instead I headed back to Stephen’s shop.
Graham was in the bathroom, rinsing out the water pitcher and glasses. Someone—probably him, as it was the considerate thing to do—had already cleaned up the runes, including the one that had landed on the floor by my foot. I leaned over the table, grabbed the red-stringed bag, and dumped it out.
I smiled smugly down at the messy pile of runes. If Stephen was right and just anyone could get the same message out of them, I would have expected thurisaz to be resting right on top, but I had to dig to find it. I filed that away in the “can’t wait to say I told you so” drawer and sifted through the pile for the other two runes he had drawn during our reading.
It didn’t take long to find the one Yuri had described, but once I saw it for myself, I nearly dropped it out of reflex. The strangely tilted capital F was the second symbol in Horace’s sequence. I stuffed it back into the pile, not wanting to see it anywhere near thurisaz. I plucked out the backward Z that had flown my way in the reading and turned to the cream-on-crimson tapestry that displayed the Elder Futhark alphabet.
“‘Thurisaz,’” I murmured when I found Stephen’s rune, reading the cramped text aloud. “‘The thorn. A warning or a temptation. Tread with care.’”
Yuri’s rune was similarly ominous. Ansuz: watch for the signs around you. Ignoring an unpleasant message will only make things worse.
I gulped as I searched for mine. After those last two, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to see what it meant. Given the way my life had been going lately, it couldn’t be good. But as the ansuz rune warned, it was better to know.
The backward Z was called eihwaz. According to the tapestry, it meant: Change. Transformation. Embracing these will give you the power to deflect unexpected attacks.
An incredulous laugh burst out of my mouth.
What had I been doing this entire year if not changing? The things I had experienced—all the loss, all the heartbreak—had shattered me. I’d done my best to put myself back together, but I knew not all the pieces were exactly where they had started. My old self wouldn’t even recognize the new me.
I had evolved. But right now, I felt more vulnerable than I had in my entire life.
“Everything okay?” Graham asked from the doorway.
“Fine.” I shoved all the runes, including eihwaz, back into their bag. “Stephen was off today, I think. That reading didn’t make any sense.”
I should have had more faith in him. Stephen’s readings were always dead-on.