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Sounds bitchin’.
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“There are two things I hate most in this world,” Journi McCutcheon said into the phone. “Cats and kids.”
An exasperated sigh came across the line, and she could almost hear Aunt Frieda rolling her bespectacled eyes. “Don’t be a dunderhead. You don’t hate kids, and you only hate cats because you’ve never had one.” There was an ear-splitting whistle and a commotion as she presumably removed a teakettle from the stove, and then she added, “And I know you don’t have a date tonight.”
Journi looked skyward and cursed the heavens. It was a good thing she loved her family. Nobody else would dare call her a dunderhead and expect to survive it. “What makes you think I don’t have a date tonight?”
“Because your mom told me all you do is sit around and watch that Nutflex and drink Mike’s Hard Lemonade every weekend.” She tsked and added, “A girl your age ought to be out getting tramp stamped.”
Journi choked on the fish taco she’d just taken a bite of. There were so many things wrong with that statement, she didn’t know where to begin. “That’s Netflix, Aunt Frieda.”
“Whatever,” Frieda said. “The point is, you need to get out more. Meet people. Make friends. Male friends.”
Settling on her Vesper Rebel’s seat with a sigh, Journi set the half-eaten, paper-wrapped taco on the vinyl between her legs and focused on the phone call. “And you expect me to do that by helping you give candy to a bunch of screaming, sugar-loaded kids?”
Frieda’s voice took on a lusty quality. “Single dads are all the rage, my dear.”
The last thing Journi needed or wanted was a man, let alone a man with kids. “I’m in a committed relationship with Mike,” she said. “In fact, I can’t wait to get my hands on his six-pack later.”
There was a hopeful pause, and then Frieda sighed. “You’re talking about that damned lemonade, aren’t you?”
Grinning, Journi adjusted her sunglasses and watched a woman walk a ghost dog across Mulberry Street, its nearly transparent nose sniffing the blacktop, bluish nethersmoke wafting languidly around its paws. “I plan to swallow every last drop of his—”
“Now that’s enough, Journi Renee,” Frieda scolded, but Journi could hear the snicker in her voice. “I swear, I don’t know how your sweet mama birthed such a hussy.”
Journi cocked an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was a prude.”
Frieda huffed as if exasperated and said, “Be here at six, young lady, or I won’t make my ambrosia for Thanksgiving.”
Knowing she wasn’t getting out of it but unwilling to go down without a fight, Journi said, “Can’t Goody Two Shoes help you? Giving candy to the kiddies seems like her jam.” Goody Two Shoes, or Lacy Garron, was a volunteer at the Hissing Booth, Frieda’s cat shelter. A very peppy, very volunteer-y volunteer. She was so cute it made Journi’s teeth ache.
“Lacy is performing in a Halloween skit at the nursing home tonight, and everyone else is taking their own kids trick or treating,” Frieda said. “You’re my last resort.”
“Well, in that case,” Journi said dryly.
“I’ll see you at six.”
Journi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine.”
“Oh,” Frieda added. “And pick up a few extra bags of candy.”
Journi said her goodbyes and hung up with a sigh. She pocketed her phone and tucked into her fish taco once more. While it wasn’t fresh-out-the-fryer crispy like it had been before her conversation with Frieda, it was still the absolute best fish taco in Columbus. And going by the never-dwindling line of customers standing in front of the Tick Tock Tacos truck across the street, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
“Don’t slouch,” a melodic and familiar voice said in her ear.
For the second time that day, Journi nearly choked on her taco. “For the love of dicks, Mom,” she said, coughing. “You know I hate it when you do that.”
Josephine McCutcheon appeared beside Journi’s scooter with a smile. “And you know I hate it when you slouch. Don’t say dick. It’s vulgar.”
Journi shook her head, stuffing the entirety of the remaining taco into her mouth before someone else interrupted her lunch. She made it an extra-messy, cheek-bulging display of chewing just to offend her mother’s delicate sensibilities. “You just said dick.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Josephine said, whipping a wet wipe out of her practical beige purse. “Clean yourself.”
Grinning, Journi took the wipe and mopped her mouth with it. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to the vacuum repair shop,” she said. “My Hoover is fixed. I felt you nearby and thought I’d surprise you.”
Journi was used to Josephine’s surprises. Whereas Journi possessed the gift of soothsaying, her mother was an empath, an ability that was amplified by familial bonds. It had been the bane of Journi’s teenage existence and one that had followed her into adulthood. “Are you sure you’re not off to the convent?” Journi asked, eying Josephine’s honest-to-God turtleneck and modest tweed skirt.
Josephine sighed and pursed her lips, the sun catching her goldenrod hair, which was cut in a perfectly bobby bob. “Where did I go wrong with you?”
Crumpling the taco’s empty foil wrapper, Journi pretended to think about it. “Christmas. 1990. I wanted a life-sized Barbie car. You didn’t get me one.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Josephine said, but she couldn’t keep her mouth from twitching.
Though they were as opposite as mother and daughter could be in both looks and personality, they were best friends. Partially because Journi didn’t do the whole BFF thing and partially because, underneath the fanny packs and penny loafers, Josephine was a tough-as-nails badass. As were all the women in Journi’s family.
Tossing the balled-up wrapper into a nearby trashcan, Journi dusted crumbs off her shredded black sweater, its strategic rips revealing a gray thermal underneath. She paused mid-dust and looked up at Josephine as an idea formed. “What are you doing tonight?”
“No, I will not take your place at the cat shelter,” Josephine said, anticipating her line of thought. “I’m busy. And besides, you need to spend more time with your aunt. She won’t be around forever, you know.”
Journi groaned. “It’s not her I’m worried about.”
Josephine grinned as if enjoying her daughter’s misery. “You forget you were a kid once too. A snot-nosed, chubby, whiny goblin begging for candy.”
Frowning, Journi absently checked for a double chin. “I wasn’t chubby.”
“You most certainly were.”
“Wait,” Journi said. “You have plans?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” She sniffed. “And before you ask, no, it’s not a date. The girls and I are going to a dinner theater.”
“Sounds bitchin’.”
Josephine arched a brow at the curse but said primly, “Yes, I think it will be quite bitching.”
Journi laughed. “Moms Gone Wild.”
“And what are your plans for the day?” Josephine asked. “Besides tacos and complaining.”
Sighing, Journi picked up her matte-black helmet from between her scooter’s handlebars. “You mean before the torture begins tonight?” She pulled on the helmet, snugging it just so and clasping the chin strap. “Got a job.”
Make that two jobs. When the client, a Mrs. Olivia Burke with an E as she’d so snootily clarified, had called Say It Ain’t So and requested both a gender confirmation on her unborn child and the Glimpse package for her elder child, she’d been miffed to learn that she would be charged for two individual services. Ironic, considering she lived in Bexley, one of the highest of high-brow neighborhoods in Columbus. Journi had a sneaking suspicion the extra hundred bucks wouldn’t break Mrs. Burke.
“Oh?” Josephine asked.
“Typical baby-mama drama,” Journi said, turning the key and pulling on her riding gloves. While it wasn’t the most exciting job she’d ever worked, it was easy money, and she wouldn’t turn it down. And frankly, boring was good. In an age when supernatural forces abounded, both benign and malevolent, a stretch of mundane assignments was a welcome relief.
Josephine nodded. “You know what your gramma says about the word typical.”
“The only difference between typical and atypical is the A,” Journi mimicked and then shook her head. “It makes no sense.”
“Technically, it makes literal sense,” Josephine corrected. “And you know what she means.”
That much was true. Gramma Jude often spoke in nonsensical riddles, but she got the point across. Since the Rise of Magic twenty years ago, typical was practically nonexistent. The line in the sand had been smudged. What was once considered fictional was now considered ordinary. Your banker was a shapeshifter. Your taxi driver could read minds. Your gynecologist was undead. Magic pulsed in the air like a heartbeat—so familiar you almost forgot it was there. Nothing was as it seemed, and change was constant. The guinea pig you buy your kid today could become the giant, razor-backed leviathan of your nightmares tomorrow.
The memory of that “typical” assignment gone haywire made her shudder. “I know,” Journi said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Oh,” Josephine said as if remembering something. She opened her purse and rummaged inside. “I almost forgot.” She handed Journi something. “Your gramma sent these.”
Journi released the kickstand, balancing the scooter with her thighs, and accepted the offering. A gossamer bag of marbles in assorted colors that sparkled in the afternoon sun. Even through her glove, they made Journi’s palm tingle, their magical energy penetrating the worn leather.
She let out a low whistle, bouncing the bag of marbles. “These will pack a punch.”
Living in Columbus after the Rise meant not only being ready for anything but being ready to fight. Most folks, whether Deviant or Middling, were decent, but there were always some black sheep lurking within the flock. And those sheep often bore claws and sharp teeth or any number of other deadly accouterments. Which was why, if you wanted to stay alive, you didn’t leave the house unarmed. Journi’s weapon of choice was the slingshot. It was quick, quiet, and efficient.
Especially when loaded with Gramma Jude’s spelled marbles.
Josephine reclasped her purse. “She said you asked for a ‘crap ton’ of firepower. Anything you want to tell me?”
“Shit ton,” Journi corrected, depositing the marbles into her pocket. “I asked for a shit ton.”
“Journi Renee,” she warned, giving her the don’t-test-me glare.
Sighing, Journi gazed out at the idyllic city street. It seemed so pleasant. So peaceful. The exact opposite of the recurring premonition that had been haunting her the past three weeks. The frustratingly vague premonition. Nothing but shifting shadows and the slash of claws through dense, rolling fog. Oh, and the occasional phantom demonic yowl that only she could hear. The most recent occurrence had caused her to yelp and drop her basket of groceries when she’d been standing in line at Punk Pantry. Naturally, a carton of eggs had exploded in a spectacular show of yolk and shell shrapnel. It had given new meaning to being caught with egg on one’s face. “I don’t know. Something is brewing.”
Josephine followed her gaze, her expression troubled. “The message is hidden?”
“Like an Easter egg in quicksand,” Journi confirmed, shaking her mental fist at the powers that be. Sometimes, soothsaying was as easy as plucking a photo out of an album. Vibrant and crystal clear. Other times? It was like trying to find a melted chocolate bar in a mud puddle.
Her mother nodded. “I’ve felt it too.”
That didn’t surprise Journi. While Josephine wasn’t a soothsayer like her, she was keenly aware of the world around her on a spiritual level.
“Just another day in paradise,” Journi said. “If it’s not an apocalypse, it’s an apocalypse.”
Josephine nodded, but concern lingered in her green eyes. “Be careful.”
“Always,” Journi assured her and then fired up her scooter. Well, more like warmed up her scooter. A one-cylinder engine didn’t growl so much as it purred. “Love you.”
Leaning over to kiss her cheek, Josephine said, “Love you too.”
Sliding down her helmet’s visor, Journi glanced at her. “Have fun at your dinner theater. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Josephine gave her a dry look.
Journi grinned and pulled away.
Ten minutes later, she arrived at Twelve Windsor Drive, letting her boots skid on the street as she slowed the scooter and parked alongside the curb. Heeling her kickstand, she unstrapped her helmet as she took stock of the two-story brick home that was doing its best to look unpretentious. But no amount of charming landscaping and welcoming porch décor could hide the fact that its owners were obscenely rich. She bet they gave out gold-dusted truffles for trick or treat. Preparing herself for a volley of disdainful looks, Journi got off her scooter, holding her helmet under her arm as she removed her gloves. Shoving them into her back pocket, she started up the walkway. At the door, she paused and pressed the bell. From inside came the corresponding muffled ding-dong. Stepping back, she sighed and waited. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could be on her way with her cash.
A moment later, there was movement behind the frosted glass, and the door opened to reveal a slender woman in her early thirties. She had pale-blonde hair and kind brown eyes, and she wore a simple ensemble of jeans and a T-shirt. Not what Journi had expected. “Miss McCutcheon?” the woman asked politely.
“That’s me,” Journi confirmed. “Mrs. Burke?”
The woman laughed, standing aside so Journi could enter. “God no. I’m Hayley. The nanny.”
That made far more sense. Journi smiled as she stepped inside. Hayley led her through the foyer to the living room, closing the secondary door behind them. The interior was much as Journi had expected. Immaculate and superior. From the don’t-touch-me-I’m-expensive décor to the glittering chandelier overhead, it was the best of the best. Pristine cream rugs covered the polished hardwood floors, and expertly curated artwork hung on the walls. Eclectic woven pillows and artfully draped plush throws added warmth to the enormous whiskey-leather sectional that probably cost more than Journi’s gross yearly income.
“You can wait here,” Hayley said. “I’ll go get Olivia.”
“Sounds good,” Journi said, tapping her thumb on her helmet.
As she waited, she gazed at a large family portrait gracing the wall beside her. Framed in ebony wood, the black-and-white photo showed a graying, austere man who had neurosurgeon written all over him, a young brunette with a dazzling smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and a tow-headed child. Journi peered at the kid. A girl, maybe five years old. Chubby cheeks complete with dimples. Cute as far as kids went and presumably the one Journi was here to sooth.
The click of heels on hardwood drew her attention, and she looked over to see the woman from the family portrait striding toward her. Tall and gorgeous, she wore a sharp white pantsuit and black stilettos. And she was glaring a hole through Journi. “Out of the question, Marcello,” the woman snapped in a voice that said she was used to barking demands and having them obeyed. “I ordered crimson velvet draperies. Not red. Crimson. Hear me.”
It took Journi a moment to realize the woman wasn’t talking to her but into an inconspicuous earpiece she wore. Journi glanced at Hayley, who followed the assumed Mrs. Burke, and Hayley shrugged helplessly. Pursing her lips, Journi waited for the phone call to conclude.
Mrs. Burke eyed Journi’s attire and then the helmet tucked under her arm. “No,” she said, holding up a stiff finger as if Marcello could actually see it. “No, I do not want the damask pillows. How many times do I have to tell you? Rustic. Chic. Repeat it.”
She waited for him to presumably repeat it and then disconnected, focusing her attention on Journi. “You’re from the soothsaying agency?”
Nice to meet you too. Journi nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m Olivia,” she said. “What do you need from me? I have thirty minutes.”
More than glad to make this a quick session, Journi opened her satchel and pulled out the contract. “Sign the waiver. Payment up front.”
Olivia accepted the contract as she might a half-eaten, moldy piece of pizza. “Paper?”
Journi shrugged. She wasn’t averse to technology, but she had a fondness for tangible recordkeeping. There was something reassuring about ink on paper. Especially when said paper was bespelled. Any signature written on it was legally and magically binding.
Making a good grief face, Olivia spoke over her shoulder to Hayley. “Card.”
“Cash only,” Journi reminded her.
Hayley hesitated. Olivia scowled and corrected, “My bag.”
While Hayley hurried off, Olivia produced a gleaming fountain pen from her jacket pocket and studied the contract. “You never said anything about a waiver on the phone. Is this dangerous?”
“No,” Journi assured her. “The process is completely safe and painless. The waiver is more of a don’t-shoot-the-messenger thing.”
Olivia arched a honed brow. “As in?”
“As in if I learn something about your kids you don’t like, you don’t blame me.”
Olivia considered it. “You mean don’t sue you.”
“Precisely.”
Hayley returned with a designer purse that looked like it had never been used and handed it to Olivia.
“Wallet,” Olivia said without looking at her and continued scanning the contract as if she expected there to be some nefarious fine print.
Behind her, Hayley surreptitiously rolled her eyes and lowered the purse, reaching inside for the wallet.
When Olivia was apparently satisfied, she signed the contract and returned it to Journi.
Journi tore off the attached carbon copy, placed the original inside her satchel, and waited as Olivia counted out crisp bills. “How much?”
“Three hundred,” Journi said as if she hadn’t thoroughly discussed her fees with Mrs. Burke during their initial conversation.
The set of Olivia’s mouth indicated she was still unhappy about Journi’s pricing, but she paid nonetheless. “Can we get this over with?”
Journi pocketed the cash. “Should I start with you?”
“Fine,” Olivia said, handing the purse to Hayley.
Journi set her helmet on the side table and walked over to Olivia. “I need to touch you.”
“Where?” Olivia asked as if Journi had suggested a cavity search.
“The abdomen will be fine. You can leave your clothes on,” she said. “How far along are you?”
Olivia eyed her. “Shouldn’t you be telling me that?”
“Just making conversation.” She gestured toward Olivia’s midsection. “May I?”
As though finding out the sex of her unborn child weeks earlier than the norm was no big, Olivia held out her arms, glancing at her wrist where the time glowed gold on a clear band that was so thin, it was barely distinguishable from her skin.
Smothering a sigh, Journi took a moment to close her eyes and clear her mind, counting back from twenty. She set aside all thoughts of fish tacos, rude clients, and annoying trick or treaters. There was nothing but deep, slow breathing and—
“Is this going to happen sometime today?” Olivia interrupted. “I have work.”
Journi reminded herself that the money was far more satisfying than throat punching Mrs. Burke would be. Foregoing her normal ritual, which was beneficial but unnecessary, Journi pressed on for expediency’s sake. Bringing her fingertips to Olivia’s flat abdomen, Journi opened her mind to the beyond. As always, it was an overwhelming experience. Reality melted, and the brilliant, dazzling blur of a thousand possible futures spilled into the fissure like liquid magic. She was but an eye, seeing all that would and could be. A pupil, dilated and infinite black, absorbing a rainbow of lives lived. Seeing it all was the easy part. Picking out the brightest, strongest thread amidst a writhing tangle of nearly identical threads was the hard part.
She held out her hand, sifting through the shimmering futures. Feeling. Looking. Seeing. Most were weak, producing only a tingle of energy as they passed through her fingers. Others were more viable, and they crackled like golden Pop Rocks, but she ignored those too. Many things could determine what someone’s future held, but at any given moment, this given moment, there was only one definite outcome. That outcome could change tomorrow, but her job was to see the future of the here and now.
There.
The cord she was looking for. It glowed brighter and hotter than the rest, and it thrummed with energy. Certainty. As of today, it was Olivia Burke’s future. Journi seized it, and there was a moment of blinding, searing light, and then there was calm. Olivia’s upcoming memories coalesced into a slowly, sleepily twisting cyclone.
And Journi was suspended in the eye of it.
