Donn's Legacy, page 13
I would know if he was, I decided. As soon as I saw his face, I would know it. Whether it was his real face or the false one he wore when he came to me as Horace, I would recognize him.
The line moved forward a few paces, and I asked, “How did you two know Elizabeth?”
“She was my second cousin,” William explained. “And you?”
“She was my friend.” The last word caught in my throat, and tears blurred my vision.
William smiled sadly. “She had a lot of those.”
It was my turn to give my condolences to Deputy Wallace then. As the people in front of me stepped aside, she pulled me into a bear hug. We stayed like that for several moments before the pressure at my back softened, and I pulled away.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, blinking back tears. “Elizabeth was an incredible friend. She must have been the best grandma.”
Wallace sniffed and nodded. “She really was. And she liked you a lot. She was so excited to have another real psychic around.” Her voice hitched. “I guess you’re the only one now.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. There were others people in Donn’s Hill who had a genuine gift—Stephen Hastain, for one—but I supposed I now had the uncomfortable distinction of being the most powerful.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Wallace said.
“Of course. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”
“Actually, there is.” She hesitated. “I need to box up everything from Grandma’s place at The Enclave and take it to my house. Would you mind helping me?”
It was my turn to pause. The memories of boxing up and dealing with my father’s things earlier that year were still raw. I had done it alone, thanks to my then-boyfriend’s refusal to help with or even attend the funeral. Most of my father’s possessions had gone to friends of his from the university where he worked. A lot had gone to Goodwill. But some things—his favorite chair, a good chunk of his books, nearly everything from the walls of his office—had been too difficult to say goodbye to at the time. It all sat in a storage unit in Denver.
But as I thought about it, I felt another wave of the peace and strength I’d felt at Darlene’s while I was reading Dad’s letters to my mom. The pain of losing him was still there, but it was a dull ache now. It didn’t sting the way it had at first.
Maybe it was time to bring his things here. He’d never been to Donn’s Hill, but I thought he would have liked it.
And maybe if I’d had some help going through his things, it would have been less painful. Maybe I would have made different choices, had the strength to take more of him with me.
“I’d love to help,” I told Wallace. “Just call when you need me.”
I gave her another quick hug and got out of the way of the rest of the mourners. Graham was still talking to the other artists, so I made a second trip to the buffet table. I was trying to decide between the bite-sized pecan pies and the miniature pumpkin chocolate chip cookies when an elderly woman elbowed me.
“Take them both,” she whispered.
I laughed and acted on her recommendation, not needing much encouragement to give in to my gluttonous side. “Thanks. I needed the nudge.”
“I know.” She winked at me and took a seat at an empty table.
Something about her reminded me of Elizabeth. They didn’t look very similar; this woman was at least ten years younger, with a silver bob and purple cat-eye glasses. But I couldn’t shake the feeling they had something in common.
“Care to join me?” she called. As she lifted a hand to wave me over, a collection of black stones tinkled at her wrist. “Don’t be shy.”
She’s an Empath, I realized. She wasn’t reading my mind, though sometimes it had felt like Elizabeth could. Like her, this woman had read my emotions.
I sat next to her.
She nodded at the piece of black tourmaline hanging from my neck. “Elizabeth give that to you?”
“Yeah.” I pointed to her wrists. “Did she give you those?”
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “No, honey. I gave her hers. You an Empath?”
“No, I’m just a medium.”
“Just.” She snorted. “You got the gift of gifts and you say just. You do séances? At the Afterlife Festival?”
“Oh, no. I’m not strong enough.”
“‘Not strong enough.’” She shook her head. “Honey, I could feel your power from across the room. You listen and you listen good. If there’s something you can’t do, it’s probably not worth doing. Let me ask you: do you see the dead in our world or just in dreams?”
I stared at her for a few seconds, then finally found the presence of mind to ask, “I’m sorry… Who are you?”
“Don’t apologize. That’s on me. I get feelings from people. Strong ones. So strong I feel like I know them before we’ve been introduced, and then I forget to tell them who I am.” She held out a hand. “Call me Grey.”
“Mackenzie Clair.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mac.”
I didn’t bother asking how she knew my nickname. This woman was on an entirely different level, sensing things I wasn’t sure even Elizabeth would have picked up on.
“Do you come to the Afterlife Festival often?” I asked.
“Used to. Don’t think I’ll be back next year, though.” She shivered and pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. “The energy here is off.”
“Here?” I looked around the room.
“No, in town. Can’t say for sure what’s wrong, but I don’t like it. To be honest, I’m canceling my reservation at the inn and heading back home right after this.”
“Where’s home?”
She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I’d rather not say, if that’s all right.”
I raised an eyebrow. Her open, friendly expression had gone tight. She looked afraid, and I had no idea why.
Suddenly, she brightened. “Tell me about the ghosts you see.”
“I’ve seen a few. Mostly at work.”
“What do you do for a living? Graveyard shift somewhere?”
“No, I’m a paranormal investigator for a television show.” I grinned. “So it’s on purpose.”
“You’ve very lucky. Not many people can make a living with their gift.”
“It does feel rare, even around here.” I paused and replayed her earlier question in my mind. “What did you mean about seeing the dead in my dreams?”
“Dream visitations. Real common, more than people realize. I see my late husband at least once a week in my sleep. He pops in to check on me and asks how our cats are. Sometimes our old dog is with him.” She considered me for a few moments. “Yes, you’ve had them. I’m not surprised. Most people do. They just dismiss them as dreams, nothing more.”
Her words reminded me of the Travelers who had sat on my bed at night and told me their life stories while I slept. It had been years since they visited me, decades since I’d had one of these dream visitations Grey was describing. And yet—
I blinked.
No, it hadn’t been that long. It had only been years since a stranger stopped by to say hello.
“I see my mother,” I blurted out. It felt strange to spill that ultra-personal detail. “Kind of. She’s usually fuzzy… like a bad TV signal. I get a few words here and there, but that’s it. And then there’s this other woman, Camila, who died recently. I didn’t even know her, and she’s been showing up in my dreams, trying to talk to me.”
“What does she say?” Grey asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear her. I can’t hear anything.” I studied Grey’s face, which had gone back to the tight, drawn state it had been in a moment before. “Is that normal? I mean, you can hear your husband, right?”
“I can,” she said softly. “In dreams, anyone can touch the other side. Our world is solid ground. The next is a great rushing river. The water flows too fast for our minds to keep up. If we don’t know how to swim, we get swept away.”
I suppressed a shudder. I had never been a huge fan of swimming, and finding a dead body in a lake earlier that year had solidified my desire to keep my feet firmly on dry ground. I didn’t like Grey’s metaphor, and I especially didn’t like how accurate it felt.
Her eyes drifted to the photos of Elizabeth on the walls, and her voice softened. “She’s there now, in the water where I can’t follow. But soon, I’ll sleep and find myself in that river. Because I’m sleeping, I won’t think to fight the current. It won’t try to take me. I’ll flow with it. And Elizabeth will reach back, grab my hand, and sit with me for a spell.”
Grey smiled at me, but I couldn’t return the expression. I stared at her, stunned into silence by the matter-of-fact way she described speaking to the dead. Was it so easy for her? She just fell asleep and bam, she had her own personal séance going on?
Why wasn’t it ever that easy for me?
“That’s not how my dreams go,” I said.
She tilted her head and studied me for a few moments. “You’ve got so much power, it’s getting in the way. When I dream, I don’t know it. I simply wake up and remember the visits I had.”
That didn’t make any sense to me. If I was so powerful, if I had this amazing gift, why couldn’t I have what Grey had?
“So what am I supposed to do?” My words were rough and irritated, which surprised me. My cheeks flooded with warmth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Grey didn’t seem upset, but her eyes remained concerned. “You have two choices: fight the current or try to swim.”
“Swim?”
“Accept the moment. Accept the dream. Walk in it. Be part of it. But be careful.” She glanced at the photos of Elizabeth again. “Dive too deeply, you’ll get swept away. Then you’ll be the one waiting in the water for your friends to fall asleep.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I arrived at the Ace of Cups on Sunday powered by caffeine, sugar, and anticipation—but not sleep. My conversation with Grey at Elizabeth’s memorial left me unbalanced, and I felt hyperaware of my psychic energy whenever I tried to fall asleep. As my mind neared the edge of consciousness, I imagined I could feel the next world lapping gently at my feet like the waves of a very deep lake. It pulled at me, inviting me to walk into the water. I considered giving in; I wanted to have a real conversation with my mother or even hear Camila’s voice.
But before I could give in, a sudden fear gripped me. My eyes flew open. I couldn’t let go of consciousness. I couldn’t let the current take me. I was sure that if I did, I would never wake up again.
Then drowsiness would sneak back up on me, and the cycle repeated again and again until I gave up and went down to the kitchen to make coffee.
Now I sighed heavily as I stared up at the wide, two-story building that anchored the far end of The Enclave. I was so tired that climbing the short flight of stone steps to the bar’s front entrance seemed like an impossible task.
“Carry me up there?” I asked Graham.
He frowned. “Are you sure you should even be here? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like you slept at all.”
I wanted to give him crap about how you never tell a woman she looks tired but lacked the energy. “I’ll take a little nap after work.”
“Okay…” he said uncertainly, glancing up at the late afternoon sky. “It’ll be night then, so maybe take more than a nap.”
“I will, I will.” I waved a hand impatiently. “I just need your help getting up the stairs. Come on, it’ll be romantic. You can carry me up over the threshold like in the movies.”
“In the movies, those people have just gotten married and the threshold is to their honeymoon suite, not the local bar. Plus”—he hoisted Striker’s carrier—“you know she doesn’t like to share.”
“Fine,” I grumbled.
With genuine effort and focus, I made the climb. If I wasn’t so excited to be doing a proper investigation again, I think I would have toppled backward halfway up and tumbled down the stairs like a Slinky. But I knew that at the top waited the promise of doing what I loved doing best. Even if Graham refused to carry me up the stairs, my driving need to use my gift propelled me forward.
Inside the pub, a heater vent belched hot air at us, prompting me to shrug out of my coat and hang it on the row of hooks along the waiting area’s wall. As I did, the aroma of freshly baked soda bread tickled my nose.
I perked up a bit. Since opening in the summer, the Ace of Cups had quickly become one of my favorite places in Donn’s Hill. The building had originally been a boarding house for miners, but the main floor had been completely gutted and redesigned to fit a gastropub. The public space now looked like a castle basement: stone walls, rounded doorways, and a steeply curved ceiling that was cozily close to the ground at the edges. Graham hated sitting in any of the booths along the perimeter. I didn’t blame him; I was short enough to sit comfortably, but he had twice bumped his head when getting up to use the bathroom.
We were frequent customers despite Graham’s enmity with the ceiling for one reason: the food.
Hearty stews, fish and chips, colcannon, and soda bread were best sellers, and it was here that I had been introduced to a battered potato masterpiece called boxty. The owner rounded out the menu with American bar favorites like fried pickles and nachos, and her Sunday brunch—complete with mimosas—brought in crowds from the surrounding counties every weekend.
All residents of The Enclave were required to have some kind of connection to the psychic industry that made Donn’s Hill famous. Despite being exempted from the rule due to the nature of her business, the owner leaned into the spirit of the town by claiming her bartenders all had the gift of second sight. No matter what drink you ordered, they could sense the drink you really needed.
Or in my case, the dessert.
“Mac!” Alexi Ash, owner and chief mixologist of the Ace of Cups, waved at me from behind a row of beer taps. “Come here. I saved something for you.”
The brunch rush was long over. I weaved through empty tables and leaned against the ornately carved bar. Caramel and honey liquids glittered under spotlights, and a rainbow of liquor labels advertised the fact that the bartenders here could make you any drink you could name and a few you couldn’t.
“Busy day?” I asked.
“Off the walls,” Alexi confirmed. “I expected a slump when the cold weather hit, but it’s been nuts all weekend. I don’t know what witchcraft Penelope is working to keep the crowds coming, but I’m going to need to hire some more staff.”
“Lots of customers, lots of orders,” I mused. “Any leftovers?”
Her corkscrew coils bounced as she skipped down to the dessert case and back. With a grin that rivaled the Cheshire Cat’s, she slid a small plate holding a quadruple-layered slice of chocolate cake across the bar. Silky ganache dripped down the white cream cheese frosting, and to an untrained observer, it looked like a regular slice of Death by Chocolate. But I had long since learned that desserts at the Ace of Cups were rarely as simple as they seemed.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Whiskey and stout cake. It’s our special this week.”
Despite the heavenly aroma of cocoa swirling above the plate, I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not much for heavy alcohols. Whiskey is a little…” I couldn’t think of a word to describe it that wouldn’t insult my host’s taste, so I didn’t finish the sentence.
She rolled her brown eyes and reached for the plate. “Fine, if you don’t want it—”
I snatched it out of her reach. “Hey, I didn’t say I won’t eat it.”
“Attagirl.” Alexi leaned to the side and waved at Graham. “Is that Striker in the carrier?”
“Yeah. Yuri let you know she’s part of the crew, right?”
“I figured she would be. Mind taking her into my office until everyone gets here? We can’t have animals in the restaurant area.” She pointed to a door at the far end of the room. “I’m just closing up for the day. I’ll find you guys wherever you are after we lock up.”
I carried my cake into her office, which was richly furnished in blocky faux leather chairs and a heavy mahogany desk. Once the door was closed behind us, Graham gingerly released Striker from her carrier.
“Not a single scratch on the furniture, okay?” he warned.
She stared up at him with defiant eyes. The message was clear: if she did or didn’t do anything, it was because she wanted to.
“Are you going to hang out for the investigation?” I asked Graham as I took a bite of the cake. It was surprisingly sweet, with no hint of the bitterness I usually associated with hard liquors. The cream cheese frosting was tangy and bright, and the cake itself was fluffy and moist. I thought about offering some to Graham, but that would leave less for me.
I didn’t share.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I love your company, but if you have other plans, I understand.”
“What about”—he glanced around the empty office and lowered his voice to a whisper—“Horace?”
At the name, I automatically reached up and touched my necklace to be sure it was still there. “I was thinking about him a lot at the memorial yesterday. For a while, I was convinced he was there.”
Graham pursed his lips. “Was he?”
“I don’t think so. No, I know he wasn’t. Especially after talking to that friend of Elizabeth’s.” I stroked Striker’s fur as I remembered my interaction with Grey. “She knew I was psychic without even asking. She could feel it. And I think I can feel it too. Like with Stephen.”
“I keep telling him he’s got a real gift. He says it’s all in the stones.”
I rolled my eyes. “He tried to sell me that line too. But I swear I can sense his talent. And I think I would be able to feel power as strong as Horace’s.”
Graham looked doubtful. “Did you feel Elizabeth’s power? Or that woman you were talking to at the funeral?”
“I think so. I mean, I didn’t think that’s what I was feeling, but I was so instantly drawn to both of them. If I meet someone who could be Anson, I’ll watch for that feeling.”
