Page 32 of Chasing Eternity
“Magick has always been the currency of the oppressed,” I say, repeating something she once said to me. “Which, I guess, explains this place.” I gesture around the small psychic’s den. “Only question is”—my gaze fixes on hers—“what the hell are you doing here, Song?”
14
Panic flares in Song’s eyes, soon followed by a tempest of emotions—surprise, fear, and a sharp edge of suspicion.
“Did Arthur send you?” Her gaze frantically darts between Elodie and me.
I shake my head, quick to assure her. But from the pinch of her lips and the wary glint in her gaze, she remains unconvinced.
“You need to leave.” Her arm is outstretched, finger jabbing toward the door. “Both of you, now! Or I swear I’ll call for help.”
Elodie is unfazed. With her usual brand of confidence and grace, she breezes past Song and the purple velvet curtain that divides the waiting room from the inner sanctum.
“Yeah…about that…” Elodie slips behind the desk with an air of ownership, sinking into Song’s chair as though it were her rightful throne. “We could leave,” she muses, her fingers dancing over a deck of tarot cards, shuffling them with practiced ease. “And we definitely will. When we’re ready, that is. But not just yet.” Her voice is casual, nonchalant, as she fans the cards into an arc. With a deft movement, she plucks one from the middle and lays it facedown before her. “But let’s skip the theatrics, shall we? We all know your options for backup are limited to…what, Anjou?”
Her eyes gleam with unspoken meaning as she flips the card to reveal the High Priestess—the card of secrets, intuition, and psychic wisdom—the card I most associate with her.
Elodie’s gaze briefly meets mine. Then, leaning back in her seat, she props her chunky black boots onto the desk. Her movements are languid yet full of intent as she glides the serpent pendant back and forth on its chain, her sharp and unwavering gaze fixed on Song.
Song stands with her arms firmly crossed, her brow furrowed into a frown. “Fine,” she concedes, locking eyes with Elodie. “Just spit it out—tell me what you want from me.”
Elodie tilts her head to the side. “Me?” She presses a hand to her chest, her voice pitching artificially high. “I don’t want anything from you. Never have, never will.” She laughs, a light, artificial sound completely devoid of amusement. “I’m just trying to set Nat’s mind at ease. She’s been tied up in knots over you. Pointing fingers at Arthur, even me, all because you decided to vanish without a trace. So, seeing as how we’re both here, I figured it was the least I could do to prove to her, once and for all, that the only person responsible for your sudden disappearance is you.”
Song’s eyes shift toward me, her face clouded, impossible to read. “I left you a note,” she says, her expression softening slightly, though her voice still holds an edge of defiance.
“I know,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But you didn’t really explain anything. And by the time I got to your room, you were gone.”
“It couldn’t wait,” Song insists, lifting her shoulders and dismissing the gravity of her actions with a casual wave of her hand. “The moon was in place, and…” Her voice trails off. Then, with a sudden sharpness, she looks at us both. “So, what is this? You two on a Trip?”
I hesitate, unsure of just how truthful I should be. “I guess you could say it’s an unauthorized Trip,” I admit, biting the inside of my cheek, worried I may have revealed too much. Then, throwing caution to the wind, I add, “Arthur doesn’t know about this.”
Elodie, ever the instigator, leans in with a smirk. “Not yet anyway.”
Song’s gaze shuttles between us, apprehension reddening her cheeks and tightening her features. “Fine,” she finally says, “you found me. Congratulations. But just so you know, I’m not going back to Gray Wolf. Not now, not ever.”
“So you prefer this charade?” Elodie’s tone drips with derision as she casts a scornful glance around the small room. “Fooling people into believing you’re psychic?” She scoffs. “Like, this little dog and pony show you’ve created is somehow better than your life on the rock?”
Song shifts uncomfortably, her resolve wavering under Elodie’s piercing stare. “At least here, I’m not part of some big con,” she says. “Stealing from unsuspecting—”
“You can’t be serious!” Elodie balks. “Last I checked, pretending to be psychic and taking money from vulnerable strangers who pay you for insights you don’t actually possess is one of the worst kinds of scams.”
Song bristles, her shoulders stiffening, fingers curling into fists, but there’s a flash of doubt in her eyes that’s impossible to miss.
“According to my clients,” Song speaks through gritted teeth, “most of whom are repeat customers, my predictions are ‘eerily accurate.’” She lifts her hands and wiggles her fingers, forming air quotes around the words. “When it comes to predicting the future, I have an eight-month waiting list.”
Elodie nods, casually studying her cuticles. “Tell me, Song,” she says, “how often are you and Anjou Tripping these days?”
Song’s reaction is instant—her body stiffens, her eyes flicking wildly between Elodie and me.
“I mean, that is how you do it, right? According to the sign on the door, your little business here is by appointment only. And I’m guessing that’s because you first need to travel into the future, get whatever details you can about your client, and then impress them with your dazzling gift on the appointed day and time.”
“Anjou travels,” Song admits, a measure of defeat in her voice. “I stay here to handle the readings.”
“And how much longer do you think you can go on like this?” Elodie arches a brow.
Song shrugs. “Not that it’s any of your business, but long enough to get sufficient money to ultimately disappear into the timeline and the lifestyle we want.”
“And you do realize you have Arthur and Gray Wolf to thank for that?” Elodie snaps.