Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(31)
“So, a friend of Lina’s, huh?” He moves toward the register, dropping his towel on the counter in a wet, sandy thud. “Never heard her mention you before.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly friends.” I shrug, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “I mean, I met her once and she helped me with—wait, why did you just phrase it like that? You know, all past tense. Is Lina okay?”
He nods, perching on a stool, grabbing a purple cardboard box from a drawer and flipping through a bunch of receipts. “She’s on one of her annual retreats. Picks a different one each year. This time it’s Mexico. Trying to determine if the Mayans were right and the world will end in 2012. What’s your take?”
He looks at me, green eyes curious, insistent, boring right into mine. But I just scratch my arm and shrug, never having heard that particular theory before and wondering if it applies to Damen and me. Is that when we’ll head for the Shadowland, or will we be forced to wander a barren Earth—the last two survivors responsible for repopulating the land—only—irony alert—if we touch, Damen dies—
I shake my head, eager to escape that particular thread before it can really take hold and mess with my head. Besides, I’m here for a reason and I need to stick with the plan.
“So how do you know her? If you weren’t exactly friends.”
“I met her through Ava,” I say, hating the feel of her name on my lips.
He rolls his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible and shaking his head.
“So you know her?” I look at him, allowing my gaze to travel his face, his neck, his shoulders, his smooth tanned chest, making my way down to his navel, before forcing myself to look away again.
“Yeah, I know her.” He pushes the box aside, gaze meeting mine. “Just up and disappeared the other day—into thin air from what I can tell—”
Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I think, carefully watching his face.
“—called her house, her cell, but nothing. Finally did a drive-by to make sure she was okay and the lights were on so it’s clear she’s been dodging me.” He shakes his head. “Left me with a bunch of angry clients, demanding a reading. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be such a flake?”
Yes, who would’ve thought? Certainly not the person who was foolish enough to place her deepest darkest secrets right into her greedy, outstretched, hands . . .
“Still haven’t found anyone good enough to replace her though. And let me tell ya, it’s pretty much impossible to give readings and take care of the store. That’s why I stepped out just now.” He shrugs. “Surf was calling and I needed a break. Guess I left the door open again.”
His eyes meet mine, sparkling and deep. And I can’t tell if he truly believes he left the door open, or if he suspects me. But when I try to peer into his head to see for myself I’m stopped by the wall he’s erected to safeguard his thoughts from people like me. All I have to go by is the brilliant purple aura I failed to see before—its color waving and shimmering, beckoning to me.
“So far all I got are a stack of applications from amateurs. But I’m so desperate to get my weekends back, I’m ready to toss their names in a bowl and pick one just to get it over with.” He shakes his head and flashes those dimples again.
And even though part of me can’t believe what I’m about to do, the other part, the more practical part, urges me on, recognizing the perfect opportunity when it’s standing before me.
“Maybe I can help.” I hold my breath as I wait for his reply. But when my only response is a set of narrowed lids accompanied by the slightest curling of lips, I add, “Seriously. You don’t even have to pay me!”
He squints even further, those amazing green eyes practically disappearing from sight.
“What I meant was you don’t have to pay me all that much,” I say, not wanting to come off as some weird desperate freak who gives it away for free. “I’ll work for just over minimum wage—but only because I’m so good I’ll be living off the tips.”
“You’re psychic?” He folds his arms and tilts his head back, gazing at me with complete disbelief.
I straighten my posture and try not to fidget. Hoping to appear professional, mature, someone he can trust to help run his store. “Yup.” I nod, unable to keep from wincing, unused to confiding my abilities to anyone, much less a stranger. “I just sort of know things—information just sort of comes to me—it’s hard to explain.”
He looks at me, wavering, then focusing just to my right as he says, “So what exactly are you then?”
I shrug, fingers playing with the zipper on my hoodie, drawing it up and down, down and up, having no idea what he means.
“Are you clairaudient, clairvoyant, clairsentient, clairgustance, clairscent, or clairtangency? Which is it?” He shrugs.
“All of the above.” I nod, having no idea what half those things mean, but figuring if it’s got anything even remotely to do with psychic abilities, then I can probably do it.
“But you’re not mediumistic,” he says, as though it’s a fact.
“I can see spirits.” I shrug. “But only the ones that are still here, not the ones who’ve crossed—” I stop, pretending to clear my throat, knowing it’s better not to mention the bridge, Summerland, or any of that. “—I can’t see the ones who’ve crossed over.” I shrug, hoping he doesn’t try to push it since that’s as far as I’ll go.