8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

I really only had one call to make, and that was to the author of the article on Egilsson. Andre Jones was a multitasker―I had to give him that. He’d written about half the articles in this month’s Modern Parapsychia , in addition to posting articles on completely different subjects on two different news blogs.

He was a freelancer, willing to go almost anywhere to get a story, including a three-month stint in Turkey last year that had led to a piece being picked up by Rolling Stone . We’d chatted a little bit before he’d interviewed me, and he was a surprisingly relaxed guy, not dogmatic or demanding about how he expected things to go. He didn’t ask me to do any parlor tricks to prove I was psychic, but he didn’t go out of his way to debunk the idea either. It had been pretty balanced, all things considered, which was why I didn’t think he’d reject me out of hand for asking about his sources for the other article.

“I’ve gotta say, I didn’t expect I’d hear from you again,” he said once I got through, his voice every bit as smooth and soothing as I remembered. He’d laughed at me last time when I’d mentioned that he sounded like he gave good voice, saying he could get his newborn daughter to sleep in under five minutes by singing to her. “No offense, but I got the feeling you only did that interview because you’d been forced to.”

“That’s exactly why I did it,” I agreed. “But I’m not calling about the interview. You wrote another article about a guy called ólafur Egilsson.”

“Right, that.” His laugh sounded a little self-deprecating. “I was basically just looking for filler at that point, man. The guy’s way better known for his business interests than for anything potentially supernatural, but the fact that he’s basically uprooted an acre of his home country and brought it all the way over to the US is pretty strange.”

He was right, that was strange, but it danced around the information I was looking for now. “Do you know if he’s still in Chicago?”

“No, I haven’t done any work on that story since last month.” Andre’s tone sounded considering. “Why? Is there more there I should be considering?”

Now came my crisis of conscience. I wasn’t prone to them, but occasionally they hit me like a shovel to the back of the head. I had a gift, but it was specific to whoever I made eye contact with. I couldn’t just predict the future, and Marisol’s cards had already been less than helpful. What I wanted—what I needed —was a researcher, someone to help me figure out what was going on before I walked into a bear’s den and got myself mauled. I wasn’t a coward, but there was no way I was getting anywhere near Egilsson, even with S?ren as bait, without some serious prep work. But I couldn’t guarantee that it was going to be safe, not for myself and not for anyone I enlisted to help me.

“Cillian?”

“Sorry,” I said, focusing back on the call. “Listen, about that story―there might be something else there, but I’m not asking you to get involved in it.”

“Something else like freaky, supernatural shit, something?”

I scoffed at the phone. “You don’t believe in the supernatural, remember?” That hadn’t been hard to suss out. I didn’t have to look into Andre’s eyes to know he was working for Modern Parapsychia because he needed the money, not because he was a true believer.

“Just because I haven’t seen any evidence of it doesn’t mean it’s not there. What, you gonna make a believer out of me?”

I just might. “Look, I need as much information as I can get on ólafur Egilsson, his crew, and his cargo. I’m coming to Chicago, so if you could just point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it.”

“I thought you didn’t like flying.” Another tidbit he’d gotten out of me with his subtle chatter before the interview.

“I don’t.” Stuck in a plane with nothing to look at but the back of the seat in front of me, in case I picked up fates from the people around me? Flying brought out the worse kinds of anxieties in people, and when someone was emotional, they were a lot easier to read. It was safe to say that I hated flying. “But I need to go there regardless.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’ve got no fucking clue. Somewhere close to wherever that warehouse is, I guess. Feel free to pass that info along any time,” I added sarcastically.

“There aren’t any hotels in that part of town. Not to mention, if you’re interested in the people and less on the cargo, you’re not gonna find them there.”

“Where will I find them?”

“Tell me why you want to know and I’ll tell you where they were as of three weeks ago.”

“The why is the dangerous part.” Time to lay it out there and see if he still wanted a piece of this once he had a better idea of what was going on. “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know anything about why they’ve brought part of Iceland to America, but I know this guy. There’s something really, really wrong with what’s happening, and I need to find out what that is.”

“Is this some kind of psychic premonition?”

“No. More like what I’m hoping is a case of mistaken identity, but I don’t think it is. I have to know one way or the other, though.”

There was a moment of silence. “How do you know Egilsson?”

“I was a guest of his for a while.” Let Andre make of that what he wanted. “I can’t promise you a story out of this. I can’t give you any information that will make helping me out worth your time. I just need to know how to find these guys, and then I’ll leave you alone.” That was as honest as I could be. I wasn’t going to reduce myself to hunting down Andre and forcing our eyes to meet in order to get the information I needed. I wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

“But the situation might be kinda dangerous?” He didn’t sound like he minded the prospect.

“Missing your war zones already?”

“Hey, you can only write so many op-eds on diaper choices and formula comparisons before you start to go crazy,” Andre replied. “I’ve got some free time right now. I can get you the information you need, maybe help you do a little digging once you get here. My standard rates apply, of course.”

“Of course.” The swell of relief sweeping from my chest to my knees made me glad I was sitting down. “I can do that. Thanks.”

“When are you getting in?”

“Sometime today or tomorrow, I haven’t actually booked the flight yet.” But I would. I had a pile of cash upstairs, courtesy of Roger. Hopefully it would be enough to see me through whatever happened in Chicago.

“Let me know. I’ll pick you up at the airport. We can talk about things then.”

“You don’t have to go out of your way for me,” I cautioned him. “You don’t even know me. I might be a complete jackass for all you know. I could be wasting your time.”

“Maybe.” He drew the word out like he was pulling on a thread, curious to see what would happen. “But even if you are a jackass, it’s an interesting situation, and you might have a story here worth looking at. Why else would you have called me up? I know you don’t like reporters, man. I don’t have to be psychic to get that you were basically coerced into talking to me. Why do it if you dislike the idea so much?”

“My mother made me. Don’t laugh,” I added as I heard his quick intake of air. “You try having a mother like mine and see if you ever get out of anything.” I’d wondered at the time why my mom had been so invested in getting me to do a stupid interview, and…

Suddenly the pieces fell into place. I’d needed to do something that would get me to look at Modern Parapsychia , because it was probably the only publication in the world that bothered to write about what was, at best, a human interest story about a man and his land. She had known I would see it; she’d known I’d remember the name. She’d known I’d recognize S?ren. She’d―holy shit.

“I’ll text my flight info when I have it,” I said and hung up the phone so I could take a moment just to breathe. Thank god I was still outside. I didn’t have to worry about what Marisol and Phin might be thinking and could just have a nice little panic attack all by myself.

How much had she known? How much had my mother known the first time around, when I got kidnapped and ultimately made a decision to destroy a young man’s life? How much could she have prevented?

It was useless to speculate, and it was even more useless to blame my mom for any of it. I’d gotten sick of that years ago and couldn’t go back to it, not now, not even with a bullet wound in my arm and an undead lover staring out of a picture on my phone. Still… I dialed her number. It rang through to voice mail.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” I might not blame her, but I couldn’t help the frustration that bled into every word, squeezed through my viselike throat. “I figured it out, okay, just the beginnings of it, and I just hope that―you know I’m not like you.”

That was both my failing and my greatest achievement, not being as far-seeing as my mother, not able to be as objective and decisive. I knew that fate couldn’t be changed, not without extreme circumstances, but my mother couldn’t see every specific of my fate either. Whatever was happening, whatever she’d planned, most of it was based on extrapolation. Psychic guesswork. “Fuck.” I hung up on her and didn’t feel any better for it.

Marisol was waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to ambush me before I could retreat upstairs. “Cillian—”

“Where’s Phin?” I asked, gaining another little moment to collect myself.

“He had to go and supervise repairs in that rathole of a club they run.” The bitter twist to her lips seemed to intimate that she’d be happier burning it than repairing it. “Cillian, what’s going on? What do you need?”

One simple sentence was enough to remind me of why I loved Marisol. She understood the forces at work well enough to know that things had gotten beyond my control―that the situation was bigger than just me. She knew I had to act. “I need to go to Chicago.”

She sighed, obviously unsurprised. “To find out more about the man who drowned?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, shit.”

I choked out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly.”

She stepped forward and put her hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. The right one ached despite her care, but I didn’t flinch. “You better let me help you pack, otherwise it will take you hours. When do you need to leave?”

“Soon.”

“Fine.” She nodded and let go, glancing around the kitchen. “I have enough for a decent good-bye dinner, I suppose. I’ll drive you to the airport after we eat.”

“We just had breakfast,” I pointed out.

The fire that suddenly rose in her eyes was almost enough to make me take a step back. I sometimes forgot that Marisol could be a force of nature when she wanted to, as wild and dangerous as anyone I’d ever met before. “The cards don’t lie. You’re about to leap into something that will test everything you are,” she snapped. “I’m not going to let you go before I know I’ve done everything I can to help you, and that includes feeding up your skinny ass so you don’t starve on your first day in Chicago when you forget to eat. Idiota .” She turned me around and swatted me on the butt. “Go. I’ll get the chicken started and then I’ll be up.”

It would be pointless to argue, and I didn’t really want to anyway. I left, feeling the little bits of give in the stairs as I climbed, listening to the creak of old wood as I walked into my room. Tavo’s room, but my room too. This was the closest place to a home I’d ever had, and I wasn’t quite ready to let it go. I knew I had to, though.

Feeling a little ridiculous, I grabbed one of Marisol’s many tiny bronze Buddhas off the windowsill and stuck it in the side pocket of my bag. It was a tiny reminder that I had somewhere to go if all this went to hell.

I had the feeling I’d need it.