“Moving on.” Branwell slapped his thighs. “So Chiara might be an oracle, and Dad is trying to use her as a medium to communicate something?”
“Not that we can prove that.” Dante cocked his head in my direction. “Can we?”
Actually . . .
“Chiara could try to deliberately act as an oracle,” I said.
That got her attention. She raised her head from Tennyson’s shoulder. “So seek it out, instead of simply allowing the insights to come to me?”
“Exactly.”
We all exchanged a look.
“How would I do that exactly?” Chiara finally asked.
Tennyson stood up, nodding his head. “When I was in Afghanistan, I often felt like an oracle when trying to predict the next attack.”
“Did it go down like last week?” Dante asked, referencing our testing of the rifts back in Florence.
“Yeah. I’ll be honest, when I use my GUT like that—going into a sort of trance and someone asking me a question—I don’t feel as fractured. It feels good.” Tennyson paused. “It feels right.”
Silence.
“That’s an answer, I suppose.” Chiara sat forward on the couch. “Obviously, whatever has been happening, it’s when my mind is detached in sleep. Perhaps I can recreate that state without actually falling asleep.”
“It’s worth a try. I can walk you through it, sis.” Tennyson turned back to her.
Chiara crossed her legs on the couch, leaning her head against a pillow and closing her eyes. “Is this good, do you think?”
“Yeah. You want to try to empty your mind, like you do during yoga.”
“Okay. Wait—” She opened one eye. “What about Jack?”
“What about me?”
Her look was all don’t-be-daft. “The ghost-grabbing gooey sludge, remember?”
Ah. True.
“Like I said earlier, the Chucky-slime has never come through when any of you have deliberately activated your GUTs,” I said. “I’m willing to risk it.”
Chiara frowned, as if she wanted to say something.
“I will be all right, Chiara.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Empty my mind. I can do this.”
Head tilted back, she closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed.
Just as Tennyson had the previous week, Chiara intoned, “What is it you seek? Ask me a question and I will answer.”
“I seek my father, Cesare D’Angelo.” Tennyson’s voice rang clear in the room. “I wish to speak with him.”
I kept half an eye on the scar in the corner, it flickered every now and again.
Suddenly, it fluttered open.
“Something’s happening,” I murmured.
