“Personally, I’d love to know what the future holds for me.” Chiara shifted her gaze to Tennyson. “Could you focus on that?”
“You sure? You may not like what I see.”
“I’ll put on my big girl pants and deal.”
“But will you stop going through other people’s stuff?” Tennyson asked. “That’s the real question.”
Branwell snorted.
I stifled a smile.
Chiara glared.
Grinning, Tennyson relaxed. Tilting his head against the back of the couch, he stared at the ceiling. Eyes unblinking. I watched his chest, his breathing slowing down. He was clearly putting himself into some sort of trance.
Fascinating.
“What is your question?” Tennyson’s voice was hollow. As if speaking from a great distance.
Chiara darted a wide-eyed look at me, her expression clearly saying,Are you seeing how weirdly awesome this is?!
“What will happen with my life in the next couple months?” she asked.
Tennyson’s breathing went deeper, eyes still unfocused looking up to the ceiling.
I turned my gaze to the scar in the corner. So far, it remained inert. Not reacting to the events in the room.
“Chiara, I see you,” Tennyson intoned. “You are running through a house. Villa Maledetti. You are frantic. I feel your pain and anguish. You run out the back door and across the terrace to the ruined tower. Lightning flashes. A storm approaches.”
Chiara’s breathing hitched, panic flooding her eyes. She laughed, a fake, forced sound. “I think that’s good, Tennyson. I don’t need to know more—”
“Shhh!” Branwell shot daggers at her.
“So afraid,” Tennyson whispered. “So much pain. You collapse onto your knees, weeping. The rain comes, soaking you to the skin. The storm rages around you, but you don’t care. The lightning tries to wake you, but you ignore its call.”
Chiara’s astonishment morphed to outright horror. Clearly, Tennyson’s odd words meant something to her. That lost, vulnerable girl appeared again, masking her usual, vibrant ball of energy.
The scar reacted to Tennyson’s vision, fluttering, pulsing slightly.
Tennyson’s shoulders slumped, eyes closing, breaking his trance. He sat forward, rubbing his eyes.
Silence hung.
Branwell let out a long breath. “That was . . . uh . . . unexpected, Tenn. You’ve been holding out on us.”
Tennyson shrugged. “It’s a trick I learned in Afghanistan. If I was going to predict roadside bombings, I had to be able to produce a vision. We found if I cleared my mind and someone asked me a question, I could usually give a semi-coherent warning.”
He swallowed, shadows haunting his gaze. “Jack seems to be doing alright. The scar?” he asked.
I glanced at it, still hovering in the corner. “It reacted the same as it did to Branwell’s GUT.”
Branwell folded his arms, scratching his beard. “So it’s not our GUTs alone that cause it to spew ghost-trapping oily sludge. Nor is it your presence, Jack. There has to be something we’re missing. Something that causes the rupture.”
“Clearly, you are a factor, Jack.” Tennyson laced his hands behind his head. “But are you simply the observer of the phenomenon or are you a critical component of it?”
“Meaning am I the ax felling the tree, or am I merely a wanderer in the woods? That’s a good question.”
We bounced some ideas back and forth, but nothing concrete came out of it.
