Dread. Abject, unmistakable. Something wasn’t right.
“Don’t be frightened of what’s in your mind and heart,” the woman in white said. Her face was stoic. “You’re here because you need to be here. Because you want to be here.”
The woman walked up to Evelyn and extended her hand. “I’m Linda Villanueva. Have a seat. Welcome to my agency.”
CHAPTER TWO
JEREMIAH
Something vibrated against his thigh, in his pocket. He took out his cell as he struggled to wake up. The screen contained a flurry of messages.
Hey sexy, everything cool? I’m here at the restaurant… just wanted to make sure you’re OK…
Brother Jerry, sorry to text instead of emailing, but didn’t see you for performance review. Let’s meet tomorrow morning. 9 cool?
Jerry. His name was Jerry. Right… right. He knew that, though something as simple as his name felt covered by murky fog. He’d apparently missed a job review. His own… or was he the one in charge? And the person waiting for him at a restaurant, a Douglas Atkins.
He texted each person back. He apologized, said he wasn’t feeling well, that he would make it up to them. Jerry blinked and almost jumped from his skin once he realized he was surrounded by thick bushes. He lookedup to see a league of intertwined branches. He was reclining against an oak tree. A large apartment building loomed over him from where he sat. A burning sensation enveloped his face. He rubbed his forehead and peered down at his fingers, now covered in blood.
His skin was scratched. The left leg of his khakis torn at the knee and soiled by dirt. A cream shirt clung to his chest, sopping wet. Sweat streamed down his nose and onto his lips. The salty taste unwelcomed. Too damn hot. The thin chain around his neck felt like it had been seared into his flesh.
Had he blacked out? Why was he in the bushes, outside?
Jerry tried to recall where he’d been earlier in the day, or really the past few days. Images floated in his mind. A huge open space with wooden walls and wooden benches and stained-glass windows. Deep teal carpeting that was worn out and faded. A hand on his cheek.
He returned to one of the messages. Jerry… yes. “My name is… I’m Jerry,” he mumbled, though that felt like an incomplete truth. “Right.” He scrambled across the ground, tried to move forward with a shred of dignity as he stepped through scraggly brush onto the sidewalk. His left knee throbbed. People walked by oblivious to his presence, some on their phones. He particularly paid attention to the men. A tall dark-skinned jogger in a knitted navy kufi, tank top, and spandex shorts zoomed by. Jerry became aroused. A couple of other men were clad in polos and khakis, like him. Some wore sweaters or jackets, as if it was chilly. But he was burning up.
He ran his fingers through his faded haircut and plucked out a few leaves before he limped over to the crosswalk. He spotted a sign for the Metro station across the street, Woodley Park, and within seconds stepped onto the long escalator that would take him underground. He managed to recall that he would need to pay to get on the train. Jerry felt for his wallet in his back pocket, relieved he didn’t have to turn aroundand search the bushes. He scanned his driver’s license, his full name… Jeremiah Samuelson… and stared at his address.
Jeremiah paid with a plastic SmarTrip card by instinct as he reached the gates that would take him to the main waiting area. He felt swallowed by the huge vaulted tunnel, its waffled grooves evoking something far away and futuristic, beyond his reach. A silver train approached, orb lights on the platform floor flashing seconds before its arrival. Another image appeared in his head. Him sitting on a stage, in a plush chair with bronze armrests. A sea of faces before him. A young man on an organ surrounded by people in lavender robes. They clapped and swayed, their hands and heads raised as they sang. Their voices gorgeous, glorious.
Yes.
“I’m… I’m a preacher… a pastor,” he shouted. “I’m a pastor, and my name is Jeremiah Samuelson!” He smiled and laughed and ignored the pain in his knee, ignored the folks standing a few feet away giving him side-eye.
Jerry whispered his name and profession for several stops, but his elation ended once he realized he couldn’t remember where to get off, wasn’t sure if the train would take him close to home or if he had to switch to another line. This became the least of his worries when he looked into the car window and gasped at the image staring back at him on smudged glass.
Jerry’s eyes were bright, burning things, a pair of fiery orbs straight from the depths of hell. For a moment, his whole world turned crimson.
Lord… my Lord…
He shut his eyes tight and lowered his head. He tried to remember a prayer, something that should be easy to recall for a pastor. He couldn’t.
Okay… right. He was seeing things. If he was having memory problems, then it made sense that he was hallucinating. Of course. He slowly, timidly opened his eyes and stared at his reflection again. The red suns were gone.
“My name is Jeremiah… I’m Jerry… Jerry, a man of God,” he whispered, grateful, though he felt like he no longer had the strength to figure out how to get home. He reached for his chain, for the small gold crucifix at its center.
A soothing voice floated in his head, a voice that reassured him that everything would be fine. That this was just a passing moment. But Jeremiah Samuelson had more than enough sense to know that was far from the truth.
CHAPTER THREE
LINDA
Mrs. Bartlett, our time needs to end,” Linda said.
She sat straight and rigid across from her client in a corner booth at Smithie’s, the eatery that had opened its one and only location in the district thirty-five years ago at the corner of Q and Eighteenth Streets in Dupont. The flag of the Montenegro embassy across the street flapped in the wind, the red-and-gold fabric one of the only things Linda could see outside via the windows dotting the venue’s interior. She glanced at the small sectioned-off bundle of straw hanging a couple of feet above the booth, each of its four arms tied by string. St. Brigid’s cross, an old-school Irish ward meant to keep evil spirits away. Several had been placed throughout Smithie’s just days after the ghost invasion that had destroyed parts of New York. Linda didn’t have the heart to tell the manager that she suspected the wards wouldn’t offer much protection from a real spectral attack. Besides, that would be revealing too much about who she was.
She ignored the discomfort that arched up her back from the seat’s lumpiness and tugged at the cuffs of her long-sleeved tee, a muted violet. Adjusting her clothing was a tell, a move Linda indulged in when she needed to center herself. She’d begrudgingly learned to accept littlequirks. Sometimes there were too many other things to manage, like keeping her cool with a pain-in-the-ass client or maintaining focus when the consciousness of a new Broken Heart was swirling in her psyche. She was still reeling from her encounter with Evelyn days ago. Faint whispers swam in her head, fragments of the young woman’s history. The usual side effect of when she touched someone’s soul for the first time. Evelyn Kendricks, Broken Heart #95.
