Cult crystal, p.1
Cult Crystal, page 1
Cult Crystal
Remi Bradley
Cover art by Stephanie Hofmann
ISBN: 9798859361991
Copyright © 2023 by Remi Bradley
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For all those who have turned to crystals
during dark times.
Chapter 1
Sophie deleted the black designer stilettos from her shopping cart. She could think of better ways to spend $895. Two pairs of Christian Louboutins were already sitting in her closet in pristine condition, nestled safely in their boxes without so much as a mote of dust blemishing their trademark red soles.
A pair of blush pink high heels with a single strap of gorgeous, glossy white pearls were stowed in a box next to them. She’d actually worn those on New Year’s Eve. They had nicely complemented the hot pink yoga pants and sweatshirt from her alma mater she’d been wearing while curled up on the couch alone. Her dark brown hair had been swept into a messy bun and tears had run down her pale cheeks as she drank directly from a bottle of champagne. There had been no need for a glass that night.
Sophie also owned exactly one pair of purple foam clogs, which were currently strapped to her feet in sport mode. Those she wore every day, along with a black T-shirt and black yoga pants, to tread the well-worn path from her bedroom to the kitchen and back again, like some sad athleisure wraith.
She had believed her life would get easier when the money finally hit her bank account eight months ago, the threat of foreclosure and car repossession dispelled with one hefty deposit. Payment from the almighty universe for her pain and suffering on account of the incident. To think the police had thought she’d been involved in the whole mess.
They always suspected the spouse first.
On a blustery afternoon, as autumn bled into winter, the doorbell camera belonging to the neighbors across the street had recorded the beginning of Jamie’s untimely end. The footage showed Jamie backing out of the driveway with his most valued belongings packed into his car. Some three hours later, the same camera had caught Sophie arriving home from work and a courier intercepting her in the driveway, thrusting a thick envelope into her hands, which she promptly tore open. Then the camera had recorded Sophie crumpling to the pavement, her body racked with fits of violent sobs as the divorce papers fluttered in the wind. She’d never suspected Jamie had wanted to leave her.
Later that evening, parking lot surveillance had captured Jamie’s last moments on Earth. He exited the grocery store across town, a large bouquet of flowers in hand. From the shadows, a person had emerged dressed from head to toe in dark clothing. In the ensuing scuffle, the assailant had stabbed Jamie in the gut and stolen his wallet, leaving Sophie’s soon-to-be ex-husband bleeding out on the cold asphalt, mere feet from the safety of his car.
As Jamie lay dying, the neighbor’s doorbell camera had recorded the fuzzy image of Sophie staggering in front of the picture window in their living room, wildly gulping straight from a bottle of rosé. A truly unflattering image, yet it’s what had saved her from being charged with murder. God bless doorbell cams.
In the end, the investigators could tell from the grainy shopping center surveillance video that the person who had murdered Jamie was far too tall and skinny to be Sophie. “There’s no disguising an ass as fat as yours,” the detective had boldly stated in the interview room in the days after the murder. But that didn’t mean they were convinced she’d had nothing to do with it. For weeks, the detectives combed through her phone, computers, and phone records, convinced Jamie’s death was a murder-for-hire scheme, so embittered Sophie could collect on his life insurance.
Sophie exhaled deeply, her body folding in on itself like a deflating balloon. She hated thinking about that night. Closing the browser window for the shoe store, she navigated to a reputable news site, skimming the headlines, reading about the tragedies that had befallen others. It was a sick practice, but one that made her feel less alone in a world that randomly doled out victory and defeat to people just trying to live their lives. Was it fate? Was it luck? Or were those who enjoyed success, while avoiding tragedy, better at making life choices?
There was a time when Sophie believed she’d made all the right choices. Studied hard instead of partying, graduated at the top of her class with a business degree, married a nice man, with a nice face, who had a nice job.
Sophie scoffed and rubbed her eyes. All of it had amounted to misery.
She leaned forward and inspected the crystals lined up under her computer screen. She traced a finger over the sodalite pyramid, dark blue like Crater Lake in Oregon, the first place she’d visited in her bid to escape Connecticut after Jamie’s death. To find a place where no one knew her and what she’d been accused of. Her hand moved to the amethyst geode, pale purple like the tulip fields of the Netherlands, where she’d spent two weeks pleasantly ensconced in a cloud of weed smoke. She rested her finger on the tip of the labradorite obelisk, oily black and streaked with blue and turquoise, like the aurora borealis streaking across the night sky of Iceland, which she’d witnessed on four separate nights when she’d rented a car and drove around the country for three weeks, hoping to escape her pain in the brutal landscapes.
Last, Sophie’s fingers came to rest on the heart-shaped rose quartz crystal, a reminder of what she’d lost and what she hoped to someday regain. Love. She picked it up and brought it to her chest, willing its healing properties to work their magic on her shattered heart. If only it were that simple.
Sophie didn’t need another pair of expensive, albeit gorgeous, shoes. What Sophie needed was a reason to wear the expensive shoes she already had. What she needed, and what she truly wanted more than anything else in life, was to be a part of the outside world again. And not in some foreign country as a stranger, but here in Connecticut, among people she’d once called friends and neighbors.
Sophie brought the pale pink crystal to her lips and kissed its cool surface. It was time to move on. She returned the pink quartz to its resting place on her desk and opened a new tab in her browser.
It was June, now. Her name hadn’t been in the newspaper for thirteen months. A lifetime ago in social media time, right? Slowly, she typed the web address for FaceSpace.
Chapter 2
Jessa’s freckled brow crumpled. Her mouth moved but no words came out, like the connection between her brain and her voice box had come untethered. Dahlia’s long blonde hair stirred in the damp breeze stealing through the open greenhouse windows. Jessa couldn’t lose Dahlia, not now. They’d made their last two ascents together. No one liked to be left behind. Still, if she tried to hold her back, it would only highlight the energy work Jessa still needed to do to ascend to the clear quartz level—what every protégé at the Light of the Crystal Collective dreamed of accomplishing.
Cautiously, Jessa lifted Dahlia’s hand from the damp soil hiding the freshly planted parsnips. Clumps of dirt fell from her fingertips. “I … I would support you,” Jessa said slowly, as if the words were coated in honey and sticking in her throat and mouth. “All protégés should seek the highest level of connectivity to the universe. Trying to hold you back would be contrary to all the Collective stands for.”
Dahlia closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want to hear Frère Samu’s words right now, Jessa, I want to hear yours.”
“Truly, Dahlia, I understand if you don’t want to wait for me. You’ve devoted your life to the Collective,” said Jessa. The best lies were always mixed with truth.
After all, it had been Dahlia who had recruited Jessa into the Light of the Crystal Collective, not the other way around. But Jessa still wanted Dahlia to wait.
Dahlia’s pale green eyes grew wide and joyful. “I knew you’d understand and support my ascension.” She squeezed Jessa’s hand. “I can’t wait to fully resonate with the universe.”
Jessa’s face went slack, along with her heart. Deep down, she had hoped Dahlia would wait for her. This would have kept them whole.
“Are you … going to break up with me?” Jessa whispered in a shaky voice.
“No! Absolutely not!” Dahlia replied quickly, pulling her hand free from Jessa’s grasp and then gathering her into a tight hug.
“Thank the universe!” Jessa said on a heavy exhale. She rested her head on Dahlia’s shoulder and inhaled her scent, lavender laced with damp earth. She smelled like peace. She smelled like home.
But their home would soon be broken. Once Dahlia ascended, her sparse belongings would be moved to the clear quartz château, an old farmhouse at the edge of the property, remodeled to resemble a stately Victorian mansion.
Dahlia had cleared her blockages, aligned her chakras, and balanced her positive and negative energies six months ago. Yet, she had chosen not to ascend during the winter solstice or the spring equinox out of love and loyalty, and the hope that Jessa could clear her stubbornly blocked throat chakra so they could ascend together. Dahlia remaining at the rose quartz level meant that they could wake up every morning in the same cabin with their twin beds positioned only a few inches apart, as closely as the Collective’s tenets allowed. It was almost like waking up next to each other in the same bed.
As far as their cabin mates and the rest of the Collective were concerned, they were best friends and nothing more.
Romantic relationships in the Light of the Crystal Collective were complicated. According to F
Jessa wiggled out of Dahlia’s embrace and clutched the hem of her pale pink tunic, which marked her as a rose quartz protégé. Her knuckles glowed white like plump grubs. Jessa grimaced and looked away. She suddenly hated the color white. The color tunic Dahlia would soon be wearing after the summer solstice.
The door of the greenhouse banged open, startling Jessa. Dahlia pressed her lips together, bleeding out the color. Neither woman wanted to discuss the nature of their relationship in front of another protégé.
Jessa didn’t need to turn around to know who was there. It was one of the kitchen prep cooks, a smoky quartz protégé clad in somber gray who had come to collect the daily harvest of vegetables from the greenhouses.
“Three bins tonight, but we’ll have more tomorrow,” Jessa called over her shoulder, doing her best not to bristle at the untimely intrusion. Jessa knew the protégé’s name but refused to use it, worried it might invite conversation. Her negative and positive energies were already out of balance today.
The woman wheeled in the hand truck, crashing into the leg of a raised planting bed before quickly reversing and then slamming it into the stack of packed crates, setting Jessa’s teeth on edge. Normally, Jessa was open to offering low-level protégés advice and spiritual guidance, but there was something about this particular one that irked her. Jessa wasn’t quite sure, but it could be the way the she batted her eyes at Dahlia, or let her gaze linger a little too long on Dahlia’s derrière. Whatever the true reason, the protégé’s retreating form was always a welcome sight.
Jessa sighed and picked up the pruning shears, running a finger along the edge to inspect its sharpness. She knew if she looked at Dahlia she would cry. “I’ll work harder to clear my blocked throat chakra,” Jessa whispered. She fought to find the words, to find the truth within her heart, to tell Dahlia how she really felt without letting her negative energy tarnish the conversation. After a moment, she spoke again. This time, she met Dahlia’s gaze. Jessa didn’t care anymore if she cried. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Dahlia choked back a sob. “I don’t want to lose you, either! We won’t be separated for long. The universe wouldn’t allow it. Our energetic paths are so deeply entwined. We are each other’s destiny.”
Tears streaked down Jessa’s face. She set down the pruning shears and ran her fingers through Dahlia’s long, wavy blonde hair. Each strand was as soft as a fine satin ribbon.
A sharp rapping sounded overhead, a beak against glass. Jessa narrowed her eyes. She’d deal with the menace later.
Dahlia drew in a sharp breath, her brow crumbling into peaks and valleys. “I probably won’t be on greenhouse duty after I ascend.”
This news hit Jessa like a punch to the stomach, even though she had suspected this would be the case. Clear quartz protégés were assigned other duties at the Light of the Crystal Collective. Most often these duties involved trailing behind Frère Samu while he strolled the Collective’s vast compound.
The sharp rapping came again. Jessa glared at the greenhouse roof, at the dark winged crow perched high overhead. It could peck at the glass all it wanted; she wouldn’t let it in. The menace had snuck in last week through an open window and devastated her tomatoes.
Negative energy be damned. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then spoke. “I won’t have time alone with you, will I?”
Dahlia bit her lip and patted the soil in the planter.
Her silence pained Jessa more than words ever could. “Could you please try to stay on greenhouse duty? Even if it’s one or two days a week? I’ll need all the help I can get with the summer harvest. And you know the clear quartz protégés don’t mix with the other levels. I won’t even be able to eat meals with you in the community hall,” said Jessa, desperation clinging to every word.
It was true that clear quartz protégés didn’t socialize with the lower levels—not the rose quartz, nor the amethyst, the smoky quartz, and definitely not the obsidian. The clear quartz protégés lived a comfortable life in the clear quartz château, which boasted actual amenities like reliable heat, hot water, and central air. There were only two clear quartz protégés assigned to each bedroom, instead of the barrack-style sleeping arrangements found in the co-ed cabins, where ten to fifteen lower-level protégés were packed into a twenty-by-thirty space that experienced the full breadth of the Connecticut climate—from sweltering hot summers to freezing cold winters. Not to mention the bathrooms in the cabins were barely insulated, if there was a bathroom at all. Obsidian protégés shared a communal bathhouse.
Finally, Dahlia spoke. “I will try, Jessa. I can’t guarantee Frère Samu will make an exception and say yes.”
“Thank you. And I promise to devote all my energy work to unblocking my throat chakra … for us.”
There were days when the blocked throat chakra made Jessa feel like she was choking on a piece of rotten fruit, like the peaches in the orchard that had contracted split pit last summer. From the outside, the peaches had appeared ripe and juicy. Only the act of biting into the fruit revealed the putrid truth, the mold silently rotting the inner flesh surrounding the pit.
Dahlia reached out and gently touched Jessa’s lips. “The summer solstice is still two weeks away. Let’s not ruin today with worrying.”
A bell chimed six times to mark the hour and summon all the protégés to dinner. In the distance, Frère Samu and his partner Sœur Camille glided across the grass, white tunics billowing around them. His blonde hair and her dark cluster of tight curls glinted in the light of the late afternoon sun. The other clear quartz protégés, women, men, and nonbinary, followed closely behind them. Jessa’s chest swelled with pride as she witnessed their procession to the great hall. Two ethereal beings, gifted to Earth by the glorious universe. How honored she was to know them and to be under their tutelage.
Dahlia nudged Jessa. “We should get going. I don’t want to eat the dregs of the tofurkey bin.”
Jessa stuck out her tongue in disgust as she envisioned the soggy imitation meat. Dahlia laughed and kissed Jessa’s cheek. While it was nothing more than a quick brush of the lips, warmth spread through Jessa’s body. With any luck they would be able to slip away from the nightly social hour for a moment of bliss.
Jessa grabbed Dahlia’s hand and led her to the door, throwing one last glance at the crow perched on the roof’s metal ridge. Its dark plumed body was an inky smudge against the clear blue sky. The crow, perhaps sensing her attention, pecked a staccato beat against the thin glass pane in time with her retreating steps. She ignored it. The crow would get no meal from her greenhouses today.
Chapter 3
Emily thrummed her fingers on the computer mouse. She was so close. She’d earned the top sales agent slot at RockStar Inc. for May; nevertheless, Kitty hadn’t granted her access to the inner sanctum. Emily appeared to be stuck, with the pinnacle of success just beyond her reach.
Every month, RockStar Inc.’s top sales agents received an invitation to the monthly dinner at Kitty and Brett’s house. Not-so-humble-brags of salmon and shrimp and fine crystal flutes overflowing with champagne pinged across the company’s Slack channel. Posts about marathon karaoke sessions and jaunts on Brett’s twenty-foot boat in Long Island Sound circulated on social media, with hashtags of #bossbabe #crystalpower #RockStarInc and #topsalesagent sprinkled under every post. What would it take for Emily to get to settle her curvy derrière into one of the plush leather chairs at Kitty’s dinner table? Obviously, it was more than killer sales!
Emily exhaled, narrowing her eyes at the date in the corner of her computer screen, June 7th. She had three and a half weeks to figure things out if she wanted an invite to Kitty and Brett’s house in July. Emily opened May’s performance report, which listed each sales agent’s monthly sales and recruitment numbers. She quickly found her name in the list. Second place for the fiscal year in terms of sales. Seventh place for recruitment. In the past four months, Emily had lost five women from her downline, while only twelve had joined.
