Beyond the veil, p.1
Beyond the Veil, page 1
Beyond the Veil
By S.C. Wynne
Published by Blind Eye Books
315 Prospect Street #5393
Bellingham WA 98227
www.blindeyebooks.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Nicole Kimberling
Copyedit by Hilary Hensley
Cover Art by Dawn Kimberling
Book Design by Dawn Kimberling
Ebook design by Michael DeLuca
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.
First Edition February 2024 Copyright © 2024 SC Wynne
print ISBN: 978-1-956422-07-8
ebook ISBN: 978-1-956422-08-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023951816
Printed in the United States of America
“If we could unfold the future, the present would be our greatest care.”
Edward Counsel
Chapter One
“Use my body if you must, Agatha. Allow me to be your vessel.” I slumped in my chair, peeking from beneath my lashes at my new client Mrs. Beckom.
Mrs. Beckom was probably late sixties with silver hair, peppered with traces of its original chestnut color. Her slender wrist was adorned with a vintage gold watch with stars and moons etched into the soft metal, and she wore a matching necklace.
The late morning sun snuck through a crack in the thick brocade curtains over the window, backlighting the particles of dust that floated in the dark room. “I’m here for you, Agatha. I can feel you hovering. I beg of you, please let me be the bridge to your sister.”
Admittedly, I was laying it on a bit thick, but Mrs. Beckom seemed receptive enough. I got the feeling she was the type who enjoyed the theatre, so why not put on a show for her? Her brown eyes were wide with wonder, and it was obvious she was only too willing to believe anything I said.
However, the attractive blond guy next to her had a smirk on his full lips. He was a bit overdressed for a spiritual reading if you asked me. With his navy silk suit and red tie, he reeked of money just like his more open-minded companion. My guess was he worked as a financial advisor or some other stuffy profession. His long tanned fingers were adorned with chunky silver rings; one with a glittering green stone in particular caught my eye. The ring was nice, if a bit pretentious, but it was the guy’s mocking expression that annoyed me the most. The least he could do was pretend to be impressed. Dazzling clients was no easy task these days. Especially with all the reality TV shows busting fake psychics left and right for scamming people. The con artists really made it difficult for those of us who actually had psychic abilities to make an honest living.
“Is she really here, Great Lorenzo?” Mrs. Beckom asked. We sat at a round mahogany table with tarot cards staged strategically across the polished surface. A glowing crystal ball sat atop the table, smack in the center, and beside that a red candle flickered wildly inside a vintage wax skull. Mrs. Beckom’s chair creaked as she scanned the dimly lit room for airborne spirits. “She’s really truly in the room?”
“Yes,” I hissed, my breath almost causing the candle to snuff. Oops. “She’s with us now.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Beckom clutched her vintage necklace and sniffed the air. “I smell jasmine. That was Agatha’s favorite perfume.”
“You know Glade makes many charming floral scents,” her companion said. “Perhaps The Great Lorenzo sprayed some air freshener before we arrived.”
I frowned at him. “I did no such thing.”
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Oh, Ian, you’re so naughty.” Mrs. Beckom sighed.
“Yeah, Ian, behave,” I muttered.
“Doing my best.” Ian twisted his lips.
I cleared my throat and once more tried to center myself. I forced my pulse to slow and blew out a cleansing breath. Spirits could be willful little things, and it was best if I was calm before they slipped inside. If I was agitated that could influence the spirit’s behavior. The calmer I was, the calmer they were—usually. “Agatha, we need your help to find your beloved cat, Princess. Please, talk to us. We’re here and listening.”
“Yes, by all means, Agatha, spill the tea,” Ian snorted.
“Shhh,” I snapped, losing patience with his mocking attitude. Ian obviously thought I was a fake, but I wasn’t. I actually was able to tap into the other side. Granted, I added plenty of embellishment for maximum client satisfaction, but the reality was I could indeed communicate with the dead.
“I can hardly breathe, I’m so excited,” Mrs. Beckom whispered.
“It won’t be long now,” I murmured, readying myself for the spirit’s impending invasion into my body. It was crunch time, and I needed complete focus.
Channeling spirits was a delicate balance, and Agatha’s spirit hovered right outside of my body. While I couldn’t see her, I could certainly feel her buzzing energy as it swirled around me. But she couldn’t just waltz into me like a convenience store. I needed to wholly relax and allow her in. Once invited in, Agatha could have a nice little chat with Mrs. Beckom, using my body as a medium to speak from her world. But there was only a small window of time in which the magic happened. Spirits were temperamental and easily insulted. If they didn’t get the attention they craved, they could throw little tantrums. If I waited too long, the summoned spirit would evaporate, and no connection could be made until another time. That would never do. I needed to get my money from Mrs. Beckom now, not later. My electric bill was past due, and it was impossible to run this business without electricity.
“This is so exhilarating,” Mrs. Beckom purred.
I ignored Ian’s derisive laugh and said breathlessly, “Agatha, we need your help. I invite you into my body.”
Ian gave a soft whistle. “Better be careful who you say that to, Great Lorenzo.”
I opened my eyes and gave him an irritable glare. “You really do need to be quiet. It’s impossible to concentrate with your naysaying monologue.”
He made a zipping motion near his lips.
“Are you there, sis?” Mrs. Beckom whispered, unperturbed by Ian’s skepticism. “I can’t see you.”
“Tell her again why we’ve summoned her.” I took Mrs. Beckom’s hand in mine. “It’s more personal coming from you. She’ll be more inclined to help.”
“Oh. Certainly.” Mrs. Beckom’s fingers were chilled, and her breathing was coming in fast spurts. She cleared her throat. “So sorry to bother you, Agatha, but could you possibly tell me where Princess is? It seems she’s gotten herself lost.”
I nodded. “That’s right, just talk to her as you would have in life.”
Yet another dry snort came from Ian’s direction. Irritation prickled me as I studied him from under my brows. He definitely wasn’t the usual type that accompanied the lonely women who visited my little yellow house on Magnolia Lane. Was he Mrs. Beckom’s lover or her son? She was definitely older than him, and I couldn’t quite get a read on their relationship. They weren’t touchy-feely, but there was a muted affection between them.
“Did you hear your sister, Agatha?” I asked softly. “She’d desperately like to know where your beloved cat might be.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to just contact Princess directly, instead of going through Aunt Agatha?” Ian’s husky voice was sardonic. “You know, cut out the middle man?”
I pinned him with my surly gaze. “You’re hilarious.”
Ian shrugged. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m asking a serious question.”
“Ian.” Mrs. Beckom rolled her eyes. “Cats don’t talk, silly.”
“But they do talk to you, don’t they, Great Lorenzo?” His curious gaze flicked over my face. “Cats. People. You converse with them all. It says so on the sign out front, so it must be true.”
“I don’t speak directly to the animals,” I said snippily.
“No? My bad.” As he spoke he distractedly twirled the ring on his finger.
I pressed my lips tight, wishing he’d just go outside and make a phone call or something and let me do my thing. Did this jerk actually think I enjoyed using my psychic gifts trying to track down stray animals? I didn’t. Not even a little. But times were tough, and it wasn’t easy to make a living during the winter in this touristy seaside town of Fox Harbor. As slow as it had been lately, I was lucky if a dog or a cat went missing. Judging by Ian’s expensive suit and shiny gold watch and rings, money wasn’t a concern for him.
Bully for you, Ian, some of us weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouth.
While Ian clearly considered me a fraud, the truth was I was more of an opportunist than a phony. The most I was guilty of was stretching out some sessions. If I was particularly hard up for money, I’d occasionally milk three sessions out of someone when I could have finished the job in one. I made a few more bucks doing things that way, so where was the harm really? My prices were reasonable. Nobody was going to go broke paying for a few extra sessions with me. My clients always got the performance they paid for, and I got to eat.
There were far worse predators out there than me. Some were even in Fox Harbor, in fact.
For example, my nemesis Weston Bartholomew was one of those charlatans. Weston didn’t have a scrap of authentic psychic ability in him, but all the same he’d opened a shop across town. Weston gav
Spoiler alert: they never got them back.
I wasn’t like that. I didn’t steal people’s property or keep them talking to dead relatives for the next decade. I gave people comfort. Closure. I talked to the spirits of the dead, and people paid me a fee to be the bridge between the world of the living and those who had passed on. In my opinion, I was no better or worse than a telephone operator.
“Look,” I snapped. “I need to move things along. Agatha will leave if you keep interrupting me.”
“Will she?” He arched one brow.
“Yes.” I met Ian’s smug, honey-brown eyes, doing my best not to show how much I disliked him. “You’re welcome to not believe. I don’t care either way. Mrs. Beckom believes, and that’s enough for me. But you must stop talking.”
He leaned back in the chair, his gaze assessing. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” I grumbled.
Ian gave a slow smile. “Please proceed. Don’t let me interrupt the show.”
“It’s not a show,” I said through gritted teeth, “It’s a reading.”
“Potato. Potahto.”
Mrs. Beckom scowled. “Ian, if you’re going to be such a party pooper, why did you insist on coming along?”
He lifted one smooth brow. “Because, dearest, I don’t want you to lose your shirt trying to find a dead cat.”
She hissed in a breath. “Don’t say that. You know there’s a chance Princess is still alive.” She gripped my fingers tighter. “Isn’t there, Great Lorenzo?”
“Most definitely.” I cleared my throat. “And please, just call me Lorenzo.” I didn’t usually care what people called me, but something about the way Ian’s mouth twitched every time she added the “Great” to my name made me uncomfortable.
She nodded. “Of course.” She gave Ian a chiding look. “Please ignore him, Lorenzo, and continue.”
Pulling my gaze from Ian’s, I closed my eyes and concentrated on establishing a connection with Agatha. The sooner I found the damn cat, the sooner I could collect payment and send them on their way. I found Ian and his suspicious glances tiring. I didn’t have to prove myself to him. Maybe I’d have to cut Mrs. Beckom loose. If he was a permanent fixture in her life, I certainly didn’t want to put up with Ian if she came back again and again.
“Once more, Agatha, I’m here should you choose to use me.” My head prickled as brightly colored visions flashed at me like a flickering movie screen. My limbs tingled and burned, heat shifting through my chest. I felt the spirit creep slowly into me like chilly fingers winding around my rib cage.
“Talk to me, Agatha,” Mrs. Beckom whispered. “I’m listening.”
I opened my eyes, throat muscles squeezing as the spirit oozed into my body. My vision blurred, and the sensation of Agatha’s spirit slipping into my core was uncomfortable. I felt flushed and overheated, and the center of my chest ached as the spirit made herself at home. I was no longer able to speak freely now that Agatha was in charge of my body. I shuddered as Agatha’s throbbing presence compelled me to ask, “Is that you, Sylvia?”
Leaning forward eagerly, Mrs. Beckom nodded. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”
I studied Mrs. Beckom, feeling disconnected from her. I had a sense that Agatha hadn’t been fond of her sister. There was a lot of sudden resentment simmering inside of me. It seemed in life Agatha had been jealous of her younger sister, and she felt their parents had spoiled her rotten.
“It has been a while,” I heard myself murmur.
“Yes.” Mrs. Beckom grimaced. “How are things on . . . the other . . . side?
It seemed Agatha wasn’t in the mood for small talk because a swirl of irritation shifted through me as Agatha snapped, “Never mind that. I have a question for you, dear sister.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Beckom swallowed loudly.
“Why are you squandering Daddy’s fortune?” My voice sounded low and gravelly. I wondered if Aunt Agatha had perhaps been a smoker.
“But I’m not.” Mrs. Beckom wrinkled her brow. “Why would you say that?”
“What about the sailing yacht?” Agatha asked, her tone accusing.
With a gasp, Mrs. Beckom straightened. “Agatha knows about the yacht.” She turned to Ian. “How would she know about the boat when I bought it after she passed?”
“Well . . . it’s not exactly a huge leap that a wealthy person who lives near the sea might have a yacht.” Ian’s voice was dry, and his eyes never left mine. “Could be a lucky guess.”
Unable to address him directly, I continued to channel Aunt Agatha. “Of all the things to buy.”
Mrs. Beckom grimaced. “I’ve always loved the sea. Why shouldn’t I buy a boat?”
“So frivolous. But then you always were the impractical one, Sylvia.” Agatha spoke slowly and sluggishly. Her energy seemed to ebb and flow through me, washing in and out like the tide.
“Me? Frivolous?” squeaked Mrs. Beckom. “I’m nothing of the kind.”
“You’re far too old for a yacht,” Agatha grumbled. “And since when do you date younger men? Ian is young enough to be your son. You should be ashamed of yourself, robbing the cradle like that.”
“But . . . we’re not . . . that—” Clamping her mouth tight, Mrs. Beckom seemed to gather herself. “Agatha, that isn’t why I’m here. I’m not dating Ian, for goodness’ sake. You’re getting me all flustered. None of that has anything to do with what I need to ask you.”
“What is it that you want from me?” Agatha asked.
“As I said earlier, Princess is missing. That’s what I want your help with.” Mrs. Beckom shifted nervously.
“Ahhh, yes. Princess has been missing for days,” Agatha said. Her voice was almost slurred now. The spirit’s energy was strange and shifting. It worried me she’d leave before we got our answers.
“You knew?” Mrs. Beckom looked startled.
“Of course.”
Hanging her head, Mrs. Beckom sighed. “I’ve searched everywhere.” She looked up, lines of worry around her eyes. “Is . . . is she with you?”
“No.”
Mrs. Beckom looked relieved. “Can you help me find her?”
“Yesssss.”
Ian gave a gruff laugh but didn’t speak.
“Princess is quite terrified.” Agatha leaned toward her sister, and I resisted the movement. I wasn’t sure of Agatha’s intentions and didn’t want to play any part in her physically harming her sister by using my hands.
Mrs. Beckom let go of my hand, looking hopeful. “But she’s alive?”
“She izzzzz.” Again Agatha’s energy dropped. My vision blurred, and my body ached. Agatha’s energy was unstable. Unpredictable. She made me uneasy because one minute she throbbed through me like lightening, and the next she faded and swirled as if disinterested.
Ian pushed his tongue into his cheek. “I’ll believe it when I see Princess in the flesh.”
Mrs. Beckom chewed her lip. “Where is she, Agatha? I’m losing my mind with worry.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have lost her in the first place,” Agatha responded.
“Don’t be that way, Agatha. We all make mistakes. Please, tell me where she is.”
My head dropped to my chest as the spirit seemed to fade. But then she was back, stronger than before. “The tool shed behind the house.”
“What? The tool shed?”
I felt my head nodding. “Yesssss.”
Covering her mouth, Mrs. Beckom cheeks paled. “The poor little dear must be terrified.”
Drumming his fingers on the table, Ian said, “I’ll bet.”
“Thank you so much, Agatha. I’d never have thought to look there.” Mrs. Beckom sounded breathless.
I expected Agatha to withdraw from me as spirits usually did once they’d spoken to their loved ones. But instead, her energy surged again, and I winced at the swell of angry emotions that rolled through me. “Perhaps I should return home and keep watch over things, dear sister.”
Mrs. Beckom’s eyes widened. “Oh, well . . . but you’re . . . dead.”
Agatha’s wrath boiled inside of me, and before I could stop her, Agatha slammed my palm on the table top. “You lost my favorite cat, dear sister. I can’t allow that sort of thing.” Witnessing the anxiety on Mrs. Beckom’s face, I struggled to control the spirit inside of me. But Agatha resisted my efforts, clinging to me like a piece of food stuck between my teeth. I once more pushed against her spirit, trying to expel her from my body, but she clawed at me and slithered deeper inside my chest.
