Page 60 of Divine Temptations

I snorted.

More people arrived—some familiar, some new. Everyone hugged, exchanged kisses on the cheek, complimented each other’s crystal jewelry, and shared things like raw cacao, jars of flower water, or pieces of driftwood that had “called” to them. One woman handed me a rock shaped suspiciously like a penis and said it was from the river and “vibrated with masculine energy.” I thanked her sincerely and placed it beside the altar stone.

And as I stood in the middle of it all—the light of the sunset curling like smoke through the trees, Zephyr spinning barefoot in the grass, a man named Windwalker lighting a cone of incense he’d made from pine sap and ancient “dragon resin” (probably from a head shop in Charlottesville)—I suddenly saw it all through his eyes.

Julian.

God, he must think we’re a bunch of barefoot cult rejects.

To be fair, most of us were barefoot.

But we weren’t a cult.

And I wasn’t a fraud.

I didn’t make promises or sell salvation. I didn’t even accept donations. My parents had passed when I was twenty in a car accident. They left me a small inheritance, enough to buy the Healing Center and keep the lights on without dipping into capitalism’s cold, dead pool.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was peaceful. A small life, lived intentionally. One that made me feel… useful.

And okay, sometimes I was lonely.

Sometimes I dreamed of what it would be like to share this life with someone. To have someone to drink mead with. (Or someone who would suffer through it for me.)

But that someone was not Julian Reed, the hotshot podcast guy with a cynical brain and a face that made my insides docartwheels. That man was probably editing a snarky podcast episode about “hippie theatrics and snake oil bonfires.”

“Sun’s setting,” Zephyr said, her voice a gentle breeze against my thoughts. “Time to begin.”

I opened my mouth to say—wait, Julian is coming—but I caught myself just in time.

He wasn’t coming.

Why would he?

He was here to expose me. Not join me.

I forced a smile and nodded.

Zephyr clapped her hands together once, the sound sharp in the still evening. “Brothers, sisters, and beings of the beyond,” she called out, “I welcome you to tonight’s healing circle. May your hearts be open, your minds clear, and your bowels... regular.”

Everyone chuckled and started forming a circle around the fire pit. A few pulled out blankets, some lit candles or placed crystals in front of them like offering stones.

Windwalker stepped into the center wearing a tunic that looked like it had once been a curtain in a very sexy yurt. He raised both arms dramatically, the sleeves fluttering like wings.

“Tonight,” he intoned, “we gather not to fix what is broken, but to uncover what has always been whole. The moon is in Libra. The sun is in Cancer. Uranus is, of course, in retrograde.”

Zephyr gasped theatrically, which got a good laugh from the crowd.

“And we,” he went on, “are here to let go of what no longer serves us. To breathe. To release. Even howl if the spirit moves you. Which it should.”

Someone had already started playing a hang drum. The fire crackled high. The scent of cedar and lavender filled the clearing.

I smiled. This was the work. This was the good part.

And yet… I kept glancing toward the tree line, where the gravel path disappeared into the woods.

Looking for a tall silhouette.

A familiar head tilt. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like storm clouds.