Page 63 of Divine Temptations

Snake oil. Groupthink. Theatrics with sensational lighting.

But even as I stood there mentally tearing it all apart, cataloguing the woo-woo madness for future ridicule, I couldn’t stop watching him.

Jude didn’t look like a con man. He looked peaceful. Magnetic. Grounded. He smiled at people as if he knew them. Like he actually saw them.

And when his eyes landed on me…

Everything tilted.

He didn’t look surprised to see me. Just… amused, and a little pleased. Like I’d shown up to a party he’d been half-sure I’d flake on.

I smirked, and then—God help me—I snorted.

I hadn’t meant to. But someone had just declared the moon was in Libra and Uranus was retrograde, and it hit me wrong. I covered it quickly with a cough, but a few people turned to glare at me like I’d farted on a vision board.

Jude didn’t glare. He just smiled. Real soft. Real slow. Like he was in on the joke and still believed in it, anyway.

And that messed me up more than I wanted to admit.

I was here to expose this man. To shine a light on whatever trickery he was pulling beneath the rose petals and ritual chants.

But standing there in the firelight, watching him move like the forest breathed through him… I didn’t see a fraud.

I saw someone I wanted to understand.

And that was a problem.

Because the last thing I needed was to fall under the spell I came to break.

Someone named Windwalker was mid-monologue about letting go of earthly attachments when a voice cut across the circle. Deep. Rough. Like someone had swallowed gravel and was still chewing.

“My name is Doug. It’s my first time here, and I need healing.”

The drumming slowed. The whispers died. Even Windwalker, who I was pretty sure had been working up to aspontaneous interpretive dance, froze with his arms half-raised like a confused bird.

Everyone turned.

The man who’d spoken was sitting cross-legged on a faded red blanket. Probably mid-fifties. Weathered face. Plaid shirt. The only person here who looked like he’d ever willingly stepped foot inside a Home Depot.

Doug looked up. Eyes red-rimmed but clear. Not high. Not drunk. Just… broken.

“My wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “died last fall. Breast cancer. It was fast. And brutal. She was the strong one, and I—I just watched her go.”

His voice caught. No one said a word.

“I came here because I don’t know how to move on,” he continued, eyes fixed on the fire. “I’m angry. At her, myself, the doctors, and God. I’ve been angry for a year. I don’t sleep or smile. And I don’t believe in any of this.” He gestured vaguely at the fire, the crystals, the headbands. “But I’ll do anything to stop feeling like this. I’m tired. And I want to feel something other than… hollow.”

Silence.

A silence so thick it felt like the trees were holding their breath.

And just like that, the whole vibe shifted. The playful weirdness, the comedy of astrology and penis rocks—it all dropped away.

This wasn’t just a scene anymore.

This was real.

I watched Jude closely.