Page 48 of Don’t Let Me Go

“What are we gonna do if we can’t get in to see her?” Jackson asks as we storm into the gleaming, sun-dappled lobby of the

Hilton.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to see her.”

Jackson looks unconvinced, and I don’t blame him. At this very moment, Ulfhild or Jocasta Devereaux or whatever she’s calling

herself these days is giving a demonstration of her “psychic abilities” on the stage of the hotel’s largest auditorium. Unfortunately,

when Jackson and I went online to buy tickets last night, we found the show was completely sold out. All five hundred seats.

Thankfully, I have a plan to get us in. Or, rather, I have Farouk.

“Hey, Farouk,” I call out, marching over to the concierge desk where Tala’s brother is working. Farouk is five years older

than Tala, and if I’m honest, I used to have a slight crush on him despite the overwhelming evidence that he is 100 percent

straight. With his clear olive skin, sharp jawline, and head of luscious black hair styled in a very sexy pompadour, he looks

like someone you’d see playing the romantic lead in a movie, not someone who spends his days helping the hotel’s incredibly

entitled guests book tickets to Orlando’s various theme parks.

“Hello there, Riley,” Farouk says, cocking his head to the side the same way that Tala does when she’s surprised. “What are

you doing here?”

“We need your help,” I answer, getting straight to the point: “We need to see Jocasta Devereaux.”

Farouk raises an eyebrow, looking very sexy and faintly amused. “Jocasta Devereaux? Really? You never struck me as someone who went in for all that astrology nonsense.”

“I’m not. We’re not. This is Jackson, by the way. But we really need to see her. It’s kind of an emergency.”

Farouk shakes his head and chuckles. “I’m sorry. I’d love to help you, but the event is completely sold out. Besides, it started

forty-five minutes ago, so you’ve already missed half of it.”

I know we’ve missed half of it. That’s because we sat in traffic for ninety minutes due to an overturned truck that shut down

I-4. But I don’t really care about whatever show Jocasta is putting on for her fans. I’ve had a front-row seat to her magic

act before, and I’m not exactly eager to repeat that experience.

That being said, Jackson and I want answers. And right now, the only person who might have those answers is the witch who

stabbed us in the back a thousand years ago. Assuming, of course, that Jocasta is Ulfhild. Which we won’t know for sure unless we talk to her.

“We just need to see her. Just for a few minutes,” I explain to Farouk. “If you could get us backstage so we could meet her—”

“Sorry, Riley. I can tell that you and your friend are big fans, but I can’t get you backstage. It’s against hotel policy.

If anyone found out, I could get in big trouble. You understand.”

“We understand,” Jackson says, putting a hand on my shoulder, a signal for me to let the matter go. But I’m not ready to give

up. Not yet.

I let out a deep sigh in an attempt to do my best impression of a defeated but gracious loser. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry for

bothering you.” Farouk nods, and I start to turn away. Then, as if the thought only just occurred to me, I say, “Oh, by the

way, how’s Becky?”

Farouk’s smile falters slightly. “Uh?.?.?.?Becky’s good. Thanks for asking.”

“Cool. That’s really cool. Tala says you guys are ridiculously cute together. She’s really rooting for the two of you.”

“I’m rooting for us too.”

“You must be,” I continue. “I mean, you got her name tattooed on your chest, right?”

Farouk nervously clears his throat. “What?”

“That’s what Tala told me. She said that’s how she knew you must be really serious about Becky. Because tattoos are haram,

right? And if your parents ever found out that you had one, they would totally lose their shit. At least that’s what Tala

told me.”

I can see Farouk working out the implications of what I’m saying, and though I feel bad for blackmailing my friend’s brother,

I don’t have a choice. I’m not leaving this hotel without speaking to Jocasta. Of course I would never in a million years actually tell the Youssefs about Farouk’s tattoo. I’m not the world’s biggest asshole. But I’m counting

on him not knowing me well enough to call my bluff.

“Riley, what exactly are you saying?” Farouk asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just complimenting you on being a really good person. Like, you know how important it is to

follow the rules, right? But you’re also not afraid to bend the rules. You know, when something’s important .”

Using his electronic key card, Farouk unlocks the backstage door of the auditorium so Jackson and I can slip inside. “If anyone

asks,” he whispers sharply, “I’ve never met you, I have no idea who you are, and you snuck in here on your own. Got it?”

Without waiting for a response, Farouk closes the door.

I feel incredibly guilty about blackmailing my way backstage.

Hopefully when this is all over, I can find a way to make it up to him (and to Tala, who’s going to be pissed when she finds out that I used something she told me in confidence to extort her brother).

Right now, though, my priority is Jocasta.

There aren’t very many people milling around backstage, which is convenient. It’s also dark, which further decreases the chances

of someone spotting Jackson and me and kicking us out. Not that anyone would notice us even if all the lights were on. The

few people who are standing in the wings seem too engrossed by what’s happening onstage.

There, seated in a large wooden chair decorated with ornately carved wolf heads, is Jocasta. Her eyes are closed, and her

palms are turned upward in that rather stereotypical pose of spiritual communion. She’s wearing a pink Chanel power suit and

her red hair has been styled into an angled bob, but there’s no denying that the woman onstage has the same sharp cheekbones

and the same gaunt figure as the woman from our dreams.

“It’s definitely her,” Jackson whispers.

I nod, and a familiar chill creeps down my spine. A part of me was hoping that we’d made a mistake about Jocasta. If we’d

been wrong, if our eyes had been playing tricks on us and she wasn’t the woman from our dreams, there would have been a good chance that I was also wrong about everything else—the past lives,

the reincarnation.

But I wasn’t wrong. About any of it. A woman from our nightmares who should’ve died a thousand years ago is standing in front

of us. Which means either she really is a witch or she’s been reincarnated like Jackson and me.

I’m not sure which option scares me more.

Trying to stay calm, I peek out into the packed auditorium and scan the audience.

There’s a pretty even mix of men and women, of old and young, that spans almost every race and ethnicity.

The only common denominator is that every audience member is riveted to their seat, waiting breathlessly for Jocasta to speak.

“There’s someone here today who’s name begins with a D ,” she announces suddenly, her voice breaking the silence of the auditorium and surprising me with its unexpected Southern

drawl. It has nothing of Ulfhild’s cold, austere tone. In fact, she sounds less like a mystical seeress and more like a posh

socialite from Atlanta.

“It’s a woman, I believe,” Jocasta continues, eyes still closed. “A woman facing a difficult decision about not one man but

two?”

In the audience, a woman gasps and cautiously rises from her seat. She looks about thirty and has long stylish locs cascading

over one side of her head; the other side is buzzed almost bare. Duy would describe her look as “effortlessly and intimidatingly

cool,” though right now, she’s completely in awe of Jocasta.

“I think that’s me,” the woman says. “I’m Dionne.”

Jocasta opens her eyes. She nods and beckons the woman to the stage. It’s only then that I notice the second, smaller chair

next to hers. Dionne sits in the chair, and Jocasta tilts her head as if listening to something that only she can hear.

“You find yourself at a crossroads,” Jocasta announces. It’s not a question but the woman nods in agreement. “Two men are

vying for your heart, each with an equal claim to your affection.”

Dionne blinks in amazement. “Yes.”

“These men—you feel a strong connection with them both. Both support your dreams and inspire you to be your best self. You

believe that with either of these men at your side, you could accomplish great things. Especially in your career. Both of

these men work in the same artistic world as you, I believe, which means that a union with either would be both a romantic

partnership and a professional one. This, of course, is something you have always craved.”

Again, it’s not a question, and Dionne’s mouth falls open. “How did you...”

Jocasta waves dismissively as if to say how she knows what she knows is as obvious as it is irrelevant. “The only difference

between these men is that one is someone you have known all your life and the other is a more recent acquaintance. With the

former there is a sense of stability, security, and comfort stemming from a life of shared experiences. With the other, there

is a passion and an intensity that comes from the newness of the relationship. But there is also a fear and distrust of that

passion.”

Dionna looks like a bobblehead. She hasn’t stopped nodding since Jocasta started speaking. “Exactly.”

Jocasta chuckles to herself as if she’s impressed with her own abilities. “This is not the first time that you have found

yourself in such a dilemma. Throughout the many lives that you have lived, you have often been pursued by men who recognize

your greatness. Your strength, your intelligence, your beauty—men are drawn to it like moths to a flame. They want to possess

you. But a queen can never be possessed.”

Dionne blinks in confusion. “A queen?”