Page 49 of Don’t Let Me Go

Jocasta nods solemnly. “You have the blood of the Ptolemys in your veins. You have stood on the shores of the Nile and breathed

its perfumed air. You have been hailed as a god and you have held the asp to your breast in death.”

Dionne’s eyes go wide with amazement. “Are you?.?.?.?are you saying I was Cleopatra?”

Jocasta nods, and a wave of excitement ripples through the audience.

“Cleopatra was the name you first called yourself. Since then, you have had many. Many names and many lives. But in all those lives, you have faced the same question: What man is worthy of a queen? Cleopatra loved the great Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. But did she force herself to choose? No . She took them both. And with both of those loves, she and her kingdom flourished.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Dionne laughs nervously. “Well, I can’t ask these men to share me.”

“Why not?”

Dionne is speechless.

“All your life, you’ve known that you are destined for greatness. But greatness isn’t given. It’s taken. If these two men

have what you need—stability from one, passion from the other—don’t be afraid to take it. If they find the arrangement unorthodox,

get rid of them. They are unworthy of your greatness. But if they can stand by your side and give you what you need so that

you can achieve all that you are capable of, you will have found men worthy of your love as well as partners worthy of a queen.”

To my surprise, Dionne nods in agreement, and the entire audience bursts into applause. The two women stand, and Jocasta embraces

an overcome Dionne before sending her back to her seat.

“What the hell was that?” Jackson whispers.

“I think Jocasta just told that woman it was okay for her to be in a throuple because she used to be Cleopatra.”

Jackson shakes his head in disbelief, and I find myself more confused than ever.

I know a lot of weird stuff has happened in the past couple of weeks—enough to make me question the very nature of reality

and my own sanity. I’ve conceded that past lives and reincarnation might be real and that Jackson and I might have known each

other in Pompeii, Brattahlid, and London. But asking me to believe that Cleopatra— the Cleopatra—is here in Orlando getting a psychic reading because she’s having trouble with her love life? That’s too much to swallow. Not least because Jocasta’s got her history wrong.

Cleopatra never had to choose between Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. Cleopatra was with Caesar first and got with Mark Antony

only after Caesar died. She was never part of some ancient Roman power throuple. Anyone who’s seen the Elizabeth Taylor movie

or read Cleopatra’s Wikipedia page would know that.

So why doesn’t Jocasta?

Despite my misgivings, Jackson and I watch for the next hour as Jocasta continues to summon audience members up to the stage.

One by one, she explores their past lives before offering them advice about their current dilemmas. She tells a short, balding

man that he used to be Napoleon and that he should demand a promotion at work. She tells a silver-haired older gentleman wearing

a rainbow Pride pin that he used to be Oscar Wilde and that he shouldn’t give up on the play he’s been writing for the past

ten years.

Even the people who don’t discover that they were once big names like Frederick Douglass or Joan of Arc still seem to have

led extraordinary past lives. Each and every one was a brave soldier or a gifted artist or a brilliant scholar. No one leaves

the stage without being told that they were exceptional in a former life and (more important) that they can become exceptional

in this life if they follow Jocasta’s advice—advice that is in her new book, which is conveniently on sale in the hotel lobby.

“She’s a fraud,” Jackson scoffs, shaking his head in disgust.

I nod. Though, annoyingly, no one else in the auditorium seems to share our outrage or our disillusionment. When Jocasta brings

her show to a close, the entire audience leaps to its feet, showering her with deafening applause.

Part of me wants to run out on the stage and yell at the crowd for being so gullible. It doesn’t seem possible that so many people could be this delusional.

Then again, who am I to judge? I just blackmailed my best friend’s brother because I was as desperate as everyone in this

room to meet the woman who I thought could magically solve all my problems.

“What do we do now?” Jackson asks.

“I don’t know.”

Jocasta’s definitely a liar, a fraud, and an opportunist. She’s also undeniably the same woman from our dreams. That can’t

be a coincidence.

I suppose it’s possible that she’s both a fraud and a reincarnated witch. That would explain why she hasn’t aged in a thousand years and why she’s still doing the same hocus-pocus

shtick that she did when she was calling herself Ulfhild. Who knows. If Jackson and I keep reincarnating because we’re soulmates

who are meant to find each other, maybe Jocasta keeps reincarnating so she can scam people out of their money. It seems like

an insane waste of such an amazing opportunity, but maybe that’s how it works. Maybe whatever happens in your first life you’re

forced to repeat over and over in all your future lives.

“We should talk to her,” I say as Jocasta starts to make her way backstage. “She might be a con artist, but right now she’s

our only lead.”

Jackson nods. “So how do you want to do this? Do I just go up to her and say, ‘Hey, remember us? We used to be Vikings and

you told everyone I had the plague.’?”

Before I can answer, I see Jocasta marching in our direction. She’s deep in conversation with a young woman holding an iPad

who I assume is her assistant. Instinctively, I pull Jackson farther into the shadows and out of Jocasta’s line of sight.

“What time’s my flight?” Jocasta asks the young woman.

“Not until seven thirty.”

“Good. I’m going to head up to my room and take a nap. Make sure I’m not disturbed.”

“Of course, Miss Devereaux. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave for the airport.”

Jocasta strides toward the exit but then stops and turns back to her assistant. “What room am I in again?”

“Room ten thirteen.”

Jocasta nods and slips out the door, and the assistant hurries off to harangue some stagehands who are clumsily attempting

to carry Jocasta’s ornate chair offstage.

“So,” Jackson says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Room ten thirteen?”

Five minutes later, Jackson and I are standing outside Jocasta’s door. And for the first time, I wonder if we’re about to

make a huge mistake.

We could be completely wrong about her being Ulfhild, in which case, she’ll probably call hotel security when she finds two

teenagers outside her room insisting that she’s a witch. But if we’re not wrong, then we’re about to confront the woman who once got Jackson and me killed.

“You don’t think she’s dangerous?” I ask, surprised that this thought is only now occurring to me.

Jackson snorts. “I think we’ll be okay.” A second later, though, he swallows uncertainly. “Just to be safe, though, we should

watch our backs.”

I nod. Then, before I can chicken out, I take a deep breath and knock.

“Yes?” Jocasta calls from inside.

“Room service,” Jackson improvises when I’m too tongue-tied to speak.

“I didn’t order any.”

“It’s champagne. Compliments of the hotel.”

The door swings open and reveals Jocasta’s eager, excited face—an expression that instantly collapses into a scowl when she

sees Jackson, me, and no champagne.

“No autographs,” she barks, starting to close the door.

Jackson thrusts out his hand to stop her from shutting it in our faces. “Wait!”

Jocasta’s nostrils flare, and her eyebrows rise in indignation. “Young man, I suggest you remove your hand from my door or

I will call the police and have you escorted from the premises in handcuffs .”

“Sorry,” Jackson says, dropping his hand. “We don’t mean to scare you. We just need to talk to you.”

“If you’d like to book a private spiritual consultation, you can do so through my website.”

“We don’t want a consultation,” I reply. “We want to know if you recognize us.”

Jocasta looks from me to Jackson and back to me, then shakes her head in confusion. “Why on earth would I recognize you?”

“You’ve never seen us before?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure?” I press. “Look at us. Really look at us.”

Jocasta snorts. “I am looking at you. And all I see are two hooligans who are wasting my time and ruining my nap.”

My heart sinks in disappointment while at the same time a strange relief passes over me. We’re wrong—Jocasta isn’t Ulfhild.

Which means all the crazy things that have been happening to Jackson and me aren’t supernatural occurrences, just bizarre

coincidences.

“You really have no idea who we are?” I ask one last time to be certain.

“No. Should I?”

“We met in Greenland,” Jackson jumps in. “In a place called Brattahlid.”

Jocasta scoffs. “I’ve never been to—”

She doesn’t finish her thought. Instead, a flicker of recognition flashes across her eyes. It’s faint, almost imperceptible,

and a second later she pushes it away with a shake of her head as if trying to dismiss an unpleasant memory.

“I’m sorry. You have the wrong person. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She tries to shut the door again, but this time I’m the one who stops her. “You do know who we are,” I exclaim in amazement.

“I do not ,” she insists, taking a quick step back like a cornered animal. “I have never laid eyes on you—either of you—in my life.”

“Well, we’ve met you,” I say, growing more certain with every second. “And we know your real name: Ulfhild. ”

Jocasta freezes, her cheeks turning paler than the snows of Brattahlid. She stares at Jackson and me in disbelief, and the

flicker of recognition in her eyes explodes into a brilliant, burning flame.

“You,” she snarls. “It’s you .”