Page 14 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Nine

“Stop… screaming,” Ingrid moaned, eyes shut tight as she lifted herself to a sitting position. There was the usual throbbing head pain that came with her visions, but there was also an added smell of fresh blood.

“Here,” Dean went to his knees, using his shirt to wipe her nose, revealing a circle of dark red seeping into the material.

Ingrid stared at it blankly, tilting her head up. “Is it gone?”

“Yeah, all good. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Ingrid nodded but didn’t specify, glancing around the room. She wanted to make sure that if the hallway changed again, she’d notice.

“You were floating,” Dean said breathily.

“Oh, you saw that, did you?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I saw it, what do you mean?”

“It’s a new development.” Everything around her was still as it should be, and the reality of what had happened began to sink in.

“Invisible things,” she said. “They’re real.

My nightmares, too. A lot has happened. Tough to cover it all.

” She kept talking to keep herself occupied.

As thrilled as she was to see Dean, and as difficult as it was to ignore the pain, it was even harder to ignore the confusing mix of dread and relief.

She rambled on and on about what she experienced, speaking more to herself than to Dean, who only sat there, nodding along calmly.

“So, you couldn’t see it at all?” he asked after she’d finished. “Not even a shadow of it?”

“No,” Ingrid said, squinting at him. “You believe me?”

“I just saw you floating mid-fucking-air. I saw every single light in here flicker. I saw…”

“What?” she prodded.

“I saw your eyes glow.”

There were many rational explanations for this. The unusual color of her irises catching the light in a certain way. The Thing making him see what it wanted him to see. But Dean swore. “They glowed. Like, a spotlight on a helicopter. Not shined. Not glistened. They fucking glowed!”

He talked as if it excited him. No fear. No confusion.

Ingrid was the only one who seemed the slightest bit perturbed by any of this. She had a guess at that, and yet another deep feeling crept up, but she wanted to get to her feet before she tackled anything else.

“You gonna help me?” she asked curtly.

“Oh, sorry.”

Dean stood and offered his hand, lifting her to her feet and letting her get her balance with her arm around his. He glanced back at her for just a moment, that same excitable look in his eyes.

“What?” she asked instinctively. “Am I bleeding again?”

“No, no…” Dean shook his head, averting his eyes. “You’re good.”

Once she found her bearings, they took slow steps toward her front door. There was no pain now, only numbness. Most of her weight was relying on Dean’s large frame, but she managed to stop herself when she was just feet away from the entrance to her apartment.

Just a few more steps until she was home.

“You alright?’ Dean asked again.

Her answer was purely internal at first. No . She wasn’t alright. She was far from it, and she didn’t know when she might be alright again. If ever.

“This isn’t,” she started to say, breaking off as a jolt of pain went through her back. “This isn’t my home.”

“It is,” Dean replied softly. “You’re just a little hazy.”

“No—no, it isn’t.” She stared intently at her door, at the bland off-white paint, the tarnished bronze knocker and knob. It was hers. But in the ways that mattered most, it had changed. Everything had changed. Just like the Thing had violated her mind, the memory of it had now poisoned her home.

She jerked away from Dean, stomped toward the door that was once hers, then twisted the key and darted directly into the bedroom.

“Feeling better already!?” Dean called out to her, standing in the doorway.

“Huh!?” The sound of her suitcase being ripped out of her closet made it difficult to hear him.

“I said, are you feeling better already?!”

“Hold on, I—" She continued rummaging around in her dresser for the essentials, tossing both washed and unwashed garments in her bag until her closet was nearly empty. There wasn’t much to begin with.

She appreciated nice clothing, owned a few expensive dresses, a few vintage coats, but for the most part had no use for them.

Ninety percent of her wardrobe fit in her rolling, hard-side suitcase; her toiletries were stored in the pockets at the top; her handgun and her concealed carry license stashed away in her purse; and lastly, she wrapped the amber and gold necklace her father gave her around her neck and hurriedly rushed back out into the hallway.

Dean followed. “Where are we going?”

“ I’m going to a hotel. You and that cop outside are going home.

I’ve disrupted your lives enough as it is.

” She was back at the elevator now, staring at the buttons a moment before thinking better of it.

She might’ve gone her entire life without riding an elevator again. The stairs would have to do.

“I have a better idea,” Dean said confidently. He’d snuck in from behind her at the door of the stairwell and leaned against it, keeping it shut.

“Move,” Ingrid demanded. “I’m serious.”

He didn’t budge. “You can stay at my mother’s place. It’s a lot safer. I promise.”

Ingrid didn’t know whether to be creeped out, annoyed, angry, or grateful. She chose angry. “Move!”

Dean crossed his arms, getting comfortable with his back against the door. “My mom,” he went on. “She was a—you know, a doomsday prepper. Built a bunker in her basement. Stocked with all kinds of supplies. Please, it will be safer there.”

Ingrid was half-listening now, attention peaking at the word bunker .

“I’m just trying to help,” Dean said innocently. “Do I really need to convince you of the danger you’re in. After that?”

Tepidly, she admitted he was right. She was treading territory she wasn’t prepared for.

But so many questions remained. One in particular that she hated herself for not asking on that whirlwind of a day spent in the police station.

Was Dean truly helping? Or had he known more than he was letting on?

Now that he was so fearless in the face of this invisible enemy, she knew without any doubt he was hiding something. Only her fondness for him had delayed a confrontation. She didn’t want to believe he was like the rest. She wanted him to be different. Wanted him to be someone she could trust.

But that was the thing about wanting. It often kept you from finding what you needed.

“Your mom,” Ingrid said innocently, warming up to it. “She’s gone now?”

“Almost a decade ago. Just haven’t been able to sell the place.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t had time.” He avoided her dagger-like stare, trying to laugh it off. “I’ve been pretty busy. You know, making sure you don’t get yourself killed and all.”

“Bullshit.” Ingrid wasn’t amused. “I remember that little comment you made about your mom. You didn’t get along, at the very least. So why haven’t you sold the house? Is there even a house? Or is this?—”

“Why would I lie about that?” Dean cut her off. “I haven’t sold it because there are too many memories. Too many… well, you know how complicated parents can be.” He trailed off, hoping Ingrid would move on.

She didn’t.

There was something in the way he’d said it. It wasn’t the usual assumed understanding another person would have for familial issues. It was more like he knew about her own parents.

And then, just as Ingrid’s anger peaked, Dean did something that put any lingering doubt she had to rest.

For a half-second, angling only his eyes, he glanced at her necklace.

It was all Ingrid needed.

“I can see that you’re trying to help.” She said it calmly, smiled with just the corners of her mouth, dropped her suitcase, then palmed her gun within the confines of her handbag. “I can also see you’re not telling me the truth. Not the entirety of it.”

Dean opened his mouth to defend himself, but quickly closed it as he watched Ingrid pull out the gun and point it directly at his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he said, deathly quiet. “I thought you were joking about the gun. Do you know how to use that?”

She knew more than that. Monthly gun range visits for the last seven years had also given her the comfort and confidence to hold it intently. It didn’t matter that she’d never drawn it on another human being. At that moment, she was at ease. She felt in control.

“Either move,” Ingrid said. “Or start giving me some answers. Tell me why you were so upset that I didn’t recognize that second set of symbols.

Tell me why you looked at my father’s necklace just now.

And tell me why that—” She cocked her head toward the spot in the hallway, where she’d been held captive.

“That thing didn’t scare you. Or even rattle you. ”

He made the slightest gesture to the gun, smiling as if it were a toy. “I’m scared now, believe me. But that Thing… just because I’ve seen one before, it doesn’t mean it didn’t scare me too.”

“Stop acting like—” Ingrid cut herself short. She had just pulled a gun, yet somehow, she was the one who suddenly felt blindsided. She’d been so ready to doubt him, so ready to expose him, to shoot him, even, that she didn’t register the vague admission.

“You know what that Thing was?” she asked.

Dean let out a long exhale, looking so relieved that Ingrid swore she saw a few wrinkles in his forehead vanish. “Yes, I do. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you all this, but damnit, I’m glad you figured it out.”

The room went so still that Ingrid could hear the metallic sound of her finger slightly adjusting on her gun. She kept it fixed on him, staring.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he went on. “I’ve been dying to, really. But it’s best if I show you something first.” Dean stepped toward her slowly, stopped, and then stiffened as the barrel was raised to his head.

“I like you better where you are,” Ingrid demanded.

Dean obeyed. “I’m on your side here, Ingrid. Please, believe me.”

“Give me a reason to.”

“Please, just—please. Ingrid, let me show you.”

“Show me what?”

“I can’t explain it properly. I have to show you. It’s in my jacket pocket. Can I reach for it?”

Ingrid knew it would be stupid to agree. She knew he carried a weapon and she knew he wasn’t what he seemed to be. Yet, above all else, she wanted answers. And at the moment, Dean was the only one offering them.

“Okay,” she said. “Slow. Don’t think I won’t shoot you.”

Very carefully, at a glacial pace, he reached into his jacket pocket. “This,” Dean said, holding what appeared to be a misshapen gold stone. “This is why that Thing left. Why you’re still here, safe, talking with me.”

Ingrid stepped forward and snagged the stone away from him without compromising the aim of her gun.

Inspecting it, she noticed an intense orange and red tint to it that was glowing like a lit fire.

Little dancing flames seemed to spark wherever the light caught it.

Even more remarkable was how similar it was to her father’s necklace.

The stone that she’d always wondered about, but couldn’t get an answer to, no matter how many pawn shops and jewelers she’d visited.

One of a kind . That’s what she’d been told. Too unplaceable to be made of any valuable material, and too strange to sell.

Yet, here was another. The same peculiar heaviness to it. The same glow. But in place of the complex memories Ingrid felt holding her father’s stone, this one beamed with unusual intensity, not only seen but felt just by coming in contact with it.

Dean pointed to it cautiously, almost like he didn’t want to disturb it, and said, “It’s called a viseer stone.

It comes from where that Thing comes from, and is one of only a few weapons that could scare it away.

” He broke off, as if trying to remember exactly what Ingrid had demanded of him.

With the way she was staring at him, all ice and violence in her eyes, he made sure to be thorough.

“I don’t know anything about your father, I swear to you.

But the symbols,” he said. “I do know about the symbols. Just not the ones we found on the bodies. That’s why I was upset.

I thought you’d know. I thought the visions you were having—I was praying they’d show you.

Because we are in grave danger, Ingrid. Not just you, but all of us. ”

“You lied. You lied to me.” It was all Ingrid could say in response. She was too angry to articulate anything else. Couldn’t bring herself to listen. All her brainpower was focused on the list of all the little lies that had piled up between them, and what lies she might still uncover.

“I know,” Dean said, meeting her raging glare. “And I’m sorry. But what was I supposed to say? Even if I did say something, you wouldn’t have given me the time of day. It took all of five minutes to realize that you don’t trust people.”

“What were you supposed to say ?” she stammered. “Anything. Anything true. Anything but string me along. I mean, why make me go through that in the park? Why embarrass me like that? Why let me think I was?—”

“I thought it might draw other things out,” Dean interjected. “I had my people stationed all over. They haven’t gotten back to me yet, but their silence likely means you helped. You might’ve drawn something like…” He looked down the hallway, toward the scene of the attack. “Like that out.”

Ingrid hesitated, almost torn in two. She felt with certainty that he was sincere, but he’d fooled her once already. There were millions of reasons to run, to dismiss him entirely, but one very pressing reason to hear him out.

“The messages,” Ingrid stuttered. “Do you know who sent them? Who it is? What it is?”

“I have an idea, yes.” He placed his hand over the center of his chest. “But there’s a lot I’d need to fill you in on. That’s why I’ve been looking after you. I’m your friend, Ingrid. And believe me, for what’s coming, you’re going to need friends.”