Page 3 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Two

“What kind of backwards bullshit is that?”

“The threatening kind?” Ingrid shrugged impatiently. “I don’t know. I’m a lot more concerned with who is following me than the… reverse psychology aspect of their message.”

“Hmm,” her boss hummed defensively. “Just thought it was odd, kid, that’s all.”

After her father left, Ingrid had many parental figures over the years.

For better or worse, there was the nun at the church-run group home who had taken her in as a child.

The older orphan girl with the black ribbon perpetually in her hair.

A raspy-voiced bartender who taught her to make the perfect martini.

And then there was the general manager of The Boneyard, Franky, a graying, bear-sized man in his fifties, always peering over his glasses and trying to solve Ingrid’s problems like it was part of his job description.

“Let’s think,” he said, raking at the patch of hair below his bottom lip. “It has to be someone who comes in here, right?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I don’t go anywhere else, so that would be the place to start.”

Franky didn’t catch the sarcasm. “Right, right. Now we’re getting somewhere.

” His eyes were puffy, bloodshot and wandering as he slouched at the tiny desk in the back office.

In front of him, there was a decade-old computer collecting dust and an ashtray that he’d turned into a receptacle for nicotine gum.

He spent most of his time back there and, with the cramped size of it, the office retained his distinct scent—sandalwood cologne and the sweet, mango flavor of his cigarette alternative.

He popped in a new piece, tucking it into the corner of his mouth. “You don’t go anywhere else,” he repeated confidently. “No, it has to be someone here. What about that… that guy. What was his name? Real creepy looking?”

Ingrid was about to ridicule Franky for his complete lack of descriptive ability when the image of the man he was referring to flashed in her head. Although there were many to choose from, the most recent of Ingrid’s admirers was decidedly the creepiest.

“Kyle,” Ingrid said under her breath. “Kyle Twyker.”

Franky snapped his fingers. “That’s him! Hell, even the name gives me the chills. I should’ve known right when he’d come in. Something about his eyes, you know? I should’ve known.”

He’d come in for a month straight, staring at Ingrid as he sipped his diet soda, throwing out conversation starters that never stuck.

He was tall but very thin, pale, almost sickly looking, and not at all threatening in a physical sense.

Not at first. Not until the mask slipped.

One night, when he’d swapped that diet soda for whiskey—possibly for a little courage, making it easier for him to ask Ingrid about her romantic status—he suddenly snapped without warning.

Ingrid had kindly declined his advances, conjuring some vague lie about a boyfriend, but harmless Kyle Twyker tensed, frozen in place before erupting.

He’d lurched upward and climbed on top of a barstool, eyes like endless voids as he screamed.

It was like he’d flipped a switch that had emptied him out from the inside.

“Did you insult him?” Franky asked suddenly, peering over his glasses. “That night, when you rejected him, do you remember?”

Ingrid waved him off, “No, I was a perfect lady.”

Franky wasn’t satisfied, giving her an interrogative, pointed look with slitted eyes. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Though she couldn’t blame him for asking. The only way Ingrid knew how to get through to most of the drunken, persistent men that sat at her bar was to turn cold, hardened. And she’d done it so long that it became impossible to turn off. Even around Franky.

“Got it. So you didn’t insult him. But were you… I don’t know how to put this nicely,” Franky continued. “Did you have an attitude?”

“I wasn’t a bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.” Ingrid’s cheeks warmed. “But I’m about to be. It sounds like you’re hinting this stalking might be partly my fault?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is—well, I guess I kind of was saying that. But not intentionally! I was only thinking, where, specifically, does this guy’s obsession stand now?”

Ingrid scoffed. “So you want to know if he wants to fuck me, kill me, or both?”

This was where Franky would usually laugh, play it off, shoot back an equally sassy remark. Yet, he couldn’t even smile.

“Sorry kid,” he said. “This one, it feels different. If he’s got your phone number, that’s a line being crossed. That’s harassment. I think we have to call the police.”

Ingrid instinctively shook her head. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get their help. Especially before an actual attack happens.” Or at the very least a threat. During Kyle Twyker’s barstool tirade he’d only talked about hurting himself . Which wasn’t exactly newsworthy.

Franky had his hands on his head now, rocking back so hard in his chair that it let out a pitiful squeak. “Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Just you and me then?”

“For now,” Ingrid said. “Otherwise, word will spread. It’ll only cause me more headaches. I’m sure we can handle it ourselves.”

Franky’s chest puffed out a bit, his brows lowering.

It wasn’t a show of confidence, but an odd habit he had whenever an idea occurred to him.

“Oh, I’ll handle him,” he said. “And any of the other creepers, too. If they come in, I’ll take over at the bar while you hide back here.

” He gestured to the tiny office. “Then you’ll immediately call that strange number. If it rings, then boom , we got him.”

Ingrid smiled, surprised at how eager Franky was. “Boom?”

“Bam!” Franky jested, and Ingrid couldn’t hold in her amusement, feeling the smirk on her face stretch wider.

No matter how childish he could be, Franky had an uncanny ability to make Ingrid smile.

Within the first week she’d worked for him, she found herself falling victim to snorting fits of laughter so uncontrollable she wondered if she’d ever truly laughed before she met him.

Even then, so new to each other, having hardly any conversation extending outside of work, she’d understood that Franky was a rare breed.

Selfless, unassuming, both intentionally and unintentionally hilarious.

And with that humor, a softness followed.

All the years she’d spent trying to avoid the stereotypical father complexes, and Franky had broken down her wall with little effort.

His plan was what she’d stick to.

“But if his phone rings, and it is him,” Ingrid said, crossing her arms. “Please don’t knock him out right away. I want a few shots first.”

“Careful.” Franky slapped a finger on the nametag placed at the front of his desk. “I’m still your boss. Not to mention the cameras just got fixed, remember?” He winked, lowering his voice. “We’ll go out back before any punches are thrown. You have my word.”

“Simple enough,” she said.

Now all she had to do was go to work like nothing had changed, standing behind that bar counter… like bait.