Page 32 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

The voice’s clarity vibrates through me, making me swallow hard. “But I’ve only been psychic for a month or so.”

“Oh please, child. You’ve been psychic your whole damn life. You got the gift from both sides of the family, so your mother fed you a line of bull and your daddy taught you to eat sin. In truth, shutting your power off won’t keep you safe. It’ll drive you mad.”

Outrage goes off like a bomb under my sternum. Outrage, denial, and a healthy helping of fear. “This is fucking nuts.” I tear my fingers off the planchette, a pain so sharp I swear they’re bleeding. “I’m out. Take your fucking Victorian nightmare and shove it up your ass.”

It ends.

I sit down hard on the bed that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago.

The women are gone, with their stupid board and their cutesy fireplace.

Most likely, if I dig through hotel records, I’ll find a Daniel and a Patrick and their wives or sisters.

This incident has the same feeling as the vision I had from James Smith; a memory rather than something conjured out of my twisted imagination.

Though this one got pirated by something more personal. I might have tripped into someone’s memory, but that voice was family. I know it in my bones.

I’m just as sure I’d never been clairvoyant a day in my life.

Until you caught psychic .

The ice bucket sits on the dresser, next to the half-empty bottle of whiskey. I wonder if I’ve got some kind of alcohol psychosis. Is that even a thing? The room has a small fridge and I liberate a bottle of water and swallow about half of it in one gulp. Splash my face with some for good measure.

How long has it been since I showered? I don’t even fucking know. My best guess is way too long. Old hotel. Private rooms. Bathroom’s down the hall. Shared bath. My hair is crusty and pretty much stuck to my skull. I glance down. God alone knows when I last changed my clothes.

Fuck.

What am I shutting off, really? I don’t even know. “I have no fucking clue.” My shout reverberates against the walls. Either that or it’s my phone, vibrating in my pocket.

Where are you, Ezra? Reply so I know you’re alive .

It’s Micah, not Damon. Disappointment balanced by relief.

I’m still —I pause, not sure what I am, to be honest— here. Olympic Peninsula. Tokeland Hotel .

There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder if that’s all I’m going to get. Like my reply checked Micah’s box: Dude is alive. All good. Problem solved.

I go back to my chair, wrap myself in my blanket, and stare out into the blackness through the old, rippled, single pane windows. My highball glass is empty and my water bottle nearly so, and whatever was left of my buzz got hijacked by Victoriana-gate.

Adding -gate after any word makes it exponentially worse, imho.

My phone pings before I can get too far down that wormhole. It’s Micah.

Geordi and I want to talk to you. We’ll be there tomorrow around 2 .

I come close to typing Sure, Dad, whatever you say . My next impulse is a series of questions, like Why? And What for? And Is it going to hurt?

Instead of questions, I simply send back, OK . Apparently getting handed my metaphysical ass drummed some sense into me.

It’s what? Eight p.m.? That gives me sixteen or so hours to pull my shit together before they show up.

I glance at the bed. The maid came in this afternoon and changed the sheets, so I should probably shower or I’ll get them filthy.

I scratch my chin, where there’s just enough stubble to feel it.

I go a week without shaving and have less to show for it than Damon does after a day.

Damon .

I should text him. Apologize somehow. Except maybe he’s blocked me.

Could I even tell? If I send him a text and he doesn’t respond, is it because he’s blocked me or written me off?

I table the decision. While the fun part of my alcoholic stupor has been shot to shit, I’m still drunk enough to cause myself trouble.

A shower, and sleep, and tomorrow I can deal with... whatever it is I need to deal with.

My plan works perfectly. Sort of. I wake up with a headache like there’s a rabid ferret in there, chewing shit up. I order room service anyway, figuring that if the ferret has solid food, maybe it’ll leave my brain alone.

Am I blowing through money staying at this antique bougie hotel? Yes, yes, I am. Do I care? Not particularly. I already spent hundreds on whiskey for the occasion. As long as I can keep Dorothy May in gas, I’m good.

I feed the ferret and, since I’ve got some time to kill, I take a walk along the beach.

I cross the road in front of the hotel, find a path through some scrubby grassland, and hit sand.

The tide is out, there’s a stretch of pock-marked wet sand between me and the water, and the rhythm of the waves is soothing.

Thud-swish. Thud-swish. A couple of gulls wheel overhead, yelling at each other. Yelling at me, maybe. I yell back. “Hey, birds, what the hell does clairvoyant mean?”

They don’t answer.

I could have—probably should have—googled it. From the context, I’d say the voice meant my newfound psychic ability. Which, cool, I guess. At least I have an explanation of a sort.

But what the fuck do I do about it?

I keep walking and watch the tide get chased in by a fierce rain squall. By the time I get back to the hotel, I’m wetter than if I’d had another shower. I dry off in my room and head back down to the lobby. There’s a parlor with leather couches and antique bookcases, and that’s where I wait.

I have no idea what Micah and Geordi want, but there’s only one way to find out.