Page 9 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

I park my Audi under cover of a robust maple at the edge of the yard.

The house is sprawling, but it’s maintained in a haphazard way you’d expect of a self-proclaimed psychic medium, spiritual guru, and multi-self-published self-help author.

My deep dive last night kept me up until the wee hours of the morning, which is why I slept through the alarm I had ambitiously set for seven a.m. It’s now close to two, and after debating my ensemble for well over an hour, I am running behind on this whole stakeout thing.

I flick the visor down to examine my giant tortoise Chanel sunglasses.

They may be overkill now that I see the place.

It’s not like I can actually disguise myself if I meet up with the matron.

She’s sure to have seen a photo of me—Dad loves to whip out his phone at even the whiff of interest in his pilot daughter.

Chip off the ol’ block, my Birdie . There’s no way she got out of the first date without a slideshow.

Especially if the vibes were as intense as Dad made them out to be.

If I do meet her, I can feign that I’m here looking for Dad—who I already know to be at the golf course shooting holes with his group of semiretired pilot buds. And it will give me a chance to get a one-on-one with the woman.

I yank the Chanels off and slam the visor back up, examining the yard. Patchy sections make up a few areas that sit under the cover of a dense, overgrown fir tree that looks like a fire hazard by the placement of some of the limbs over the roof.

The jacket is stupid, too. While it’s a breezy sixty-two degrees today, it’s not cool enough—or rainy enough—for a trench coat.

Once I’m free of that, too, I’m left in a slim-fitting black boatneck sweater, dark jeans, and knee-high black boots.

This works. I rip my keys from the ignition and grab up my tiny Valentino.

Like 60 percent of my clothing budget goes to bags and shades, and I’m wondering if that makes me seem shallow.

I’m ready to climb out of the car, when the front door opens and a redhead dressed like an emo kid from the early aughts rushes out, down the steps to a hatchback parked at the corner.

No idea who she is, but as soon as her car peels out, I climb out of mine and shoot up the path to the front door.

There’s a sign that reads By Appointment Only , but I can’t imagine shopping falls into that category.

At the very least, she must have an employee or something who watches the front while she’s communing with the spirits or whatever the fuck it is she claims to do to read people’s futures.

The doorknob is heavy, metal, ornately carved. I twist it, and the door slides open with a soft ding-dong , welcoming me. Alerting the staff, probably.

It reeks of incense, a smell I know well because I once dated a Reiki healer who never, ever stopped burning that shit.

She had an exceptionally skilled tongue, which almost made it worth it to power through the smell.

But not quite. Behind the scent of incense is one that’s a lot more appealing: cinnamon and buttery, like a freshly baked cookie.

The foyer opens up in all directions. Directly in front of me is a sturdy wooden desk with a laptop and a credit card machine sitting on top next to a sign that says All Major Credit Cards Accepted and then another sign right next to it with a QR code to Venmo. She’s covered all her bases.

To the left, through a beautiful thick wooden doorframe, is what appears to be the main hub of her business.

It’s stuffed with products including physical copies of her books, and at the far end is a room with a red door, adorned with a sign that reads Reading Room , which must be where most of the swindling happens.

I’m moving toward that room when I hear a door open behind me with a swish.

I swivel my head. A woman stands in the doorway, dressed in black jeans with ripped knees and an oversized denim jacket.

She has the prettiest set of black curls I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Her eyes are a simmering golden hazel; her skin is freckled and lightly tinted with a tan on the otherwise fair complexion.

She looks a bit out of place in the kitsch of this metaphysical shop.

Her eyes take me in, her face unreadable, but I do notice her attention focus momentarily on the key chain still dangling from my fingers. The bisexual flag, my little airplane, the Can a gay girl get an amen? charm, a fave line from that Reneé Rapp–Megan Thee Stallion collab moment.

I fight the urge to smirk.

“Can you help me?” I ask her when she doesn’t offer. Her eyes trip up to mine. There’s an indecipherable emotion in them. Alarm mixed with interest. A flash of intensity that makes my skin zip with electricity.

“Are you here to see Moira?” she asks. Not Madame Moira. Interesting .

“Is she here?” I answer her question with a question.

“She’s with a client,” the woman replies. “I don’t work here, so if you need to make an appointment or buy something, you’ll have to wait.”

What is she doing here if she doesn’t work here?

“Believe me, I am not interested in buying anything.” I flick my eyes to the Reading Room door.

“The employee just stepped out—should be back any minute.”

“This place is wild,” I say, because even though I don’t believe in mystical things—science and reason explain existence just fine for me—there is something about the air here. The way the aroma sparks your senses, sending them off-kilter. “It’s not like I imagined it would be.”

“Imagined it?” the woman asks, suspicion now edging its way into her even, clear, and bright voice. “You came here because you imagined it?”

“Not because , per se, but I did have an idea of the place before I showed up,” I reply.

I feel like we’re discussing two separate topics, and whatever she is saying is setting her nerves on edge.

She steps forward, planting those intense eyes on mine.

My curiosity, once piqued, is an insatiable beast. I lock eyes with her, which sends a thrill of heat through my stomach before it pools between my legs.

Closer now, I can see the brown and gold mingling in her eyes; I can’t ignore the heat coming off her, either.

“You don’t have an appointment, then?” she asks.

“No, sorry, I didn’t realize I needed one to stand in the foyer,” I reply. Her lips thin.

“But you’re here because of Moira?”

“I guess you could say that I came here because of her.”

There’s a noise in the other room. The creak of an old doorknob turning.

Someone is opening the door to the Reading Room. Good. This woman was clearly not planning to let me have an audience with the madame, and I didn’t come here just to get weird with a stranger who is also a major hottie.

Despite how invigorating I do find the experience to be.

“Fuck,” the woman curses under her breath.

“Excuse me?” I barely get it out of my mouth before she grabs me by the waist with both hands—strong, long fingers, short nails—and yanks me behind the swinging door she recently emerged from.

“What the actua—” Her hand clamps over my lips.

We stumble into a brightly colored kitchen, where she drives me up against the refrigerator, pushing me bodily (hers against mine) taut to the door, her breath coming fast and hot on my cheek.

I struggle (a little, for show mostly), which causes her to tighten the grip she still has around my waist. My body surges with attraction.

She’s clearly nuts, but my libido doesn’t seem to care.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes wide with panic. “But she absolutely cannot see you in the foyer right now. No matter what.”

I bite her hand, forcing her to release my lips with a shiver.

“What the hell?” she growls, wiping her hand on her jeans and glaring at me hard.

“ What the hell is right. You just assaulted me in a place of business, psycho.”

“I’m not psycho, I’m trying to prevent my mother from saying I told you so this early in my trip.”

My brain locks in on a few details contained in her statement.

Mother. I told you so. Trip.

“Are you Madame Moira’s daughter?” I ask, trying to see the resemblance and mostly failing. The black hair and freckles, maybe, but where Moira is sharp and mysterious, this woman is soft and vulnerable. Every feature wide, plush, gentle.

I vaguely knew Moira had a daughter, thanks to my deep dive on the internet, but most of the photos online—which are pulled from some of Moira’s books—are from when she was a teenager, and in those, she had a pixie cut and looked rather impishly grunge.

Very different vibe.

“Afraid so,” she says. She looks genuinely disappointed.

“Then you’re here because of the engagement party.”

Her brows shoot together. “How do you know about that?”

My lips twist into what I hope is a devious smile. “I’m Sydney, Rick’s daughter.”

“The pilot.”

As recognition settles over her face, she also seems to remember that she is still holding me hostage against this refrigerator, her hand tight and warm around my waist, her tits pressed up against my shoulders since she’s a few inches taller. She releases me, taking a step back.

“We should talk,” she says, just as the sound of a woman’s voice travels through the door. Raspy and deep, with a slight indistinguishable lilt that could be affected or could just be the remnants of an accent.

“Cadence?” comes the voice. A name.

Her name.

“Are you back there?” The voice must be Moira’s.

Candence points toward the back door, holding her finger up to her lips with a big-eyed plea.

Whatever’s going on here, I have to find out.

And—okay—I’m a bit taken in by the desperation in her face and the way her curls tuck around the buttons on her jean jacket.

I give her a swift nod, pushing off the refrigerator and walking as quietly as possible toward the back door.

Cadence is on my tail, so silent and stealthy she makes me think of how a cat moves across a countertop minefield.

I’m reaching for the door handle when her arm shoots around me, grabbing it first and giving it a hasty twist. I nearly tumble out the door, with her close behind, and she pulls it closed behind us with a light puff.

“That way,” she says, her voice still low. She never stops moving, so neither do I. “I know a place.”

“Then you’ll explain your psychosis?” I ask.

“Something like that.”

My eyes eat up the view as I follow her around the edge of the yard to a small gate in the fence.

Her hair color reminds me of the way the sky looks at midnight.

There’s a certain sheen to it, a glow almost, and as she moves, the thick tendrils shift, some taking on an almost aubergine hue.

She’s tall, with long and lean limbs, a trim but sturdy silhouette.

Her ass is taut. Her fingernails aren’t painted.

I don’t think she has on much makeup, either. Not that she needs it.

She’s gorgeous in this rugged I just came in from the trails windswept and wild sort of way. But she also seems to have some kind of mommy issue that could help me unravel the reason for this marriage—maybe even enough to stop it altogether.

If it needs to be stopped, that is.

The gate opens up to an alley that we take around to a side street, where a small SUV is parked. “Get in,” she orders. I cross my arms. “Please.”

“Only if you promise not to murder me.”

Her eyebrow, just the left one, curls up. “I always thought it was stupid in movies when people did that.” She yanks open the driver’s-side door. “If I was going to kill you, what difference would a promise make?”

She drops into the driver’s seat as a thrill wriggles through me.