I turned my attention to my other messages. The next missed calls were from Doc Hill, a psychiatrist I’d worked with in the past. He’d even helped me find a cure for Jeremiah, although he still didn’t believe in magic or Faythander. But he trusted my abilities—he knew I could cure the patients that he couldn’t. Doc Hill had three clients he thought I’d be interested in, and a few cases would be enough to get my checking account in order.
As I listened, I wondered if I would be wasting my time looking for work. Shouldn’t I be hunting down Mochazon and the Everbloom? But if Mochazon had traveled here with the magic fluctuating, there was a good chance he’d have no memories of Faythander, and that meant he could possibly be on my list of clients. At least it was somewhere to start.
I grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down each person’s information.
Miranda Hawkins, age twenty-one, student at the University of Houston, suffering with depression and possible schizophrenia. She also had a basketball scholarship, and the university was willing to pay for her treatment. Good for my pocketbook, but not so promising for finding the Everbloom—I doubted Mochazon would’ve taken a female form and had time to get a scholarship. Also, Miranda didn’t sound like my typical client. No offense to the sports fans out there, but they rarely had an interest in traditional geekiness.
Client two—Thomas Clayton, male, age fifty-four. His neighbors were concerned about his hoard. The police had issued a notice for him to evacuate his premises unless he could cull his collection of fairy figurines. Apparently, he’d also given in to cluttering his yard with giant, half-clad Viking warrior women statues. Interesting. His case definitely sounded related to Faythander, but—as with the first—I wasn’t sure it would lead me to Mochazon.
Case three—John Doe. He was described as tall with dark skin and unusual eyes. He’d sought help at the local homeless shelter, where he’d displayed symptoms of PTSD, and he suffered from several delusions, one of which consisted of “visiting an alien world.” Although his symptoms weren’t the classic ones, his physical description piqued my interest. If Mochazon had traveled from Faythander, it was likely the Earth magic would have interfered with his physical appearance.
I decided to pay a visit to the homeless shelter… right after I found a way to pay for the gas to get there.
Chapter 8
I had three more messages that I dreaded listening to—two from Brent and one from my mom. I couldn’t avoid them forever, although somehow, I had to find a way to break it off with Brent.
I’d always been horrible with breakups. Usually, I just stopped talking to the guy until he got the hint that I didn’t want to see him anymore. But with Brent, I knew he’d want an explanation.
Sitting on my barstool and staring at my phone, I decided to dial Brent first. He picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting by the phone.
“Olive?”
“Hey, Brent.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Seriously? I came by like seventeen times, and you never answered.”
“I know. I was out of town.”
“Oh, okay.” He knew that “out of town” meant out of this world, though I still wasn’t sure he believed in Faythander.
“Well, I’ve been dying to talk to you about something. Want to meet for lunch?”
I cleared my throat.
“We could meet at your mom’s. She’s been worried about you as usual. I’ll bring my tamales.”
Ugh. He wasn’t going to make this easy. Breaking up with him in front of Mom sounded just as fun as sticking needles through my eyes. Mom loved the guy. According to her, he was the best decision I’d ever made. “Sure, that’s fine. I need to talk to you about something, too.”
“Great!” he said a little too enthusiastically. “I’ll pick you up at noon.”
He hung up before I had a chance to say anything else. Drat. Maybe I could call him back and say I had a work thing. My empty stomach rumbled, and despite my motivations to never see Brent again, I needed food. A free lunch at my mom’s would fix one problem, but it would stir up about a million others.
I also needed money, though I hated asking Mom for money. It was up there on the list along with jabbing needles in my eyes. Reluctantly, I listened to the message from my mom.
“Olive, it’s your mom. Just checking in. Wanted to make sure you’re okay. Call when you get a chance. I need to discuss something with you. I had to quit my pottery-making class because it was really getting to be a strain on my schedule. It’s fine—I mean, I’m fine. I… I’m well enough, just going through a little rough patch lately. Oh—but I still need to talk to you. Just call.”
I replayed the message, trying to decide if I actually heard my mother’s voice. Mom was usually so collected, and she rarely got rattled. Her defense mechanism to stress was to be more organized, more put-together, and more robotic. She wouldn’t talk about her feelings if her life depended on it. Until she let it go too far.
Dread welled within me. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she knew what I was about to do to Brent. She’d always had a soft spot for the guy.
I slid my phone across the counter and decided to change before the lunch date. Going to Mom’s in my animal-skin cloak, muddy boots, and leather breeches probably wouldn’t make the best impression as I begged her for money.
Showering quickly, I changed into my blue jean skirt and red sweater. I even put on some lip gloss and mascara, but my mind was
