“My name is Mia. I’m Mack’s sister-in-law.”
The Mia from the story? So she was real. Of course, that didn’t mean the rest of his story was. “Why are you in my house?”
“We need to find Mack before you do.”
Huh? “I don’t understand.”
“I know you’re not feeling well, but we need to know if you’ve seen him.”
“Seen who?” I tried to play stupid.
There was a long pause. “Mack. He’s blond, tall, goofy smile, and has those all-American good looks? Lots of tattoos on his arms.”
The Mack I knew certainly didn’t have a goofy smile. Nevertheless, “Don’t know him,” I lied. “Why are you in my house?” I repeated.
“Because if we don’t find him before you do, he’ll die. For good this time—we know he took off his necklace.”
What the ever-fucking-hell did that mean?
“Please, Theodora. Tell me if you’ve seen him.”
I didn’t know how to respond and that meant keeping my mouth shut. Perhaps these were the “they” Mack had referred to when he’d said someone was looking for him. In any case, this wasn’t making sense. They also didn’t seem to know that he was at my facility. So how the hell had they connected the two of us?
“Why do you think I know this man?” I asked. “And why would I want to kill anyone?”
“According to my husband, you’ve known Mack for over three thousand years. And you always find him. And then you try to kill him. Oh, and you’re in love with him, too.”
I must be hallucinating again. Or was I?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TEDDI
The obscenely gorgeous preppy blonde named Mia—possible double for Scarlett Johansson?—heated up some canned chicken soup and made two slices of dry toast, politely commenting on the lack of “anything human to eat in my kitchen,” before swearing my illness would pass just as soon as I started accepting the truth.
Truth. Pfft. Clearly, she was on something. And if she wasn’t, she needed to be. Something hardcore with an antipsychotic chaser. And if those weren’t effective, there was always tequila. For me, of course.
“The same thing happened to me, Theodora. But I promise, it gets better,” she’d said.
“What does?” I’d asked.
“Being a Seer. And you have no idea how happy I am to have found you—I think we’re the only two left in the world.” Then she’d added, “Can’t wait to see what gifts you have. Oh—and when you start to see the colors, don’t panic. Just let it in.” She’d sounded almost giddy about it.
Yes, I’d seen colors on the walls after my session with Mack, like the entire world had been Warholized, but that had been a function of my synapses misfiring due to my nervous system being overloaded.
Seeing no point in arguing with this delusional person, I simply nodded. She then left shortly after, promising to return soon to check on me, also mentioning that I shouldn’t be alarmed by her husband, this King man, or the other “large gentleman” who might be standing guard outside my house.
Sure. Nothin’ strange or alarming about a man who just threatened to off me (and claimed to have done it multiple times before) standing outside my home, because he thought I was this óolal person, which, of course, he believed because he was Mack’s brother and he and Mack were drinking the same “I’m thousands of years old and from ancient Greece” fruit punch.
Okay. Deep breath.
But as my brain argued and built the case as to why King and Mia were crazy and in need of a jail cell for breaking and entering—him with intent to murder and her with intent to make chicken soup—the other part of my mind kept throwing ugly, vicious curveballs at my poor throbbing skull. Bottom line: Things had been happening to me, and there were no explanations. That dream, for example? King was that man I’d run from. Not like him. Not similar to him. It was him.
What the fuck? I thought, lying there in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was just after one in the morning, and I didn’t have a car, but I needed to see Mack.
I pulled myself from bed and began digging in my closet. I reached for a long dark sweater, black jeans, and boots. If I really had a guy standing outside my house, my only option was to sneak out the back way. I just hoped no one would be keeping an eye on that part because they assumed I was too sick to go anywhere.
Still feeling queasier than a dog on a boat, I hobbled to the bathroom to pop in my contacts and then grabbed my purse before heading outside through the sliding glass door in the living room. My trembling body creaked its way down the wooden stairs to the beach. Just breathe, just breathe. You’ll be fine. From there, I’d have to walk about a half mile to the public parking lot and call for a cab.