Something like wonder.
Maybe.
I lowered the bowl slowly, unable to tear my gaze from his.
Everyone else in the circle was still, waiting, as if they knew something important was happening too.
Was this a coincidence?
Was this a cosmic test?
I didn’t know.
All I knew was this:
What the hell was I supposed to do with a man like Julian Reed… if he turned out to be the one who needed healing most?
Chapter Seven
Julian
Icame for the story.
This was the assignment. And if I did it right, it’d be the podcast episode that blew up on all the platforms—clicks, shares, think pieces, angry DMs from crystal aunties. The works.
“Inside the Mind of a Modern-Day Prophet,” or some shit like that.
Jude Brooks was the bait. Viral faith healer. Local legend. Alleged miracle worker with a suspiciously symmetrical face. Too soft-spoken. Too polished. And definitely hiding something.
I’d agreed to come to this ritual because he invited me, and I knew an excellent opportunity when it sparkled in front of me barefoot and glowing. I said yes without hesitation. Of course I wanted in. This was the heart of it—whatever performance he was selling, this moonlit circle was where it played best.
The Healing Center’s back lawn looked like a Coachella-sponsored séance. Fire was crackling in a ring of mismatched stones. Lawn chairs and meditation cushions in a loose circle. People dressed in linen and fringe, some with flower crowns, others in layers of gauzy fabric like they’d just emerged from a spiritual chrysalis at Burning Man.
And the smells.
God, the smells.
Lavender. Cedar. Something that might’ve been eucalyptus or a Yankee Candle crime scene. I was high on secondhand incense and probably low-key allergic to whatever was burning in the weird carved bowl near the altar stone.
I kept my phone tucked in my jacket pocket, mic off for now, but mentally recording every detail. This wasn’t a ritual. It was a goddamn production.
Someone was already playing a hang drum. A woman was singing softly, cradling a jar of salt like it was her emotional support item.
And in the center of it all?
Jude.
Holding a bowl over his head, standing barefoot in the grass like some kind of pagan Disney prince. His eyes were closed, his lips moving in what I could only assume were blessings or exceptionally tasteful slam poetry.
I watched him from the edge of the tree line, arms crossed, trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
I mean—what the hell was this?
A man had a tunic, and I swear to God it was made from recycled upholstery. Someone nearby was whispering to a piece of driftwood. A woman handed Jude a rock shaped like a penis and claimed it vibrated with “masculine energy,” and no one, not a single person, laughed.
How?
How did none of them see it?
