Page 20 of Sight of Fate

Macklin opens the back door, and Teague slides in with me still in his arms.

Safe and away from the stares, I let the darkness take me under.

Chapter Eleven

CHARLI

Shadows, a glimmer of light. I force my way to the surface. Images of wolves and men, howling and roaring, go round and round, morphing from one to the other. I sit up with a gasp and clutch my pounding head, trying to make sense of it all.

Teague’s cologne fills my lungs, and I whip my head up, searching for him. The last thing I remember is him carrying me from the restaurant, his body pulsing with anger.

A woman with dark red hair and crystal blue eyes steps forward, and I automatically hold up a hand to stop her, unwilling to risk another vision. “Don’t touch me.”

Tucked into an unfamiliar bed, with luxurious sheets and a soft, billowy comforter, my brow furrows. With the scent of him permeating every square inch of the room, it has to be Teague’s. In creams and browns, the masculine room is surprisingly calm, easing most of my anxiety.

The woman nods and slowly slides into the chocolate brown upholstered chair beside the bed. “Charli, I’m Raine.”

“Are you a doctor?” I croak, easing back on the pillows.

“No, I’m like you,” she says with an understanding smile. “A seer.” Her head tilts when my brows furrow in confusion. “I too have visions. Of the future. Of people I’m supposed to help.”

“I’ve never met anyone like me,” I tell her, eyeing her suspiciously. Is this a trick?

“There are quite a few of us,” she reveals. “Usually, it’s passed down through the blood. My father is a great guy. Kind, funny. Human. My mother is a seer. A witch like me.”

Witch. The word reverberates through me like a death knell, and I vigorously shake my head. “I’m not a witch.”

She raises an eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me.

“My mom was human. If she’d had powers, she would have told me.” Especially after she saw Hank try to burn me for being a witch. Raine’s head tilts with confusion. “She died when I was sixteen.”

“I see.” She lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “Must have been your dad then.”

Burning skin and acrid smoke lash out at me from the past, a reminder of what happens to witches. I pant as the memory tries to take hold. Desperate to avoid it, I fall into my ritual, starting with my hair. Touching it. Smoothing it. Then, I slide my fingers across my shoulders and upper back to trace the patchwork skin. I repeat it until I feel the past recede.

“I never knew my dad. He and my mom had a one-night stand,” I reluctantly admit. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t cast spells or brew potions, nor do I have a wand or magic.”

Raine lifts a shoulder. “Witches have different talents or affinities, as we like to call them. Seers come from an ancient lineage. Our powers were given to us by The Fates, who use us to right the wrongs where fate has detoured from its original plan.” She pauses. “How often do you get visions?”

I finger the sheet. Nobody has ever asked me about them. “I don’t know. Sometimes I get several in a row, then I’ll go months without one.” I used to get them more frequently until I stopped touching people, but I don’t want to admit that to her. “I got my first vision when I was thirteen.”

My voice trails off as I think about the morning I woke up, convinced Hank was going to die in a car accident on his way to work.

“Witches come into their powers at thirteen,” she says with a nod. “Do you always pass out afterward?”

“No. The one tonight. It was different. It started with the past.” And ended with a man who turned into a wolf. Fur and all.

She nods in understanding. “As we get older, our visions get stronger, our abilities broaden, we can see more details or context where there was none. Seeing the past is extremely rare, though. You’re special even amongst seers. But all that power comes at a price…a nasty little hangover. Head hurt?” When I reluctantly nod, she motions to the two pills and a glass of water on the nightstand. “Teague left you some medicine.”

I reluctantly look over and see the two pills sitting next to a bottle of ibuprofen and scoop them up, then pop them in my mouth. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about tonight?” she tentatively asks. “You seemed absolutely terrified a moment ago.”

An understatement. I dig my hands into the bed, needing to grip something real. All my visions have been about ordinary people, not something inexplicable like Leif and his pack of white wolves. It’s crazy, the stuff of movies and books. I want to deny it, but I can’t. Every fiber of my being knows it’s true because I saw it. Felt it in the vision.

She leans forward. “Ahh. You saw Leif, didn’t you? What he is. A wolf shifter.” Although she says the words softly, they drop into the silence of the room like a bomb, obliterating any misunderstanding.

“How?” It’s the only word I can get out.