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What I do know is that when you’re a seer in my culture and reach maturity, you get permanently blinded so your visions will be “pure”—whatever the hell that means—transforming a lowly seer into an oracle.
Our visions are important. Seers and oracles alike foresee visions of death, and in predicting death, we can direct the gentry to the dead or dying to send the souls on to be reborn. Seers cannot change the outcome of their visions. Oracles, however, have enough advanced warning and the power to change the future.
In my mind, it is the only advantage for the price they paid when they gave away their eyes.
One hundred and eighty years I’ve been alive, and for nearly all of them, I’ve been running. Hiding amongst the humans so ignorant of our existence. Trying so hard to blend in, not get caught again by the people I once called family. Doing my best to make sure I don’t lose what little autonomy I have left.
But all it takes is one person to put two and two together and realize I’m not human.
All it takes is one person to notice my differences or see me change into what I really am.
All it takes is one person to remember me, and I’ll be fucked.
Truth be told, I’d prefer not to go to the show at all and just get the check for any of my work that’s sold. I’d rather change into fresh pajamas, order takeout, and binge Supernatural for the five-zillionth time. But Evan, who does double duty as the curator for the James Gallery and the poor soul who calls herself my best friend, has decided I’m a shut-in long enough three hundred or so days a year.
Every single opening, she makes me go and pretend to look at my art like a real live person, who breathes and speaks and shit. It’s utterly exhausting. Personally, I think she’s overexaggerating. I go out. Occasionally. To get tattoos and groceries—but so what? That counts as out, dammit.
Why she’s my friend, I’ll never know.
I say that, but I know why. She’s my friend, because when I was at my lowest, when I thought I couldn’t go on another day, she crashed into my life and gave me someone to look after. She is the yin to my yang, the Disco to my Heavy Metal.
In reality, she’s a wraith princess, the only child of John Black, the Wraith King. Phoenixes and wraiths are supposed to hate each other, but I couldn’t hate that girl if someone paid me. Other wraiths are a bit sketchy, but Evan, she is the light in the darkness.
I just wish she’d let me stay home and avoid this whole mess.
So far, I’ve managed to maintain my anonymity. That’s what Evan is for—because she can be in the spotlight when I can’t. She has the freedom to move from city to city, selling, curating, being an all-around wonderkid where I cannot.
All because of my stupid Legion.
So tonight, I’ll be hiding in plain sight, eating finger food and drinking cheap wine like any other art-consuming hipster, pretending I’m not the one who painted the pretty pictures.
Suddenly, “Shake Your Groove Thing” blasts from the speakers of my phone. Why Evan thought Peaches & Herb was an appropriate ringtone, I’ll never know.
“What?” I answer, knowing she is T-minus three seconds from an Opening Day meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.
“Where in the blue fuck are you? You were supposed to be down the mountain already and driving into Denver, and your ass is probably still sitting in bed! You do this to me every single time. Dammit, Ari, get your ass in gear.”
“I’m getting a very bad feeling about tonight,” I whisper, but I say this each and every time.
This time, though, it’s the whisper that catches her attention.
“You see anything?” she breathes.
Evan knows too much. Well, Evan knows pretty much everything. I know she feeds most of the information to Rhys, but I can’t muster up the courage to tell her to stop. Evan is like a dog with a bone.
“Nothing but a murder this morning. You know the Ness family?”
“Yeah, I do,” is all that comes through the line on a broken gasp. “They’re huge patrons. They’re supposed to be here tonight.”
A bone-deep chill races down the length of my spine.
Houston, we have a problem.
“Well, they’re not coming. I don’t think I am, either.”
“We’ve been through this.” She sighs heavily. “You have to be here, Ari. You have to see how your work affects people, how it moves them. If anything, I’m begging you to be here for me. Victoria was a friend.”
I feel horrible. I’m sad for that family, but only on the periphery. Evan actually knew her.
