Oracle: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Series (A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery Book 1), Carissa Andrews [read my book .txt] 📗

Already, the energy of the moon pulls on me… but the last full moon’s events seep in, dragging on my already burdened mind and I wish I could release them and be done with it. My body tenses with the anguish tied to the memory of that night. It certainly didn’t go as planned.

Mental note—I better check in with Demetri again.

I wish he’d answer my damn calls. We never should have attempted diverting the damn Violet Flame invocation…

Talk about stupid.

“This is ridiculous, Diana. It’s happened—there’s nothing you can do now,” I whisper to myself.

Taking a deep breath, I press onward.

The walk home is surprisingly enjoyable, despite the cooler, early February air. Could certainly be worse. I could be in one of those godforsaken places where the wind hurts your face and white shit covers the ground this time of year. I’ve never figured out what would drive a person to live where there’s seven months of snow. Who signs up for that willingly?

Shuddering to myself, I pass the neighborhood park where kids are still out and about, squealing as they chase one another. Ordinarily, I would continue to hurry on my way so I can wrap myself in the silence of my living room. But today, I stop and really watch—my eyes scanning the children playing and running about.

Casting my gaze to the tufts of brownish green grass and puddles, I can’t help but see the little girl’s face. The family never divulged a photo, but I didn’t need it. She’s as clear to me as if she were standing beside me. Her bright brown, inquisitive eyes are what haunt me most.

I’ll check back in with Detective Radovich when I get home.

Turning on my heel, I pull my sweatshirt a bit tighter. Before I know it, I climb up the front steps to my small, but adorable house. You’d think it was a granny’s house from the outside, but I don’t care. I love the pink embellishments, and ornate ironworks. They remind me of something I can’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it simply reminds me every day the universe is still a mystery on some levels—even to me. Because why else would those two things ever go together?

With my key in hand, I reach for the door, only to have the handle ripped from my grasp. As the intruder flings open the door, he pushes me aside with a sweep of his broad arm. I slam hard against the iron railing adorning the front stoop, and pain radiates from the middle of my back, down my left leg. Oddly enough, I get no impression of who he is—nothing about him at all, as I instantly push my abilities out in search of who the hell would be in my damn house without permission.

Nothing. A big fat zilch.

Twisting around, I catch a glimpse of him before he disappears from sight. I might not be able to ID him with my gifts, but I recognize his perfectly shaped ass as it runs away.

It’s the same damn guy from this morning. Clearly, he has a thing for trying to topple me over.

Wow. I’m really off my game.

Either that, or he’s deliberately warded from me.

Had I not been so preoccupied with my own thoughts, maybe I would have been able to do something to apprehend the dude. Then again, who expects someone to come bounding outta their house when they live alone?

What in the hell could he possibly have been looking for?

Truthfully, nothing I own would be of any consequence to me if it were stolen—not being allowed to have a true past will do that to you, I suppose. However, the idea someone bothered to break into my house—and not just someone—the same guy who nearly knocked me into the street…now that makes me curious.

I push forward, gaining a more solid footing in my entryway and try to focus. The guy’s scent is familiar, but off somehow—like he’s tried to alter it with too much cologne.

Pushing past the empty darkness as I attempt to play in his mind, I start seeing glimpses—flashes of knives—ancient ones with runes or something written along the side, an explosion—blood. Lots and lots of blood. The images are old, like they belong in an ancient memory; blurred and obscured. I take a deep breath, letting the world fall away.

Reaching out with my all of my senses, I search the impending darkness as it threatens to consume me for going where I’m not wanted. A moment later, the door to the memories slams shut. My abilities shut down, and I’m left grasping nothing but air—like every time I try to access my own damn memories. But it’s never happened when I try to read someone else’s.

Interesting.

I look down the road, trying to get another glimpse of the man—only to find myself dizzy and disoriented. Stumbling myself inside, I close my door, and have a seat on the couch. The exertion it takes to really dig in—it’s almost too much at times. Especially when the impressions are blocked.

Once the room stops spinning, I stand up and make my way slowly to the small kitchen. It’s barely big enough to open the cupboard doors without smacking into the other side, but I sorta love the coziness of it. I open the refrigerator, clutch the chocolate bar I’d been saving for when I’m PMSing, and rip open the wrapper. I need to get my blood sugar back up and this is as good a way as any. Besides, it has caramel in it, so ya can’t beat that.

I take a big bite and edge slowly along, clutching the gray countertop until I can take a seat at the breakfast bar. Before I even settle in, I have another bite of chocolate in my mouth, and my head thumps down onto the cold, hard Formica. Colors roll into one another as my system tries to reset.

After all this time, I still don’t understand why some uses