The Empath: Lost Locket of Lahari

By Erica Crouch

This book is also available in the LOST LOCKET OF LAHARI ANTHOLOGY. Save 50% versus buying the five books in the collection individually, plus receive an additional BONUS ORIGIN STORY!

In a Victorian society fascinated by spiritualists, something wicked sinks its claws in from the other side.

Odessa is a psychic; her mother, the Great Madame Elena, is a fraud. After a séance goes terribly wrong and a woman ends up dead, an evil force slips into the land of the living.

Though Odessa and her mother try to outpace the rumors spreading, they can't escape the danger that has taken residence within Odessa herself. When Odessa is shouldered with the responsibility of the Great Madame Elena’s business, she starts to lose control of the spirit world, and she can’t afford to make another mistake.

Asked to open the door to the other side again, Odessa witnesses a brutal murder that hints at black magic and is faced with a choice: risk her life for freedom from her mother, or go on living a life of servitude. If she goes into a trance again, will she be able to maintain control?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erica Crouch
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927940198

Book preview

THE EMPATH

a Lost Locket of Lahari book

Erica Crouch

The Empath (a Lost Locket of Lahari book)

Copyright © 2014 by Erica Crouch.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons - living or dead - is purely coincidental.

First Edition.

ISBN: 978-1-927940-19-8

Patchwork-Press.com

To my ghosts.

Chapter 1

October 31, 1890

This morning’s cards come out unfavorably. It’s not the individual cards themselves that are worrisome, but rather the message they send when viewed as a whole. I try not to read too far into it. Probably just a bad hand—I’m not focusing this morning.

I reshuffle the palm-sized deck of cards, listening to them whisper between my fingers like secrets before I cut the deck and fan their painted faces across the lopsided table.

The cards stick to my fingers as I pull them from the deck, their edges curled and worn. I arrange them in an uncomplicated pattern. A simple read should suffice for this morning. Anything more could be dangerous. The day is thin and precarious; there are already too many spirits reaching over from the other side. I’ve warded the caravan three times since dawn and I can still feel the heavy presence of dark spirits looking over my shoulder. I might have to sage a second time.

A cool fingernail rakes over my spine as I turn the cards over one by one. I’ll definitely have to sage again.

The faces of the tarot cards stare up at me, too many upside down, too many multiple meanings. It makes me anxious. My fingers tap out a rhythm on the inverted High Priest.

Why are you here? I ask the unresponsive holy man, outlining the three tiers of his golden crown.

I should have left it with just one reading.

Mama pulls herself into the cramped caravan just as I’m reshuffling the cards to put them back into the pouch. She hunches beneath the low ceiling and sneers at me, her lip curling over crooked yellow teeth. Her breath smells sweet and sharp, like brown liquor. Somehow, I’m not surprised.

Do you have to do that every morning? she asks.

I shake my head and clear off the tipping table to set it up for the day. Sorry, Mama.

The midnight tablecloth with gold embroidered stars replaces my breakfast plates with a snap of fabric. I take the gems on the windowsill and position them in a precise pattern that spirals out from the center of the round wooden table. I move the pearly crystal ball from the bench where it’s buried under yesterday’s clothes and balance it in the middle on its brass base.

I move in silence as Mama trundles past me, stacking her fingers with rings and tying a patterned scarf around her unruly hair.

We have a very important client tonight, Odessa, she says. There’s arsenic in her voice and I’m immediately on edge. I’ve been in town, chatting up the keeps at the tavern all night.

Of course she was. Palm or tarot?

A séance. The word whips out of her, sparking excitement in her eyes.

"Tonight?"

Yes, tonight, she snaps. There will be a large party at the mayor’s house. His wife, I’ve gathered, is quite intrigued by the occult.

As is everyone else, I want to add, but think better of it. Take a science-fearing society, sprinkle in an obsession with death, and you have the makings for magic. Mediums—both of genuine and fraudulent talent—have never had it so good.

Did you know she lost her sister? Had her throat slit by a jealous boyfriend, Mama continues. Found that out from the fellows in town. Awfully chatty once they’ve had a few drinks poured in them. Wish they told me earlier. We could’ve milked her for weeks.

A sense of wrong tickles my mind, perches just behind my eyes. I keep it to myself.

She’s already seen several spiritualists to no avail. We’ll give her something tonight, though. Won’t we?

It’s not safe, Mama. The veil is—

The veil is no concern of mine. Her words are venomous, jealousy turning her smile cruel. "Spirits don’t talk to me, remember?"

I swallow my warning and tuck my chin to my chest, the weight of guilt heavy on my shoulders. Mama’s never had the gift, not like I do—not like my grandmother did. It skipped a generation, a fact she never forgets to admonish me for. As if it were some choice I was given. As if it were something I would have asked for.

Another fingernail pulls across my bones, and I go searching for the sage before whoever it is trying to gain purchase in our world can get their claws in me. I say quiet words as I cleanse the room once more, my mind on a distant memory of my grandmother.

When she was alive, she told me it was for the best Mama was passed over, that I had the gift in my blood instead of her. Mama never had the temperament for the divine. No one who calls herself The Great Madame Elena could ever go on to do anything genuinely great. Her ego was too inflated, her hunger for wealth and fame ravenous. She leaned toward malicious and manipulative instead of altruistic when it came to intent. Negative energy would cling to her like horsehair to velvet.

It’s Samhain, I remind her, setting down the sage.

I know what day it is.

The spirits are too close for a séance tonight. It’s dangerous, Mama. I’ve already warded against several dark presences just this morning.

Then you’ll ward again tonight, she says.

And if it’s not enough? I say under my breath.

What’s that?

Nothing, Mama. I snag my teeth across my bottom lip. Am I to host…

"Don’t be foolish. I will be doing the reading, of course, she says. It’s an easy mark, made easier by the day. The spirits are close, as you say, and the energy is set for deception. I won’t have to do much to pass a lie as truth with spooks sitting close beside us."

A shadow passes behind her and I follow the path it takes through the caravan with my eyes. If only she knew how close.

I can stay here, if you wish, I say, lowering my eyes to my hands again. I can ward for you at the mayor’s home and then return, in case anyone wants a reading.

I need you with me, Odessa. She looks over me with resentful eyes. You’ll unnerve them thoroughly. Add to the atmosphere. My strange, silent daughter with the absent eyes. They won’t want to be in the dark with you for even a minute! She laughs so hard she dissolves into a fit of coughing—a disgusting, wet sound.

I let the comment slide, ducking my face from her as I put the last of the props in order. I take two bells—placing one at the table and securing the second to the leg of a chair. I make sure the skirts of the tablecloth reach the ground in case Mama wants the table to move or shake in future readings, and I check that the wires are in place for her to tap and tug at accordingly, to move the pieces around the room just enough to startle another dollar out of whatever poor sap believes they’re speaking to a real spirit. The small room is rigged with enough subtle tricks to fool even the staunchest skeptic.

The caravan must always be ready to receive the next customer. There’s not enough time to lay the traps when there’s already someone at the door waiting for a reading.

As I’m setting out the last of the candles to light the space, I catch Mama applying her makeup. She smears greasy color on her eyes and lips. It does nothing but make her look older, but she believes it makes her look more elegant. There was a time when my mother could have been described as beautiful, but she’s become a painted, desperate thing.

She changes out of her dirty clothes into a dark silk gown with even darker bead work. It’s one of her finer dresses; she must really want to impress the mayor’s wife. But she layers velvet robes over it, nearly obscuring the finery, and it instantly cheapens her. The jewelry she piles on herself until she jingles and clinks when she so much as breathes doesn’t help either.

Isn’t that a bit much? The opinion skirts past my lips before I can stop myself.

Mama slices me with a withering look, and I have to turn away from her, busying myself striking a match and touching it to the waiting candles. People expect grandeur. It’s a show, a production. I thought I’d taught you that by now. Without some flash, there ain’t no cash.

I nod and shake out the matchstick.

"Do we need to review