Read Online Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) by Nina Milton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nina Milton
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was the one in trouble. She had run off and left her little sister behind in a strange and unforgiving country. In comparison to Mirela, Kizzy was the wind, following her own wild course.
I knew I should persuade her to speak to the police or seek some sort of official help. Surely she wouldn’t be blamed by the authorities for the mess she was in.
I thought about Rey. To be honest, I never needed much excuse to think about Rey. Could I take this to him? Despite my promise of boiled eggs, he hadn’t popped in for breakfast since I’d gone to confess that I had lost Gary Abbott’s iPhone.
“Sabbie?”
I was caught up with these thoughts, and it took me a moment to realize more silent tears were rolling down Mirela’s cheeks. “I have no luck, to find my sister. You try, for me. You have second sight. Kizzy told me so.”
“But it was her who told me my fortune, not the other way round.”
“You are shaman.” She looked at me directly, holding my gaze with her black eyes.
“I don’t work like a Romani might. I would travel into the otherworld and find gifts or advice that might point us in the right direction.”
“Yes. That is good.”
She seemed so sure that it was me she wanted help from. Instead of going to the police, or back to the person who had helped them before, she’d chosen a British shaman. I guessed it was what her culture would have done, if they’d needed such help.
I searched my memory cells for anything I’d learnt about Bulgarian shamanism. I had done a little round-the-world project, while I’d been studying with Wolfsbane. I was sure Bulgaria was rich in ancient culture, but the only thing I could bring to mind was that Orpheus had come from that region. And all I knew about him was that he was Greek god of music and had gone into the underworld to fetch home the wife he loved—not your average sort of bloke, then.
Mirela stuffed a hand into the brown felt bag she’d brought with her. It was worn thin and stained with puddle splashes. A seam was bursting open, the contents bulging through. She must have carried it across the continent of Europe, packed with false hope. She pulled out a mix of tens and twenties, some ripped, some just dog-eared, all of them crushed into her palm. “Please, Sabbie. Do something now. I can pay.”
I pushed the money back at her. But her urgency helped me to decide. She was right. Now was the time. I glanced through the kitchen windows. It was a foul night. I could hear the November wind shaking final leaves from the trees. Mirela was no more than a kid and a stranger in this country, and she’d lost the only person who cared about her. I’d been in that situation … something like that situation … so many times.
“I guess you could stop over.” Hopefully, she was used to mess, dust, and a sunken mattress because that’s all my spare room offered. I was already trying to remember where Debs had left the hot water bottle.
She smiled. She had the same sharp teeth as her sister—not quite as straight or polished as the teeth of Bridgwater girls, but arranged in a sexy smile that might bite through the heart of any man. “Thank you, Sabbie Dare.”
_____
In the therapy room, I lit only the central candle. It hid the clutter that I’d pushed to the corners of the walls. I’d done a couple of massages and a Reiki before I’d left for the Curate’s Egg and I hadn’t been in here since.
“Would you like to help me prepare the room,” I asked, “or do you want to watch?”
Mirela took a step forward as if volunteering. “I help.”
“Good. That’s good.” I passed her a broom of birch twigs.
She laughed. “I clean up?”
“You clean away the bad spirits.”
Dust flew up as she swept the laminate with vigour. I’d forgotten to tell her the act only needed to be symbolic. Under her breath I heard her mutter in her own language.
I arranged the floor cushions, then took my wand of yew and drew a circle with it, reaching out
I knew I should persuade her to speak to the police or seek some sort of official help. Surely she wouldn’t be blamed by the authorities for the mess she was in.
I thought about Rey. To be honest, I never needed much excuse to think about Rey. Could I take this to him? Despite my promise of boiled eggs, he hadn’t popped in for breakfast since I’d gone to confess that I had lost Gary Abbott’s iPhone.
“Sabbie?”
I was caught up with these thoughts, and it took me a moment to realize more silent tears were rolling down Mirela’s cheeks. “I have no luck, to find my sister. You try, for me. You have second sight. Kizzy told me so.”
“But it was her who told me my fortune, not the other way round.”
“You are shaman.” She looked at me directly, holding my gaze with her black eyes.
“I don’t work like a Romani might. I would travel into the otherworld and find gifts or advice that might point us in the right direction.”
“Yes. That is good.”
She seemed so sure that it was me she wanted help from. Instead of going to the police, or back to the person who had helped them before, she’d chosen a British shaman. I guessed it was what her culture would have done, if they’d needed such help.
I searched my memory cells for anything I’d learnt about Bulgarian shamanism. I had done a little round-the-world project, while I’d been studying with Wolfsbane. I was sure Bulgaria was rich in ancient culture, but the only thing I could bring to mind was that Orpheus had come from that region. And all I knew about him was that he was Greek god of music and had gone into the underworld to fetch home the wife he loved—not your average sort of bloke, then.
Mirela stuffed a hand into the brown felt bag she’d brought with her. It was worn thin and stained with puddle splashes. A seam was bursting open, the contents bulging through. She must have carried it across the continent of Europe, packed with false hope. She pulled out a mix of tens and twenties, some ripped, some just dog-eared, all of them crushed into her palm. “Please, Sabbie. Do something now. I can pay.”
I pushed the money back at her. But her urgency helped me to decide. She was right. Now was the time. I glanced through the kitchen windows. It was a foul night. I could hear the November wind shaking final leaves from the trees. Mirela was no more than a kid and a stranger in this country, and she’d lost the only person who cared about her. I’d been in that situation … something like that situation … so many times.
“I guess you could stop over.” Hopefully, she was used to mess, dust, and a sunken mattress because that’s all my spare room offered. I was already trying to remember where Debs had left the hot water bottle.
She smiled. She had the same sharp teeth as her sister—not quite as straight or polished as the teeth of Bridgwater girls, but arranged in a sexy smile that might bite through the heart of any man. “Thank you, Sabbie Dare.”
_____
In the therapy room, I lit only the central candle. It hid the clutter that I’d pushed to the corners of the walls. I’d done a couple of massages and a Reiki before I’d left for the Curate’s Egg and I hadn’t been in here since.
“Would you like to help me prepare the room,” I asked, “or do you want to watch?”
Mirela took a step forward as if volunteering. “I help.”
“Good. That’s good.” I passed her a broom of birch twigs.
She laughed. “I clean up?”
“You clean away the bad spirits.”
Dust flew up as she swept the laminate with vigour. I’d forgotten to tell her the act only needed to be symbolic. Under her breath I heard her mutter in her own language.
I arranged the floor cushions, then took my wand of yew and drew a circle with it, reaching out
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