Page 18 of Ravenous Prophecy
He rapped the brick again, smiling and swatting at me with the other hand. “Maybe I did.”
I checked him with my shoulder, grinning as he teetered off balance. “Maybe I can show you a good time some other time, after this is all over.”
Bradley blushed. I wished I had a mirror handy so I could check if I was blushing, too. A thousand dollars a day I was getting from this guy, but suddenly the money didn’tseem all that important anymore. I actually liked hanging around him.
“This one,” he said, returning his focus to the wall, knocking on one of the bricks. “And—yep, that one, too. I think we’re set.”
He rapped his knuckles against what seemed to me like a random sequence of bricks. A special code, a secret knock, for those in the know. When he finished, the bricks glowed and intoned with little chimes, following his exact pattern, a game of Simon Says.
And then, bit by bit, the bricks slid apart, a series of stony clicks and thunks as they revealed an entire oracle encampment. I goggled at the sight, all these colorful tents and tiny homes and wagons, like someone had surgically extracted a slice of a music festival and airdropped it right behind this random brick wall somewhere in the industrial district.
The brick was gone, but now we were met with a wall of sound—people laughing, chatting, making music. The smell of cooking wafted from one of the larger tents.
All these sensations that were previously concealed, hidden away from the mundanes, or even from magical people who might mean them harm. Because as good as the oracles were supposed to be at seeing, they were even better at staying unseen.
A man with beaded, braided hair and a huge smile ambled up to us, all cheerful and friendly. He was all pockets, too, from his cargo pants all the way up to his sleeveless vest, the kind a photographer might wear.
“Welcome,” he said, his fingers splayed out as he slapped his hand against mine, taking it in a firmhandshake. Then for good measure, he held on to my wrist with his other hand.
Strong fingers, rough palm, incredibly warm skin. He was a good deal shorter than me, and I had to lower my chin to return his smile. That was how I noticed his sandaled feet, how they pointed outward, the width of his stance. Open. Trusting. Inviting.
Everything within me still resisted, scrambling for an excuse to instinctively view the oracles with suspicion. But this man with the sparkly smile, and seriously, the warmest hands ever, was threatening to win me over.
“Griffin Gallows,” I said. “And this is Bradley Brooks, and we’re here to?—”
“Put ’er there,” the man said, pulling his patented double handshake on a suitably frazzled Bradley. He went through the same emotions I had—casual suspicion, followed by comfort.
“We don’t mean to intrude,” Bradley said, “and we’re incredibly grateful for your hospitality, but?—”
The man held his hands up, then wagged his finger with a cheeky smile. “I know you’re here looking for help.” He gestured past our heads, back the way we came from. “Everyone comes looking for help.”
I glanced over my shoulder, almost jumping out of my skin when I found myself staring at a full brick wall.
“But you know that we can perform a very particular service for you,” the man continued. “One that we are more than willing to render—in exchange for a kind donation to our community, of course.”
That was oracles for you. Trust the people who claimed to be able to see into the future to always be onestep ahead—especially when it came to matters of payment.
Bradley sifted through his pockets, pulling out a pen. “Who should I make the check out to?”
The oracle gestured at himself, fingers poking out through the holes in his gloves. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’s ever opened a checking account?”
Quick as it came out, the pen went back inside his pocket. “Oh. Sorry. Of course. I didn’t?—”
“Just messing with you, kid,” the oracle said, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, throwing me a little wink. “Wallace B. Jenkins.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, refusing to grin back. Oracle humor. Real cute. Bradley’s pen scritched away.
Couldn’t blame the oracle for wanting to make a living, though. It wasn’t that the oracles of Moraira City didn’t want to be part of regular society—it was that they couldn’t. Almost by definition, an oracle spent a huge amount of their life outside the physical realm.
Little things we took for granted were rendered impossible—going to school, holding down a job, hell, even eating. Weird how I didn’t make that connection earlier, with Bradley entering what was practically a trance-like state as he studied the manuscript. An oracle in his own way, temporarily exiting this world through the pages of books.
It was different with every oracle, how some considered their gift a blessing, how others considered it a curse. Some might straddle this world and the one beyond, seeing things that were never meant for human eyes, learning secrets the human mind wasn’t built to grasp.
Others had their heads buried so deep in that ethereal other place, dwelling there for so long that the physical world might not even feel like home anymore. And so the oracles supported each other, forming clusters and settlements like this one.
Those who still lived lives tethered to our reality protected the ones who lay dreaming. And the ones who saw everything with closed eyes, those were the ones scouring hidden worlds for precious knowledge, for deadly information.
Bradley handed over the check. Our new friend Wallace examined it with gleaming eyes, his brows shooting all the way up to his hairline. He stuffed the check into one of his myriad pockets and beckoned for us to follow. I cursed myself for not taking a peek sooner. Mage clans and dynasties that amassed huge amounts of wealth weren’t unheard of, but just how rich were these Brooks people, anyway?
