Page 36 of Against All Odds

Because Seren’s mugshot stared back at me. Her raven hair in disarray, her hands tightening around the booking board, a provocative gleam in her narrowed eyes.

My hands were trembling when I clicked on the accompanying article. It was about a city on the other side of the country, and it had been published only weeks ago.

CONVICTED CON ARTIST SEREN HARPER FOUND DEAD NEAR CASINO.

The authorities have found the body of a young woman near the Blackjack Casino on 31 January 2026. Police identified the victim as Seren Harper, 29, who appeared to have suffered 32 stab wounds. Preliminary findings suggest at least three different knives were used. Harper, a convicted fraudster, received a prison sentence in 2023 for defrauding numerous victims out of more than €30,000 through various scams, including multi-level marketing schemes, fake lottery wins, and phishing emails. Her victims were often individuals already in debt or otherwise financially vulnerable, police said.

My throat went dry as I skimmed through the article, barely registering the words through the blood gushing in my head. Details hardly mattered when the truth knocked me off my feet.

My guardian angel was a convicted criminal.

Chapter 16.

Seren

The concept of manifesting still felt counterintuitive to me, as did astral projection. But for the sake of communicating with my assigned, I’d put my objections aside and willed a small bedroom into existence in the liminal realm.

The small space contained only the bare minimum: a bed and a small window to overlook the endless clouds outside. Everything was too gray. Back in my mortal life, I had to move often to keep the authorities from catching me and my victims from getting their revenge. I mostly resided in Airbnb’s and short-term rentals – impersonal and unappealing. As a result, I never did spend much time thinking about what my own space would look like if I ever got one, but it certainly wasn’t this. Not too much color, either – colors gave me a headache. Hard to develop a taste for decoration when the only place you’d ever called home has been burned down before your eyes.

Now, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, frowning at the gray clouds outside. I’d never been one to meditate, but annoyingly, I had to quiet my mind for the astral projection to work.

More annoying was that, though it took me a bit of trying to learn the skill, it actually worked. I’d half hoped it wouldn’t, so that I wouldn’t have to do the dreadful practice again. As if karma was laughing in my face for always making fun of people who believed in reiki, tarot, manifesting and all that nonsense. I always thought of it as a way to feign a sense of control, just like religion.

Now I had to admit, begrudgingly, that astral projection was very real. Real enough that I, a dead woman, could manifest myself into the chaotic dreams of a living one.

I grimaced at the thought of entering her mind. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to face two damn Rebekahs and a demon again.

I inhaled deeply before lying down and closing my eyes. One by one, I clenched and unclenched every muscle in my body, forcing the tension out of my limbs. It didn’t leave easily. My shoulders stayed tight, my jaw locked, as if my body wasn’t convinced it should let go.

Focus.

The next step was to slow down my breathing: four counts in, six counts out. My first few attempts came out uneven, my lungs stuttering on the exhale. I started again. Four in. Six out. Again. And again – until eventually, the rhythm caught, and something in me loosened.

A faint heaviness settled over my body, spreading from my chest to my fingertips, as if I were sinking into the mattress or being pulled into it.

For a moment, I thought I had it. Then my mind snapped back.

A flicker of doubt, and the sensation broke instantly – my body jerking as if I had missed a step on a staircase. I exhaled sharply, irritation rising in my chest.

“Seriously?”

I pressed my head deeper into the pillow and forced myself to start over. Irritation wouldn’t help me. Gritting my teeth, I tried to recall what the book had told me.

Four in. Six out.

I am not my thoughts. I am not my emotions. Those are just passing things; they do not control me, damn it.

Slowly, reluctantly, the haze returned – thicker now, pressing down on me, muffling the edges of my thoughts. My limbs grew distant, unresponsive, as if they no longer belonged to me.

The gray world stuttered. A flicker at the edge of my vision. Then it deepened.

Every blink revealed a fracture in reality – my body lying still on the bed, the ceiling bending inward at impossible angles, the clouds beyond the window flickering like faulty film. The air itself seemed to lag behind.

For a second, panic surged – sharp and instinctive. What if Jurrian walked in on me doing… whatever the fuck this was? What if the Court—

The thought hit too loudly, too suddenly. The room snapped back into place.

I groaned, clenching and unclenching my fists.