Ancient Forces Collection (29 page)

One thing was sure. Scott would ask Z when he got home. Although Scott didn’t know much about Z, it seemed that Z had tons of advice about these kinds of things, especially if it had to do with the spirit realm.

“You know,” Scott said, trying to start a conversation, “I actually think it would be kind of cool to know the future . . . and all of that stuff.”

Philip clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead.

“I’m serious,” Scott added, trying to sound sincere. “You know, that would make it easier to figure out what to do before you had to do it, right?”

Philip looked the other way.

“But if you ask me — ” Scott started to say.

Philip’s head snapped around. His eyes were as dark as his hair. “I didn’t
ask
you.”

“Still,” Scott said, ignoring him, “there’s something not right with that lady. Her whole deal is so . . . weird, you know? I mean, the candles, the crystals, the turban thing around her head — what’s with that, anyway?”

Philip slammed on his brakes. The car skidded to a stop. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Now.”

“Here? Why?”

Philip barked, “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

6

B
ecka hummed a tuneless melody as she, gliding through the kitchen, stacked the spaghetti-soiled dinner plates in the sink. Nothing could dampen the feeling of euphoria. Not the pile of homework awaiting her in her bedroom, not the fact that she had to study for two tests, not even Scott’s sour mood.

Today was an exceptional day. Her mom, who needed to rush out after dinner for a meeting at church, had asked her to do the dishes. Becka didn’t mind. All she cared about was what happened that afternoon at Sonic.

With Ryan.

As she remembered every little detail, she was amazed that her heart didn’t go into cardiac arrest when Ryan had said he too was thinking about their future
together.
True, they had always taken their relationship slowly. Still, he had feelings for her. What more could she want? Knowing that was enough to put the spin in her world.

Her spirit soared somewhere above the clouds at the memory.

From some faraway place, she thought she heard a voice calling her name . . .
Becka.

Gazing at the sunset, its golden glow perfectly
framed through the window over the sink, she lowered a dish into the warm water. As her hands slipped into the soap bubbles, her mind drifted miles away to the ocean. She imagined herself on the beach walking along the seaside with her toes leaving little tracks in the sand.

With Ryan.

“Becka . . .”

This time, the voice was much clearer. She blinked and found herself in front of the sink. She sighed as reality set back in. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her mother by the front door, purse and keys in hand. “Oh, hey, Mom.”

“Didn’t you hear me calling your name, sweetheart?”

“I . . . I guess I was lost in my thoughts,” Becka said, blushing.

“I’ve got the cell phone in case you guys need anything, okay?”

“We’ll be fine, Mom,” Becka said, noticing her hands were dripping onto the floor. She quickly placed them over the sink.

“I’ll be back in about two hours,” Mrs. Williams said.“Thanks for doing the dishes, Becka. And, Scott?”

He grunted, “Yeah, Mom?”

“Don’t forget tonight is trash night — ”

“I know, I’ll handle it.”

Mrs. Williams hesitated with one hand on the doorknob. “Well, better run. How do I look?”

Becka tilted her head. “Great, Mom. I really like your new dress.”

That brought a smile. “Thanks, sweetie. I love you both,” she said and then left.

Becka’s attention drifted from the front door to the lump of humanity hunched over his plate at the kitchen table. From experience, she knew something was seriously wrong if Scott refused to eat. Especially if he was ignoring something as awesome as Mom’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs.

Ever since their father had died in a plane crash while on the mission field in South America, she and Scott had drawn closer. In many ways, they were the best of friends even though he was two years younger. When he was hurting, Becka hurt with him.

She forced herself to put her daydream on hold, dried her hands on a towel, walked to the table, and pulled up a chair. “So what’s up, bro?”

Scott noodled his spaghetti with a fork. He shrugged.

“Come on, Scotty,” she said, pulling her hair back. “Are you bummed out that Philip won first place in the debate?”

He looked up. “No way. I’m happy for him.”

“Then why the long face?” As she waited for Scott to respond, Muttly wandered into the room and rested at Becka’s feet. Becka leaned over and rubbed his belly.

Scott leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Philip’s being a dork, big time.”

“Okay, like how?”

Scott shook his head in disgust. “Get this. He kicked me out of the car and made me walk almost halfway home.”

Oddly, that actually struck her as funny. She bit her bottom lip to suppress a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“For real. The guy’s nuts in the head,” Scott said, making cuckoo circles next to his ear. “He slammed on the brakes, which just about killed us. Then he yelled and told me to get out of the car. He’s so messed up.”

Becka, still fighting back a snicker, said, “Mom and I wondered what took you so long to get home.”

“Actually, we stopped at that Madame Weirdo’s place first.”

“Huh?” Becka watched as Muttly stretched his legs and then strolled out of the room, apparently losing interest in the conversation.

“She’s a lady that tells the future with tarot cards — whatever they are,” Scott said. He reached for a roll. “At least that’s what Philip claims.” He munched on the bread for a second.

Was Philip the person Z wanted them to help? No matter what, Becka didn’t like the sound of Philip getting mixed up with a fortune-teller. Although she was no expert on the subject, she knew enough about the Bible and had come face-to-face with demonic powers to know that stuff like palm reading and fooling around with contacting spirits was a bad deal. “Do you think that this what’s-her-face — ”

“Madame Theo,” Scott said, as a picture of her turban-bound head came to mind.

“Yeah, that this Madame Theo might have something to do with Philip’s reaction?”

“I don’t know. Probably.” Scott popped the rest of the roll into his mouth. “At least, it looks that way, now that you mention it.”

Becka sat cross-legged on the chair. “I know. Why don’t you just call and talk to Krissi? Maybe she knows what’s up with Philip.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. I mean, this involves Krissi too.”

“How’s that?”

“Think about it,” Becka said. “Philip was so not himself yesterday in the cafeteria, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“I say there’s a connection between what happened today and what was going on yesterday. See?”

“I . . .”

“Trust me,” Becka said, starting to stand. “Just call it a woman’s intuition.”

“But what do I tell Krissi?” Scott said, scrunching his nose. “I don’t know the first thing about tarot cards.”

“Why not ask Z first?”

Scott smacked his forehead. “I knew there was something I forgot to do. I’ll see if he’s online.”

Scott walked into his bedroom and quietly turned on the small desk lamp. Cornelius, his pet military macaw, stood asleep on a perch near his desk. With one foot drawn to his chest, his powerful beak was buried in a patch of bright green and scarlet plumage. Scott scratched the back of his bird’s neck before taking a seat in front of the computer.

Scott tapped the space bar to wake the monitor from its sleep mode. He typed in his password — Dirty Socks — and logged on to the computer. After many months, they were no closer to knowing much about the mysterious Z, even though on several occasions they had tried to discover Z’s true identity.

One thing was certain: Z was an expert on the supernatural and for some strange reason had taken an interest in Scott and Becka’s efforts to fight the forces of darkness. Whenever they had a question about the occult, they’d send Z an email. Often Z would be online in the evenings. Scott noted the clock on his menu bar: 8:47. His fingers danced across the keyboard.

Hey, Z. Are you there? It’s Scott.

As Scott waited, he couldn’t help but think of all of the things Z knew about them . . . personal family things. In a way, it was unsettling. Z knew stuff that only somebody really close to them could know. So far, Z had never steered them wrong or done anything to make them uncomfortable.

Still, the fact that this stranger knew about him and seemed to care about him was difficult for Scott to process. In an odd sort of way, Z made Scott long for his dad. His dad, after all, was someone who, like Z, knew a lot about the Bible and who always helped him figure stuff out.

Scott watched a response form on the screen.

Great to hear from you, Scott. How’s your friend?

Scott swallowed. He assumed Z was referring to Philip.
How
in the world does Z know about him?
Scott thought. He hadn’t said anything about Philip, at least not yet. That eerie sensation returned, but Scott shrugged it off. Z just seemed to have his sources. Scott typed:

Z, Philip is really stressed out. He’s using tarot cards to figure
out the future. What do you know about tarot?

After several seconds, a message from Z appeared:

Tarot cards are nothing more than a tool of divination used to foretell events, much like crystal gazing, palmistry, or soothsaying.

Is it dangerous?

Indeed. On several levels.

Like how?

Scott waited as his cursor blinked impatiently on the screen. No response.

Z, I have to know. What’s Philip getting into?

After a pause, an answer appeared:

People who promote tarot cards claim it’s an innocent way to discern the future. They use words like spiritual development, inner knowledge, life forces, and cosmic energies to explain what you’re tapping into with the cards.

So what’s the danger?

Another extended pause. Scott took a deep breath. He knew sometimes Z wouldn’t answer a direct question, at least not immediately. And other times, Z would answer a question with a question. A question formed on the screen:

Who holds your life in his hand?

That’s easy. Jesus does.

Who knows everything about your future?

Jesus.

How does he invite you to communicate with him?

By talking with him. Through prayer. What’s this got to do
with tarot cards?

As Scott waited for a response, Becka walked into the room and leaned over his shoulder. “What’s Z saying?”

“I’m a little confused,” Scott said, scratching the side of his head. “I don’t think he really answered my question.”

“Let’s see,” Becka said, reaching for the mouse. She scrolled back and read the conversation thread. “Hey, I think I get what Z’s trying to say.”

“Okay, if you’re so brilliant, what’s he saying?”

“You’ve got to read between the lines, Scott. Look here.” She pointed to the screen. “We’re supposed to talk to Jesus through prayer, right?”

“Right . . . but . . .”

“Which means we don’t need tarot cards,” Becka said. “We already have a direct line to God. So who, then, are people talking to when they use stuff like tarot cards to communicate? It sure can’t be God. Get it? That’s Z’s point.”

“I guess . . . but . . .”

Becka nudged Scott to the side and typed a question:

Z, it’s Becka. Are you saying that tarot cards can open up a
person to satanic activity?

They waited several seconds before one word appeared on the screen:

Exactly.

Scott felt a sudden chill creep up from the base of his spine. If tarot cards were really just another form of spiritual counterfeit, one with roots in the occult, then Philip was in more danger than he probably knew. Even though Scott was still hacked off at Philip for kicking him out of the car, there was no way he’d stand by and let his friend get sucked into a trap.

Scott pounded out one last question:

Z, it’s Scott. I’ve got to know. How dangerous are they?

Nothing. Scott exchanged a look with Becka. He checked the screen again. After what felt like forever, Z’s response scrawled across the screen one letter at a time:

Can be lethal.

Z

7

S
peaking of lover boy,” Scott said, lowering his voice to Krissi the next day before study hall. He nodded in the direction of the door.

Krissi, who sat next to Scott, looked over his shoulder as Philip shuffled into the crowded study hall. His T-shirt was partially untucked in the back, his jeans wrinkled, and his hair had a bad case of static cling.

He took one of the remaining available seats in the front right corner of the room close to the door. Not that he had much of a choice. All of the seats in the back were already taken. Philip flopped into his chair, plopped his stuff on the desk in front of him, and leaning forward, dropped his chin onto the stack of books.