I clear my throat, knowing I have to say something though I’ve no idea what. “Honor’s not—” nice, pleasant, kind, decent, at all what she seems—but the truth is, that more describes Stacia. Honor’s much more of an enigma to me.

Jude looks at me, waiting for the finish.

But I just turn away, face obscured by a chunk of blond hair when I say, “Honor’s not someone I know all that well.”

“Guess that makes two of us.” He grins, tossing back the last of his coffee before crumbling his cup and projecting it toward the trash where it lands with a thud. His gaze seeking mine when he says, “Though she does seem a little lost and unsure, and that’s exactly the kind of person we try to help around here.”

By six, my fifth client, a last-minute walk-in, is gone for the day, and I’m in the back room smoothing my hair from the black wig I decided to wear.

“Better.” Jude nods, glancing up from his computer briefly, before returning to his work. “The blond suits you. That black was a little harsh,” he mumbles, tapping the keyboard and shaking his head.

“I know. I looked like a severely anemic Snow White,” I say, looking at Jude as we laugh.

“So, what’d you think?” he asks, back to his computer screen.

“I liked it.” I nod, moving away from the mirror and closer to the desk where I perch on the edge. “It was good. I mean, some of it was kind of depressing and all, but it’s nice to be able to help someone for a change, you know?” Watching his fingers move across the keyboard so fast my eyes can hardly keep up. “Because honestly, I wasn’t so sure. But I think it went okay. I mean, you didn’t get any complaints or anything—did you?”

He shakes his head, squinting as he shuffles through a stack of papers at his side. “Did you remember to shield yourself?” He takes a moment to gaze up at me.

I lift my shoulders, having no idea what he means. The only shielding I’ve ever done is the kind that shuts off everyone’s energy, which would make it pretty much impossible to give a reading.

“You need to protect yourself,” he says, pushing away his laptop to better focus on me. “Both before and after a reading. Has no one ever shown you how to leave yourself open while still shielding yourself from unwanted attachments?”

I shake my head, wondering if that’s even necessary for an immortal like me. Unable to imagine anyone’s energy being strong enough to drag me down, but it’s not like I can share that with him.

“Would you like to learn how?”

I shrug, scratching my arm as I glance at the clock, wondering how long it’ll take.

“It won’t take long,” he says, reading my expression, already moving away from the desk. “And it really is important. Think of it like washing your hands—it releases all the negative stuff your clients carry with them, making sure it can’t contaminate your life.”

He motions for me to take one of the seats as he perches on the adjacent one, regarding me seriously as he says, “I would guide you through a meditation that’ll help strengthen your aura—but since I can’t actually see your aura, I have no idea if it needs strengthening.”

I press my lips together and cross my right leg over my left, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to respond.

“Sometime you’ll have to tell me how you hide it like that. I’d love to learn your technique.”

I swallow hard and nod slightly, as though I might just do that someday, but not now.

Keeping his voice low and smooth, almost to a whisper, he says, “Close your eyes and relax, breathing slowly and deeply as you picture a swirl of pure golden energy with each intake of breath, followed by a swirl of dark mist with each outtake. Breathing in the good—ridding yourself of the bad. Continuing this cycle again and again, allowing only good energy to work its way through your cells, until you feel cleansed and whole and ready to begin.”

I do as he says, reminded of the grounding meditation Ava once put me through, concentrating on my breath, keeping it slow, steady, and even. At first feeling self-conscious under the weight of his gaze, knowing he’s studying me closer than he would if my eyes were open, but soon, I’m pulled into the rhythm—pulse calming, mind clearing, concentrating on nothing but breathing.

“Then, when you’re ready, imagine a cone of the most brilliant, golden white light reaching down from the heavens and descending upon you—growing and expanding in size until it bathes you completely—surrounding your entire being and allowing no lower energies or negative force fields to creep in—keeping all your positivity fully intact, safe from those who might leech it.”

I open an eye, peeking at him, never having thought of someone trying to steal my chi.

“Trust me,” he says, waving his hand, motioning for me to close my eyes and return to the meditation again. “Now imagine that same light as a powerful fortress, repelling all darkness while keeping you safe.”

So I do. Seeing myself in my mind, sitting on that chair, with a cone of light extending from above and moving down past my hair, over my tee, and well past my jeans to my flip-flops below. Enveloping me completely, keeping the good stuff in, and the bad stuff out—just like he said.

“How does it feel?” he asks, voice much closer than I expected.

“Good.” I nod, holding the cone of light in my mind, keeping it steady and bright. “It feels warm and—welcoming—and—good.” I shrug, more interested in enjoying the experience than rooting around for just the right word.