Page 3 of Divine Oaths

And then I channeled back to the 1950s, where I witnessed the fabric first being woven, stamped, dipped in resin, and submerged in reams of gold dye to create the patterns across it.

I let go of the fabric and blinked the vision away. The images of the past faded from my mind and the present returned—Gus frowning and waiting for me to explain what I’d seen, and behind me, farther off, the student from Westfield watching our interaction, his brown eyes bright with curiosity. He took another swig from his flask, waiting now too.

“It’s from the fifties,” I said. “Handcrafted, no machinery. And yes, it’s original. Not reproduced.”

Gus examined the fabric like a vulture perched in front of a carcass; his greasy hair clung to his balding head, the last few strands rippling from the force of the mall AC bearing down on us.

When I’d started using my powers to see into the timelines of merchandise, we’d been able to sell the secondhand items here as more than just “junk keepsakes.” I’d been the one to come up with the idea of including authenticity certificates with purchases from the store. Because of my abilities, we could market them as one-of-a-kind purchases with real historical significance. But of course, he’d taken credit for it.

Even now, Gus’s teeth, most of which had been replaced with fake gold, gleamed bright with greed as he smirked at me. “Things from the fifties don’t sell for much.”

“Are you buying it or not?” I snapped.

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine?”

“I’ll give you an advance. But you’ll have to pay me back. You already borrowed more than I owe you in back pay.” He folded the two-piece set, grabbed an empty certificate from the bottom shelf of the counter, and started writing the details that I’d relayed to him from my vision.

“Now get to work,” he said, gathering the fabric and certificate and skulking to the back of the store, where he’d add it to the catalog and then, later, to the shop’s stock.

I crossed the threshold to the register. When I took a seat, footsteps approached the front. Suddenly, I found myself staring up at the student from Westfield.

He shot me a wry smile, and heat burned against my cheeks as he ran a hand through his hair and glanced between me and his friends. They were still watching us and drunkenly snickering, even four aisles away.

When he spoke, his voice was deep and rich, the sound of moonlight and honey melting together.

“Hi,” he said.

I glanced behind me, hoping that Gus would be back quickly. He always liked being the one to deal with rich customers. Not me. I hated having to interact with them, let alone one from Westfield.

“They think I want to ask you out,” he said. “So, could we pretend for a little bit?”

“I’m working.”

“Oh, so now you are?”

I raised an eyebrow and he at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Sorry, I was just teasing.”

“I don’t know you,” I said simply.

He ignored my assessment and trudged on. “I heard you talking to the owner, about how you need money. I have money. A lot of it. My family owns Westfield.” He paused at the look of surprise in my expression. “Yes, the university.”

I’d heard rumors about Westfield University students, but this was my first real interaction with a current one. Of course, it just happened to be with the literal heir of the institution—that is, if he wasn’t lying to my face. Even so, I got the sense that, despite reeking of liquor and nearly stumbling his way to the front, he was calculating every moment of this encounter, planning what he would say or do, even as his body struggled to keep up.

“I want to hire you,” he said eventually. “And I want you to come with me to Westfield.”

I scoffed.

“I think you’re at the wrong corner for that.”

That earned me a smile from him, a real one, and not the sneering kind he and his friends had been flashing all morning.

“I’m being serious,” he said. “You’re a psychic, right? Well, I need you to use your powers on me and the university grounds.”

“This is a pawnshop,” I said, raising my voice, hoping Gus would somehow intervene or the guy’s friends would take the hint that him “asking me out” wasn’t going well. “I don’t do readings until the evening, when I’m at my aunt’s stall. So unless you plan on buying something, you and your friends should take your nepo baby asses from our shop.”