Page 104 of Don't Let Me Go
Without waiting for a response, Farouk closes the door. I feel incredibly guilty about blackmailing my way backstage. Hopefully when this is all over, I can find a way to make it up to him (and to Tala,who’s going to be pissed when she finds out that I used something she told me in confidence to extort her brother).
Right now, though, my priority is Jocasta.
There aren’t very many people milling around backstage, which is convenient. It’s also dark, which further decreases the chances of someone spotting Jackson and me and kicking us out. Not that anyone would notice us even if all the lights were on. The few people who are standing in the wings seem too engrossed by what’s happening onstage.
There, seated in a large wooden chair decorated with ornately carved wolf heads, is Jocasta. Her eyes are closed, and her palms are turned upward in that rather stereotypical pose of spiritual communion. She’s wearing a pink Chanel power suit and her red hair has been styled into an angled bob, but there’s no denying that the woman onstage has the same sharp cheekbones and the same gaunt figure as the woman from our dreams.
“It’s definitely her,” Jackson whispers.
I nod, and a familiar chill creeps down my spine. A part of me was hoping that we’d made a mistake about Jocasta. If we’d been wrong, if our eyes had been playing tricks on us and shewasn’tthe woman from our dreams, there would have been a good chance that I was also wrong about everything else—the past lives, the reincarnation.
But I wasn’t wrong. About any of it. A woman from our nightmares who should’ve died a thousand years ago is standing in front of us. Which means either she really is a witch or she’s been reincarnated like Jackson and me.
I’m not sure which option scares me more.
Trying to stay calm, I peek out into the packed auditorium and scan the audience. There’s a pretty even mix of men and women, of old and young, that spans almost every race and ethnicity. The onlycommon denominator is that every audience member is riveted to their seat, waiting breathlessly for Jocasta to speak.
“There’s someone here today who’s name begins with aD,” she announces suddenly, her voice breaking the silence of the auditorium and surprising me with its unexpected Southern drawl. It has nothing of Ulfhild’s cold, austere tone. In fact, she sounds less like a mystical seeress and more like a posh socialite from Atlanta.
“It’s a woman, I believe,” Jocasta continues, eyes still closed. “A woman facing a difficult decision about not one man but two?”
In the audience, a woman gasps and cautiously rises from her seat. She looks about thirty and has long stylish locs cascading over one side of her head; the other side is buzzed almost bare. Duy would describe her look as “effortlessly and intimidatingly cool,” though right now, she’s completely in awe of Jocasta.
“I think that’s me,” the woman says. “I’m Dionne.”
Jocasta opens her eyes. She nods and beckons the woman to the stage. It’s only then that I notice the second, smaller chair next to hers. Dionne sits in the chair, and Jocasta tilts her head as if listening to something that only she can hear.
“You find yourself at a crossroads,” Jocasta announces. It’s not a question but the woman nods in agreement. “Two men are vying for your heart, each with an equal claim to your affection.”
Dionne blinks in amazement. “Yes.”
“These men—you feel a strong connection with them both. Both support your dreams and inspire you to be your best self. You believe that with either of these men at your side, you could accomplish great things. Especially in your career. Both of these men work in the same artistic world as you, I believe, which means that a union with either would be both a romantic partnership and a professional one. This, of course, is something you have always craved.”
Again, it’s not a question, and Dionne’s mouth falls open. “How did you...”
Jocasta waves dismissively as if to say how she knows what she knows is as obvious as it is irrelevant. “The only difference between these men is that one is someone you have known all your life and the other is a more recent acquaintance. With the former there is a sense of stability, security, and comfort stemming from a life of shared experiences. With the other, there is a passion and an intensity that comes from the newness of the relationship. But there is also a fear and distrust of that passion.”
Dionna looks like a bobblehead. She hasn’t stopped nodding since Jocasta started speaking. “Exactly.”
Jocasta chuckles to herself as if she’s impressed with her own abilities. “This is not the first time that you have found yourself in such a dilemma. Throughout the many lives that you have lived, you have often been pursued by men who recognize your greatness. Your strength, your intelligence, your beauty—men are drawn to it like moths to a flame. They want to possess you. But a queen can never be possessed.”
Dionne blinks in confusion. “A queen?”
Jocasta nods solemnly. “You have the blood of the Ptolemys in your veins. You have stood on the shores of the Nile and breathed its perfumed air. You have been hailed as a god and you have held the asp to your breast in death.”
Dionne’s eyes go wide with amazement. “Are you?.?.?.?are you saying I was Cleopatra?”
Jocasta nods, and a wave of excitement ripples through the audience. “Cleopatra was the name you first called yourself. Since then, you have had many. Many names and many lives. But in all those lives, you have faced the same question: What man is worthy of aqueen? Cleopatra loved the great Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. But did she force herself to choose?No. She took them both. And with both of those loves, she and her kingdom flourished.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
Dionne laughs nervously. “Well, I can’t ask these men to share me.”
“Why not?”
Dionne is speechless.
