The Astral Conspiracy
The incense fills my hotel room with sandalwood and lavender, but their calming scents do little to soothe my frayed nerves. I fan the thick haze away from the smoke alarm and open a window overlooking the street. From here, I can discern the fading sunrays on the State Department complex through a copse of gold and green trees that have yet to lose their leaves.
Once I remember the name of Terre’s next mother-to-be, I’m to send an encrypted email to a monitored inbox and await further instructions. Truthfully, Aoife could conduct business with me electronically every time, but for some reason, she always wants to meet me in person first as if she might decipher something new about me. I think she just enjoys trying to intimidate me.
If I can meditate my way into remembering what she’s asked of me, maybe this headache will go away. My mind is so muddled right now! Like menopausal brain fog. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve been drugged.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to find my center, but my mind keeps wandering to the tense conversation I had with Aoife in the building down the street. Something isn’t right. The pieces of the puzzle aren’t fitting together the way they should. My visions of the future have always been clear, like watching scenes from an old-timey movie reel play out in my mind, except I see them as the past and even recall the emotions and smells and noises associated with the flashes of memory. But since the full moon before Terre’s funeral, those scenes seem disjointed and out of order, as if entire reels of film have gone missing.
Frustrated, I shake my head and rub my temples. After forty-five years, my abilities have never failed me. I’ve always been able to see the steps that lie ahead, guiding others along their path. But now…now I can’t even see my own next step.
The unease coils in my gut like a snake, refusing to be ignored. I need to figure this out before it’s too late. Before Terre’s killer strikes again.
Aoife doesn’t seem concerned at all about justice. For all I know—and that I can remember of the future—she herself may have been responsible. Wouldn’t be the first time. Her mother—both as Secretary of State and as Daeganean High Priestess before Aoife—had culled her own opponents as well as her daughter’s rivals more than once. Knowing that, I have no idea how the former High Priestess let me live unless she thought I’d never be a threat to her daughter’s dreams.
With a sigh, I give up on meditating and move to the small dinette table in the corner of my tiny kitchen with its full-sized gas stove and refrigerator. It’s time to dig deeper and see what the stars and planets can tell me. If I can’t remember a mom-to-be’s name, then maybe I can locate her through astrology.
I check my ephemeris on my phone, just as a reminder of where the stars are at the moment—which sign, which degree, which minute.
There!
Just at the edge of my vision, a flicker of something catches my eye. I zoom in for a closer look.
What the actual hell?
A small anomaly in the alignment of the stars that I didn’t notice before. When was the last time I looked at my charts at home?
I hurry back to the small table in the foyer next to a larger-than-normal bathroom and grab a handful of hotel stationery and a cheap white pen with a blue cap. I need to cast my charts by hand, without the help of a mundane app on my phone.
“When in doubt,” I mutter to myself, “it’s always best to go back to my training.”
Maybe I’m looking at the wrong year in the ephemeris? Even if I am, something’s off.
I’m to meet Shelby in a matter of days, and I distinctly remember that the moon was full on that first night we snuggled by an outdoor fireplace at a bar in Vail and shared a bottle of fruity wine. And yet…and yet according to the dates and details on the small screen I clutch in front of me as I squint harder in hopes they’ll make sense, the next full moon is not in two weeks but in three nights.
Scrolling quickly through the ephemeris, I know almost instantly that both Venus and Mars aren’t where I expect them to be. This isn’t how I remember the future, but it’s also not how I remember the skies a few days ago. The stars are as off-course as my memories are.
When was the last time I looked at my astrology charts?
Easy. All the fucking time.
I don’t share my shame with anyone, not even my best friend, but I’m always obsessed with checking the charts I’ve cast when they relate to Shelby. I rarely look at the position of my own stars, but I do look at his.
All the fucking time. I’m ridiculous about it.
I know what astrological turbulence is coming for him months away. I know when he’s likely to have a bad day because I know from the charts I cast that Transiting Mars is conjunct his Natal Saturn.
I know that on the day we meet for the first time, Transiting Venus will be conjunct the vertex of his natal chart to an exact degree and his heart will be wide open, and that our composite synastry—our combined natal charts—will feature an incredible Venus-Sun-Juno conjunction occurring shortly before midnight by wine and firelight.
Reviewing the ephemeris in my hands, I find that none of those planets, stars, or asteroids are where I expect them to be. My breath catches in my throat as the implications become clear.
No wonder my memory has been off. Someone has been manipulating the stars themselves to obscure my sight.
Or to change the future.
But that’s impossible, isn’t it? I need to cast the charts from scratch to be sure. I sigh both my frustration and exhaustion and pray I’m wrong.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
Aoife? Who else knows I’m here, other than her bodyguards?
“Room service!” calls a deep male voice, muffled through the door.
Hungry and fatigued, I’m halfway to the door before I remember I haven’t ordered anything. Through the peephole in the center of the door, all I can see is a tall brown bag of fresh produce—and a silver topknot behind it.
“Virgil!” I shriek as I fling open the door. “What are you doing here?”
He leans around the bag and laughs at me. “Waiting to be invited in?”
“Come in, Virgil,” I manage, my tired voice cracking.
He does, his arms laden with brown bags topped with bright vegetables and stalks of something green. As I close the door behind him, my heart feels heavy with the weight of concerns I can’t bring myself to voice, but his smiling eyes lighten my mood. He’s the brother I never had, always protective, and even more so since his prediction that I’ll leave this incarnation by the end of September.
I watch him stride into the tiny, ill-equipped kitchen. The rustling of paper bags and the clink of glass jars become a symphony in the quiet room. With calm efficiency, Virgil starts to unload his spoils. The countertops soon are piled with colors. Fresh, leafy greens. Ripe, plump tomatoes. A whole grain loaf of bread, still warm from the baker’s oven. A mason jar filled with homemade pesto. A solid block of parmesan. The tiny market next door, despite its narrow aisles, offers the best of everything.
“How did you know I’d be here? Or that I had a room with a full kitchen, however small it may be?”
“Magic.” As Virgil immerses himself in his culinary passions, he glances up, winks, then breaks into a grin. “Seriously, though. Whenever Aoife summons me, this is where she already has a booked room for me through the priesthood. Just as she does for you.” The twinkle in his eyes fades. “Hey, you okay, Zeph?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just a headache.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
He knows me well. Of course, I have a headache. I haven’t eaten all day and barely slept last night. It’s like my whole nervous system is off, and it’s way more than jet lag.
Virgil nods. “I knew it. Anyway, to answer your next question, no, Aoife didn’t summon me. The Pentagon did. I’ve been there all afternoon, and then I’m over at the Mark Center Complex tomorrow.”
“Really? That’s a lot of walking, even from the entrances to your destinations. I thought you were going to go ahead and retire, given your bad knee has been getting worse.” I’d done a scrying for him right after Kimber died, back when he was having a crisis of faith, and I’d warned him his mother was ill again and that he should prepare himself.
“Nah. Knee’s fine for walking. It’s standing in one place too long that bugs the daylights out of me. I won’t be going back to the field but I’m still of use. Nothing official yet, but it looks like I’m going to be rewarded with my dream job instead of retiring: teaching intelligence gathering at the Naval Post-Graduate School in Monterey. California, here I come!”
I fake a smile as I stand over the dinky kitchen table, my blank paper spread before me, pen in hand and poised to trace the intricate paths of the stars and planets. I want to be happy for Virgil, but I know his coveted assignment will evaporate. Only hours before I meet Shelby for the first time, Virgil’s mom will call him with bad news, and Monterey will never materialize for him.
“Oh, cool,” I murmur. I turn away so he can’t see my sadness.
Behind me, Virgil has found his rhythm, transforming simple ingredients into a symphony of flavors. The smell of onions caramelizing in olive oil wafts through the air, mixing with the aroma of fresh vegetables being sliced and bread being re-toasted in the oven. The smell is deliciously strong enough to overpower the earlier fog of incense. My stomach gives a loud grumble, reminding me of the meals I’ve skipped and the hours I’ve spent wrestling with Aoife’s demands.
With my free hand, I press against my temple, trying to subdue the gnawing headache that has been gaining force. As the discomfort recedes, I lean over the papers, my pen finally making its first mark on the page, starting its dance across the cosmos.
The clinking of pans and the sizzle of food quickly form a comfortable backdrop as I spiral deeper into the astrological charts, tracing the curves of the cosmos with my pen. It’s hard to concentrate—all I think about is food.
The distinct, homely aroma of garlic and onion browning in olive oil weaves through the air, intertwining with the scent of warm bread and earthy pesto. I absently note the sensation of hunger that claws at my belly, but it is suddenly overshadowed by the newest concern welling within me.
As the stars take shape on my paper, they begin to tell a tale far different from the one I anticipated. The planetary conjunctions, once my steadfast markers of future events, now seem to dance out of line, their celestial harmony distorted.
My heart flutters in my chest, a rapid staccato in my ears against the otherwise soothing sounds of Virgil’s kitchen orchestrations. I trust my abilities. Always have. But what I’m seeing now is beyond the realm of mere human error or computational misstep. It’s as if the universe itself is playing a cruel trick on me.
I swallow hard, the severity of my findings weighing on my mind. “Virgil,” I begin, my voice barely a whisper, almost lost in the quiet hum of the exhaust fan.
He turns from the stove, eyebrows raised in silent query.
I glance at my astrological charts, then back to him. “The stars…they’ve changed. The planets, their conjunctions, everything. It’s like…like they’re conspiring against me.”
Virgil’s smile fades. He wipes his hands on a dishtowel, his gaze intent on me. I know he doesn’t understand the extent of the issue, but he senses the gravity of my words. The sizzle of the pan fades into a disquieting silence as the implications of my discovery begin to sink in.
“Have you found Terre’s next mom yet?” Virgil asks, breaking the silence that has fallen between us. His question is gentle, but the underlying panic in his voice sends a pang of guilt through me.
I glance down at the scattered pieces of the astrological puzzle in front of me. “Not yet,” I admit, my voice strained with frustration. The planets on my chart look like arbitrary scribbles, their meaning distorted. I feel lost in my art. Frustrated, I throw my pen across the pages of sketches and scribbles.
Virgil falls silent for a moment, processing my words. He turns back to his cooking, stirring a deep red tomato sauce. The sweet aroma of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs momentarily distracts me.
“Here.” He offers a wooden spoon, a droplet of the sauce clinging precariously to the edge.
I take it absent-mindedly, my focus still torn between the stars on my page and the reality of an altered future.
As I sample the fiery sauce, the spoon jostles in my hand, spattering red droplets over the chart I’ve been scrutinizing. My heart lurches with a sense of alarm, but then I notice something. One splotch has landed exactly where I remember the moon being in relation to the other celestial bodies.
Not where it is now.
For as hungry as I am, dinner can wait. Inspired, I grab my pen, rapidly sketching new lines, plotting a different path through the zodiac. The chart begins to make sense again. The planets align, the harmony restored. My heartbeat echoes the adrenaline-fueled urgency of my revelation.
“Virgil,” I say, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind. “I have to send a message to Aoife tonight. I’ve found her. Not her name, but her astrological history. Virgil, I’ve found Terre’s next mother.”
His eyes grow wide with surprise. “You’re sure? I thought you said the planets were out of whack.”
“They are. But if I use where they should be instead of where they are, I know exactly where he’ll be born, as well as his parents’ birthdates, so I’ll be able to find her based on that. According to where the stars should be, Terre’s next incarnation will be born on the seventh of November, this year, at 7:17 AM, Mountain Time.” I take a deep breath. “In Vail, Colorado.”
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