Page 79 of The Malibu Destiny

I point at her. “Not a word about Lilith to anyone. Not a word about my dad to anyone. Got that? You breathe a word and the fed will get an anonymous tip. And you can do what can, hire a forensic fucking genius to erase all evidence of your trades from your hard-drives, but it’ll be no use. Those trades are out there. They can’t be erased. The feds will find them. And you’ll be fucking toast.” I raise an eyebrow. “Fair warning.”

At that, I drink the rest of my whiskey, throw down my napkin and storm out.

Tomorrow, I’ll do one thing, the first thing in the morning.

Head to Carmel.

But first, I call Jack. "Jack," I say. "Sera won't be a problem anymore. Where's Lilith?"

"Oh my god, what did you do? I need details!"

Jack's practically salivating for gossip, but I can't risk it. My arrangement with Sera hinges on discretion—her financial indiscretions stay buried as long as she backs off. If Jack finds out, the whole city will know by happy hour.

"Not important. Just tell me where to find her."

He sighs with the drama of a soap opera diva. "In Car-MEL, silly. I'm sure you knew that. Some cosmic priestess named Raven something is letting her crash in her yurt. Our girl’s scouting storefronts for Mystic Tides: The Sequel. Probably communing with redwood spirits and collecting moon-charged pebbles as we speak."

I nod. Tomorrow at dawn, I'll be in my helicopter heading north. The five-hour drive isn't an option—every minute away from her feels like torture.

I touch the small velvet box in my pocket. For weeks, I've been working with Silas, who’s been in touch with jewelers across three continents to find it: a blue diamond so rare that fewer than twenty comparable stones exist on earth. When I look at its impossible azure depths, I see everything I want to promise her—forever, only her, always. The kind of certainty I've never felt about anything else in my life.

Chapter Forty-Seven

LILITH

Raven and I are sharing tea in her shop, legs folded beneath us on embroidered floor pillows, when the bell above the door jingles. A man stumbles in—unwashed hair, clothes that hang on him like they belong to someone else. His eyes find us, red-veined and vacant. The air around him seems to darken, as if light itself retreats from his presence. My skin prickles, tiny hairs standing at attention. Warning signals flash through my mind faster than I can name them, but the message is clear: danger.

He sways slightly, gaze drifting between us without focus. The sour reek of bottom-shelf whiskey reaches me even from across the room. But beneath that—something worse. Something wrong. His aura pulses like an oil spill—thick, iridescent black that seems to absorb all the light around him, leaving only the sharp edges of his silhouette visible against the California sunshine.

The warmth from my tea cup vanishes as cold seeps into the space. Beside me, Raven's fingers tighten around her mug. Her shoulders stiffen.

"Can I help you?" Her voice cuts through the silence.

He just shakes his head. His gaze drifts to Raven's display of rare crystals. The lavender-pink Taafeite catches the light, its $5,000-per-carat brilliance matched only by its mystical power to transform bad luck into good fortune and bestow divine wisdom upon its keeper.

Next to it sits Musgravite, deceptive in its greyish-green exterior that conceals spectacular rainbow depths within—much like its spiritual properties of fostering new beginnings, restoring balance, and inviting joy into one's life.

His eyes linger on the Painite, similar to the black-and-red stone Roman gifted me for the gala, its dramatic natural beauty renowned for drawing abundance to whoever possesses it. Collectors covet these stones as much for their mystical properties as for their scarcity—each one a tangible promise that happiness and prosperity might be held in the palm of your hand.

His eyes fix on the display case. "That Taafeite. Want it." Before I can respond, his hand disappears into his overcoat and emerges with a gun. The morning light catches on the barrel. My stomach drops. Just moments ago, I'd barely registered his coat—November in Carmel, sixty degrees, the shop just opening. Nothing unusual. Now I see what I missed: the slight bulge at his side, the way the fabric hangs too loose around his frame, the nervous darting of his eyes. My brain had collected all these warning signs and filed them away, useless, but it helps explain my earlier intuition that something was very wrong.

I look at the man, who's staring at the case with pupils blown so wide his irises have disappeared into black holes. His fingers twitch against his thigh—counting, measuring, calculating their worth with manic precision. The muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin like something alive trying to escape. Sweat cascades at his temples despite the arctic blast of air conditioning.

“Lock the fucking door and put the closed sign out NOW!” He screams, waving the gun around wildly. Raven dashes to the door and does as he says.

The man’s breathing has gone shallow and ragged, and I can feel the fever-heat scorching off him in violent waves. My throat constricts like it's being crushed. Every hair on my body electrifies. My instincts don't just scream danger—they shriek in primal terror. This man isn't just unstable—he's a detonation with a timer counting down to zero.

Raven's hands tremble violently as she fumbles with the case, nearly dropping it before placing the crystal on the counter with a dull thud. The man's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as his gaze locks onto the stone. A muscle in his cheek spasms, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallow the irises. "Cornelia," he hisses, his eyes boring into mine like twin drills. "You fucking whore. You're already dead. This crystal is going to rip your soul apart and scatter it across dimensions for what you did."

My blood freezes in my veins. This is a predator who's found his prey. Headlines flash through my mind: "Woman Decapitated in Bookstore," "Shop Owner's Throat Slashed by Customer." The subway pusher in New York. The Portland stabber. The Boston Strangler.

He's looking at me but seeing someone else, and that someone else is already dead in his mind.

Chapter Forty-Eight

ROMAN

My turboprop slices through the morning air toward Carmel. By 9 AM, I'm touching down at Monterey Regional. Damn air traffic control—wouldn't clear me for takeoff until 7. Jack's intel on Raven is pathetically thin: no last name, no shop name, just "some kind of psychic." Useless bastard.