Page 15 of Holy Water
He caught my eye.And something flickered in his.Not mockery.Not derision.
Something like wonder.
Maybe.
I lowered the bowl slowly, unable to tear my gaze from his.
Everyone else in the circle was still, waiting, as if they knew something important was happening too.
Was this a coincidence?
Was this a cosmic test?
I didn’t know.
All I knew was this:
What the hell was I supposed to do with a man like Julian Reed… if he turned out to be the one who needed healing most?
ChapterSeven
Julian
Icame for the story.
This was the assignment.And if I did it right, it’d be the podcast episode that blew up on all the platforms—clicks, shares, think pieces, angry DMs from crystal aunties.The works.
“Inside the Mind of a Modern-Day Prophet,” or some shit like that.
Jude Brooks was the bait.Viral faith healer.Local legend.Alleged miracle worker with a suspiciously symmetrical face.Too soft-spoken.Too polished.And definitely hiding something.
I’d agreed to come to this ritual because he invited me, and I knew an excellent opportunity when it sparkled in front of me barefoot and glowing.I said yes without hesitation.Of course I wanted in.This was the heart of it—whatever performance he was selling, this moonlit circle was where it played best.
The Healing Center’s back lawn looked like a Coachella-sponsored séance.Fire was crackling in a ring of mismatched stones.Lawn chairs and meditation cushions in a loose circle.People dressed in linen and fringe, some with flower crowns, others in layers of gauzy fabric like they’d just emerged from a spiritual chrysalis at Burning Man.
And the smells.
God, the smells.
Lavender.Cedar.Something that might’ve been eucalyptus or a Yankee Candle crime scene.I was high on secondhand incense and probably low-key allergic to whatever was burning in the weird carved bowl near the altar stone.
I kept my phone tucked in my jacket pocket, mic off for now, but mentally recording every detail.This wasn’t a ritual.It was a goddamn production.
Someone was already playing a hang drum.A woman was singing softly, cradling a jar of salt like it was her emotional support item.
And in the center of it all?
Jude.
Holding a bowl over his head, standing barefoot in the grass like some kind of pagan Disney prince.His eyes were closed, his lips moving in what I could only assume were blessings or exceptionally tasteful slam poetry.
I watched him from the edge of the tree line, arms crossed, trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
I mean—what the hell was this?
A man had a tunic, and I swear to God it was made from recycled upholstery.Someone nearby was whispering to a piece of driftwood.A woman handed Jude a rock shaped like a penis and claimed it vibrated with “masculine energy,” and no one, not a single person, laughed.
How?
