Page 90 of Divine Temptations
“Come back to my place,” he whispered. “Can we start over again? Because I feel this connection between us, and I want to explore it.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve.
Instead, I nodded. “I’d love to.”
Jude’s loft was quiet.
It sat above the healing center like some kind of sanctum—bare, soft-lit, and whispering with stillness. No TV. No clutter. Just a low couch by a window framed with gauzy curtains, a small table with a salt lamp glowing faintly, and a modest kitchenette tucked into one corner. The air smelled like cedar and sage, with a faint trail of whatever soap Jude used—woodsy, clean, unassuming.
“Sit down,” Jude said gently, tilting his head toward the couch.
I did as I was told, settling onto the worn cushions with the kind of stiffness I reserved for therapists’ offices and interviews with hostile witnesses. My clothes were still damp from the river, and the fabric clung to my skin, a reminder of just how exposed I already felt.
Jude crossed to the kitchenette, his movements smooth and quiet. He opened a cupboard, pulled down a bottle of red wine, then retrieved two glasses from a little open shelf. No corkscrew needed—twist-top. Efficient. Humble. He poured us both half a glass and returned to the couch, handing one to me before lowering himself beside me.
We sat in silence for a moment.
Sipped.
The wine was decent—earthy, not too sweet. It lingered on my tongue like a secret.
And then, out of nowhere, Jude asked, “How long have you been recording your podcast?”
The glass froze just shy of my lips. My breath caught mid-inhale.
Shit.
He turned to look at me, his face soft, his tone… not accusatory. Just curious.
“You know about Unholy Orders?” I asked carefully.
“I know about it,” he said. “Percy listened to it. Zephyr mentioned it, too. I didn’t want to believe it, but then tonight... the way you watched me. Like you wanted to believe me. But couldn’t.”
I looked down at my wine. The surface trembled slightly with the beat of my pulse.
“So?” Jude asked. “Am I being investigated by Julian Reed, or courted by him? Or are they the same thing?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then, instead of answering, I blurted, “Her name was Maria.”
Jude blinked.
“My mother,” I clarified. “Maria Santini-Reed. Full-blooded Italian, raised Catholic, died her hair black until it turned gray on its own. She could cold-read a room in five seconds flat. You know the type.”
Jude didn’t interrupt.
“She was a scammer,” I said, a humorless laugh catching in my throat. “Psychic readings, past-life regressions, tarot. All fake. She had a little box of stones she used to call her ‘divination kit.’ Half of it was aquarium gravel, and the rest was stuff she picked up at flea markets.”
The memories were sharp. Too sharp. Like they’d been waiting under the surface for years, just looking for a crack to flood through.
“We never stayed anywhere long. Six months max. Any longer and someone caught on. A grieving widow realized she’d been promised a visit from her dead husband for the low price of five hundred bucks and a ‘donation to the spirits.’ A motherfigured out the curse on her son was made up. And then we’d be gone. U-Haul in the middle of the night, fake names, burner phones. Again and again.”
Jude’s hand reached for mine. Quiet. No fanfare. Just fingers sliding into place with mine and giving a gentle, grounding squeeze.
“And the scams kept evolving,” I murmured. “At one point she started selling these tiny glass vials of ‘Holy Water’ from a sacred stream in Italy. Claimed the Virgin herself had blessed it. Said it cured infertility, heartbreak, and back pain. Spoiler alert: it was tap water with a sprig of basil.”
