The funeral is a small—and rainy—affair in comparison to the previous two. Feels like we’ve been going to a service every few months. No snacks, no open bar, just a bunch of super-serious Oracles chanting over a bonfire in the middle of a public park. But I couldn’t stop going to these rites if I tried. My friend Rebekah—Bek—won’t let me. She thinks we might learn something. Which we have, just not the stuff we want to know. Learning that the Oraculum—what the elder Oracles call themselves—owns almost everything in downtown Chicago, and that in these modern times they can’t light the body on fire in the woods, so they have it cremated beforehand, is fun. But none of it is relevant to us. Especially not to the visions I’ve been having, the ones that accompany each death and leave me with a nuclear headache after. 

I come to these funerals because I have to. Because Bek won’t let me stop until I find out who killed her and the others.

I stand on a small hill, apart from and overlooking the proceedings. The woods are silent save for the muttering of the attendees and the lamentations of the presiding Oracle, a stern woman with a long mess of frizzy red hair. The rain has slowed, and now comes down in a mist. There’s a scent of heady pine and cigarette smoke in the air. I guess being long-lived means not having to care about lung cancer. We’re a hearty bunch, the Oracles. Not quite immortal, but not as susceptible to mortal failings. 

The center is a circular space, landscaped with stones, statues of the Old Gods, topiaries, and a wide sunken space filled with a bunch of sticks for the bonfire. Everyone’s dressed modestly, lots of stylish gray and blacks and neutral, earthy tones, and all of them women—male offspring, like my friend Julian, are not allowed at any official event, funeral or otherwise. The majority of the women are hidden by fancy black golf umbrellas. Some chatter amongst themselves, looking sullen and tense. The rain probably isn’t helping. From afar it’s just a bunch of ladies pretending to be sad while their designer label dresses and expensive leather boots get damp. Then again, this is the third funeral we’ve been to—the first was for an elderly housewife no one seemed to know, the second for a popstar everyone did—and the sentiments were the same. Bek didn’t even merit a funeral. No one seems to care that our sisters are being murdered. 

There are some faces I recognize: the redhead; a few women from previous funerals. It’s not surprising that I don’t know anyone. My mother and I aren’t exactly well-loved in our own community. “Exile” is such an ugly word, but there’s a reason I’m eavesdropping with the spirit of my dead friend and not standing with everyone else.

So who was this one, again? I ask Bek inside my head, flipping my hood down and brushing the hair off of my face.

Serena Juno, Bek replies. She was in PR at the Oraculum.

A messenger of messengers.

Think she knew your mom?

I shrug. She knows practically everyone, so it wouldn’t surprise me.

Based on what I’ve gleaned from my mom’s ramblings, when the Oracles had a connection to the Gods, they’d act as the voice of their patron deity—our family’s was Apollo—and convey their divine messages to the lowly mortals. But those times are gone. Have been for a long time. Most Oracles don't even have visions anymore. Lucky me. 

With the Gods gone and our ties to them severed, the Oracles took to relying on our innate prophetic talents to survive. For me, it’s tarot cards. Bek channeled her energy into photography. But most took their talents to the entertainment industry. Like my mom. She loved her life as a celebrity psychic more than anything. And I’m including myself in that statement. 

Think we’ll see any movie stars? Bek asks. Most of the time, she’s just a voice in my head. But for now, she’s manifested into an apparition that only I can see, closely resembling the Bek I remember. Athletic frame, long brown hair with the sides done in loose braids, dressed in functional but fashionable clothes. She was the one to run marathons and play volleyball when I was smoking cigarettes with her brother Julian between classes and smearing on more black eyeliner. 

Is that really what you care about right now? I scuff my combat boots into the squishy earth.

We’re at a funeral, Claude, of course not. It would be cool is all I’m saying.

It’s a constant back and forth between us. Having a friend in your brain nearly every waking moment isn’t as fun as one might imagine. But I have to remember, we have the same goal: we both want to figure this all out so she can be at peace.

I give the ground one last strong kick.

You’re getting mud everywhere.

Gee, sorry, Mom.

It would be a lot easier if you’d just go down there and give our condolences.

You know why I don’t—

You’re an Oracle, I was an Oracle. I never understood why they hated you and your mom so much…

Bek. Stop, not this again.

She knows why my mom and I are the outsiders; it’s all because of me. More or less. One of the few things I’ve learned in my lifetime as an exiled Oracle is that the Oraculum are sticklers for rules. Having an illegitimate child when you’re a practicing money-grubbing psychic is a big no-no to them. So I have my mom to thank for my exile status and less-than-stellar attitude toward everything Delphic in nature.

From our spot on the muddy knoll, we watch as the crowd forms into a sloppy circle. Next they’ll present the urn with Serena’s ashes and sing Kumbaya or something.

Stop being a baby and get down there. There are plenty of things for you to hide behind.

“Bek…”

Come on. It’s not like you're unaccustomed to rule-breaking.

“You know what? Fine.” I start down the hill. “Only because it’ll get me away from you.”

That’s my girl. See you soon!

I stay low, ducking behind the plentiful trees until I can skirt around the edge of the funeral grounds. One of the advantages of being around other Oracles is that Bek hates them. Either that or she’s scared of them. Probably both. 

The closer I get, the more her voice fades. I know she’s still around, but I exhale when I feel her presence muted to silence.

I haven’t tried getting closer to a ritual before; maybe that will help trigger something. Do they really not know we have a killer in our midst? I guess that would imply something isn’t perfect in Oracle society. I knew all of these women were dead before it hit the news or social media. Visions of fire and teeth and red eyes burning, each of the victims being eaten alive by some…thing as they cried out for help. If Bek wants me to solve her murder and theirs, she’s out of luck. I’m no detective; peering into the lives of jilted exes through tarot cards is about as far as I get into investigation anymore.

No one seems to notice me; they’re all focused on the redhead standing in front of the pyre. She’s dressed in a gray blazer and matching pencil skirt with a cream blouse underneath that’s starting to go see-through. Her strappy pumps, silver and white, are smudged with mud and ash. Her hair is braided and crimped and the whole mess is wrestled back with a scarf. 

The funeral pyre is more beautiful up close, an organized bunch of branches, flowers, laurel leaves, and fine thread holding everything in place. I glance back and Bek has disappeared entirely from our spot on the hill. Not that anyone would have seen her but me, but my anxiety about it lessens and I turn my attention back to the ritual.

The presiding Oracle holds aloft the urn—a white clay piece with intricate designs carved into it—and gently pours the ashes over the kindling, as everyone chants in hushed tones. She passes the urn over to another Oracle, who in turn exchanges it for a small bottle of swirling purplish-green mercury. Ethylene—or ’lene, as it’s more commonly known. The substance the Oracles used back in the day to connect with the Old Gods. A little will make you feel all loosey-goosey. Used to be, a lot of ’lene could connect Oracles to the world the Gods once inhabited. Most of us call it The Divine, I don’t know why. Our connection to the Greek and Roman pantheons, I’d wager. The Divine for most conjures images of paradise. The dreamy, creamy Elysian Fields in the Underworld. But the The Divine I know couldn't be further from that.

The redheaded Oracle uncorks the bottle of ’lene and flicks its contents onto the pyre. My hands start shaking. I shove them in my pockets. Such a tiny amount shouldn’t be enough to trigger a vision, but I can’t help but feel panicky when the redhead lights a long match.

It lights instantly and violently, a blaze of white-blue brilliance. The rush of heat and the sweet smell of ’lene cooking soothes me. I close my eyes, let it in, let it comfort me.

I exhale and open my eyes as someone emerges from the flames. Ainslie Empire—a fellow Oracle sister and one of the world’s biggest pop stars. Or at least she was. She’s dressed in a tight green pantsuit that shimmers with dark glittery scales, contrasting with her long brown hair dyed silver at the ends. She smiles and sways over to me, all wiry muscles and inquisitive eyes. My visions have been intense before, but this is a whole new level of weird. Like a lucid dream.

“Ainslie? But…but you’re…”

“Dead?” She smiles. “Oh yeah, I’m super dead.”

I can’t tell if this is real or not. The funeral fades out of focus. Am I having a vision? Or could I reach out and touch her?

“Oh, join the club, honey,” another woman says. I turn to my right and there’s a small garden at my feet. Hunched over in the dirt is an older, kindly looking woman. She’s tending to a tomato plant. The fruit hangs low and red as blood.

“We haven’t met. I’m Adele.”

I’m paralyzed. Affixed to the wet ground beneath me.

“These funerals are so phony.” Ainslie says in my ear. “You know those aren’t even her ashes, right? I mean, they didn’t even recover her body. Remind you of anyone, Adele?”

The older woman chuckles. “No one at all.”

She plucks the tomatoes off the plant, which weeps red-black oil. It’s pooling around my feet.

“How are you even here?” I manage to say.

“Duh. This is what’s commonly referred to as a ‘vision.’”

“No…no, this doesn’t feel like that. It feels too real…”

“Hold on.” She looks up, like she’s listening to someone I can’t hear. “We’ve gotta go. We want to help you, Claude, we really do. But the monster that owns our souls wants me to tell you she remembers you, and the two of you have unfinished business. Oh, and she wants me to do this—”

She grabs me by the shoulders and projectile vomits hot blood onto my face.