One Crossroads Later

Chapter Twelve

The next evening, Flynn sat at the dining room table, staring at a fork set between where he and Monica sat. An empty glass stained with blood sat nearby, and with fresh blood running through his veins, Flynn trained his focus on the object, as she'd instructed him.

"Your gifts are all psychic," Monica had explained to him moments earlier. "Which means keeping your mind clear. Feel the energy between you and whatever you're using your gifts on, and the rest should be natural from there."

It didn't feel natural, though. While the thoughts of his two new housemates wafted through the air like faint whispers, he'd spent the rest of the previous night trying to penetrate further into their minds. After resting, Flynn ate and now sat staring at the next impossible obstacle.

"You've at least got down some telepathy. Now let's see how you do with telekinesis."

Sighing, Flynn placed both arms on the table and rested his chin down on them. His eyes never left the fork, though. For as much as he could feel something between him and the fork, he couldn't wrap his brain around how he was supposed to be making it move.

"You're trying too hard," Monica said, interrupting. "You're more likely to give yourself a brain bleed than to move anything that way."

"I'm doing what you told me to do," Flynn snapped back. "Now, let me concentrate."

He glanced up at her quickly, almost feeling apologetic for how he'd said it. Her expression remained neutral, though, with both arms crossed in front of her chest. Something about her serenity pissed him off the longer he looked at it. So instead, Flynn turned his attention back to the fork, focusing on this nebulous concept of energy.

"It should be there," Monica had explained earlier. "Like an invisible force. Don't overthink it, just coax it to you."

Easy for you to say, he thought. As he sat more upright, he narrowed his eyes at the fork and the energy surrounding it. Something felt familiar about it, though staring at it didn't seem to make it want to budge. He extended a hand, looking for something as much with touch as with the intuition inside of him. It took several seconds, but the fork vibrated and, eventually, found its way into his hand.

Monica clapped. Though he knew the encouragement was not condescending, it didn't help his mood and made him look at her with extreme irritation. She slowed her clapping, then stopped and squinted at him as he regarded her with the same sour expression.

"Well, all right, Mr. Grumpy Pants," she said. "Who pissed in your Corn Flakes?"

"Right now, you," Flynn said. He tossed the fork back on the table and stood. "You're acting like this should be easy when it's not."

"Well, this is your second day. Not going to be the Master of All Things Psychic on Day Two."

"Yes, but is it supposed to be so fucking frustrating?"

"Sometimes, yes. No two seers are the same."

Flynn felt her examining him, even as he turned his back and lit a cigarette. He didn't want to look at her, but he couldn't stop being aware of her. Like he'd become a goldfish in a bowl. "What is it?" he asked before drawing from his cigarette. His back remained turned to her.

Monica sighed. "Not sure you're in the mood for me to talk about it," she said.

"You're going to grow old waiting for that to happen." He did everything other than look at Monica. Glanced at the floor. Took another drag of his cigarette. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other and grumbled as he gave in to facing her. "What is it, please?"