Oracle of Philadelphia

Chapter 1

I felt the mob turn on me, and I tried to flee. I didn’t make it more than a few feet before a pair of strong hands grabbed me and pulled me back. I wrested my arms away, but as I felt the first grasp weaken, another villager took hold and twisted me back to face the crowd.

I struggled, but soon the townsfolk had me surrounded, the throng a dozen people thick in all directions, each soul eager to land at least one blow on my body. A dozen fists assaulted me, and as each hit, the thoughts of the assailant echoed through my mind.

Wretched girl.

Unholy abomination.

Murderer.

I wrapped my hands around my middle, anxious to protect the child growing in my womb. Even as I made the effort, I knew that the assembly would not cease their attack until long after my death, a release I was no longer sure the gods could grant me.

The first stone struck my temple, and a trickle of blood dripped down my face. I turned instinctively to see from what direction it came, but even as I did, I felt another rock hit me from behind. I fell to my knees, unable to stand under the bevy of fists and stones pummeling me. I looked up to see a large rock descending toward me. I closed my eyes and prayed it might grant me the peace of unconsciousness.

I sat up straight in bed, a scream dying on my lips as I realized I was in the small apartment I kept over my diner. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my racing pulse. No matter how many centuries I put between myself and that rabid crowd, that dream still scared me like nothing else.

I ran my fingers through my sweat-soaked black hair and glanced at the clock on the table next to the bed. The glowing LED display and first hints of sunshine peeking through my windows informed me it was almost time for me to get up. I reached a shaking hand out to turn off the alarm and got out of bed.

I walked to the bathroom and leaned on the sink. I met the gaze of my large brown eyes in the mirror. The bags underneath them didn’t look too bad. The light brown skin of my face seemed a little pale, but I was sure a hot shower would fix that right up.

And sure enough, by the time I put on my skirt and cardigan and blow-dried my curls, I looked like my old self.

The wooden steps creaked as I hurried down them into the main body of the diner. I flipped the switch and watched as the fluorescent lights flickered to life across the room. The diner wasn’t much to look at, an L-shaped room lined with booths containing dented metal tables and teal vinyl benches.

I conducted most of the affairs of the restaurant from behind the silver counter, which was lined in front with four round teal stools. Or at least I did when I was fully staffed and not trying to act as manager and waitstaff.

I pushed open the swinging metal doors to the diner’s kitchen. I sorted through the bread on the shelves and pulled out an English muffin and put it in the toaster. As I waited for it to heat up, the bell above the front door rang, and a few minutes later, my cook Dwayne stepped into the kitchen.

“Hi, Carrie.” He pulled the white apron off the hook by the door and put it over his head. “Do you want me to make you something?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I pointed toward the toaster, which obligingly popped out my breakfast.

She never lets me make her anything, he thought. I cringed at his disappointment. Dwayne was a nice guy, but I hired him more because of his desperation for employment than because of his exemplary skills as a cook. Despite my rejection, he seemed to be in good spirits. I could tell.