“Welcome back, Giselle,” Randy said.
Giselle groaned. “Sorbet. Now.”
Randy handed her the lemon ice to cleanse her palate. Prophecy by glossolalia always left a weird taste in her mouth; this time it was cigarettes, whiskey and blood. She much preferred visions or dreams or automatic writing, but the choice wasn’t hers to make.
“So,” she asked between licks, “what did I say?”
Randy and Dan looked at each other, then off in different directions. Dan coughed.
“Well,” he said.
“You were singing,” Randy said.
Giselle froze with the sorbet halfway to her mouth. “Singing? What?”
Dan consulted his netbook. “Um, ‘Not to Touch the Earth,’ ‘Riders on the Storm’ and ‘The End.’ All by the Doors.”
“So was I channeling divine karaoke or…?”
“Seemed legit,” Randy said. “I’m no analyst, but sounds like we’re looking at presidential assassination and some kind of apocalyptic scenario.”
“Jim Morrison was a mystic, you know,” Dan said.
“Peachy,” Giselle muttered. “Next time, remind me to have him sign my bra.”