Anne.

He dragged the graphite across the page. Dark curls swept back from her face, kept in place by carefully placed ties. That was the easy part—he could see her hair so clearly, whether it was ruffled by the wind or damp from the rain, or fanned out across the pillow where she lay. So he would start with the shape of her face then sketch in her hair in long, broad strokes. Always capture the movement. That was what he remembered: the subtle movement in her curls as she titled her head, or turned back to gaze at him.

The cell phone on the nightstand rang. Michael set down the graphite and book on the bed beside him.

"Yes?" he said as he pressed the receiver to his ear.

There was a pause on the line. Heavy breathing suggested someone was there, but though Michael waited, no one spoke.

"I suggest you start talking—I don't like people who waste my time," he said.

A man cleared his throat. "Um…Mr. Parry?"

"Parris," Michael corrected.

"Parris," the man said quickly. "Right, of-of course…Parris… My mistake, I just—"

"I also don't have a lot of patience."

"Right, of course not, sir. I'm calling with regards to a…a 'request' I heard was attributed to you—a special request so to speak." He paused, as if giving Michael a chance to take over.

Instead, Michael remained silent. There was one sure way to get himself in trouble: assume the caller knew more than he actually did, and accidentally give away important information in the process. Best to keep quiet and see if the man was fishing for information, or if he had something useful to say.

"I heard about the request of a Mr. Parris through certain…let's say 'channels' that I have available to me. I think I might be able to help."

"I'm listening."

"Right, yes, Mr. Parris. Now I don't mean to be rude, sir—and I'm sure you can gather, this is rather awkward—but the information you were looking for is on the sensitive side, and there is the matter of payment to consider…"

Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up straight. No one merely trawling for information, or with any dangerous intent in mind, would be so concerned about the money. At least not anyone Michael was worried about finding him.

"You get half upon delivery of information, half when I find what I'm looking for."

"That wasn't what—"

"Those are the terms," Michael cut in.

"Very well," the man replied with a sigh. "What you're looking for is headed for a town—a fairly small one. Southern Ontario. Your quarry seeks something there."

"And how far are they from their destination?"

"Not far. Plane landed in Toronto about an hour ago. They're on their way, and…and by all accounts, sir, if you don't mind me saying, these are dangerous people. I'm still not sure I should have done this…"

"The name," Michael said, keeping the man focused. "What's the town called?"

"Newhaven."

Michael committed the name to memory. He hadn't heard of it before, but then he didn't know Ontario particularly well.

"Is that all you'll be needing, Mr. Parris?"

"Have you something else to tell me?"

A pause.

"There was someone else there—in addition to the four you were looking for."

"Someone else?"

"A man," he continued. "Or so my sources say."

That didn't make any sense…

"You're certain that—"

"Yes, absolutely. Quite certain. The four you are looking for were headed to Newhaven, and there was indeed a man accompanying them. And that's not all."

Though Michael waited, the caller didn't continue. "And that something else would be…?" he prompted.

"Someone was following them."

Michael sat up straight, his fingers tensing their grip on the phone. "Who?"

"That I don't know, Mr. Parris. But someone has been following all five for awhile, it seems." The man cleared his throat again. "Now, sir, about the—"

"Who did you hear about me from?"

"Why…I shouldn't—"

"Who?"

"Bacha…Laurie Bacha, Mr. Parris."

"Good. Contact her, and she'll wire you the first half of your payment." Michael hung up without another word.

There were others—one accompanying the four, and even someone following them… And if they were who he thought they were…?

This was it; Newhaven was it. At first, he thought the four of them were heading there for one of the girls, but if another man accompanied them—probably the one who sent them in the first place—that suggested they would be staying in the area for some time…that the Children were already gathered in one place.

And time was running out.

He dialled a familiar number—one of the only ones he knew off by heart. After three rings, a woman picked up.

"Yeah?" Laurie said brightly, which surprised him, as she tended to be asleep at three in the afternoon most days.

"For once your channels seem to be useful—I got a lead a few minutes ago."

"Oh, I'm so glad something of mine could be of use to you," she said, her tone mock-sharp. "So you know where you're going?"

"Toronto, to start with."

"Ah, well. Could be worse. At least you don't have to stay in Jersey."

"I suppose that's true."

"Security's tight now though, you know. If you give me a couple days I can have a new passport ready—"

"It doesn't look like I'll have that kind of time…" As the minutes passed, Michael felt himself grow more and more anxious, and he pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stood to start packing his luggage. "I'll use the old I.D.—I have to catch the next plane out of Newark."

"But you're sure that's safe? You don't know how far this reaches—"

"They aren't traveling alone, Bacha. They've got their employer with them."

"What—"

"That would only happen if they were settling there. And you can guess what that means."

"Three girls there together then. Shit."

It was a sentiment Michael could easily echo, but there were more important things to take care of than lament something he didn't have control over.

"What do you need from me, then?" she asked, always ready to work.

"Have my things ready for shipping when I give you an address."

"Uh…and about customs?"

"Bribe them," he replied.

"Right, easy for you to say—you're not the one doing the bribing."

Michael took the last of his clothes from the hotel room dresser drawers and tossed them in his suitcase, covering the .44 Magnum and box of ammo.

"Oh, I imagine I'll be doing some."

"Be careful, okay Parris? This isn't sounding good…"

"Stop worrying."

"Well, that's just what secretaries do. We worry."

"You're not a secretary—you're an assistant. Secretaries have offices and get cakes on Secretary Day, which as you'll recall, you don't."

"If I'm an assistant, I'm definitely due for a raise, then."

"Consider yourself demoted for the time being."

"And if I bribe your stuff through customs in a timely fashion…?"

"How about you try getting it packed in a timely fashion first?"

"You're on. Call me when you're settled."

"Will do."

Both parties hung up unceremoniously, as they were beyond wasting time with "proper" goodbyes at this point.

Laurie will come through, he thought, zipping up the larger of his two suitcases. Laurie always came through; often with plenty of complaining, and occasionally not as swift as he'd like, but she was there for him. And while he intended to give her some extra money after she sent his belongings to Newhaven, it would be less of a raise and more severance pay. She had been with him for nearly four years now, and that was already too long. Soon she'd notice certain…"things" were amiss. Best to move on before problems arose.

After tossing the toiletries from the bathroom into his overnight bag, Michael cast a glance around the hotel room one last time. That seemed to be it…

And his gaze fell on his open sketchbook. Anne. One of these days, he'd snap. He knew it. He'd just leave the damn book—and images of her—behind and be on his way.

But that day was not today, and he tucked the graphite and book in his bag. Once more he pulled out his cell phone, this time dialling a local cab company. Ten minutes later, he was on his way to the airport.

After his plane landed in Toronto, Michael went immediately to a car dealership to purchase a suitable vehicle. He received the usual sorts of looks from people wondering how someone could be paying with cash and yet show no interest in haggling for a lower price. No one actually asked, however—it was amazing how much faster things went with a little extra money as an incentive.

Three months of hotels had worn away at him, and Michael was eager to finally have a place to settle. How long he would be "settled," though, he couldn't know for sure; long enough that he was willing to spend a full day seeing different residences in Newhaven looking for an appropriate place. Toward the end of the day, one of the last stops on his tour of buildings for sale came in the form of an old brick warehouse, currently being cleaned and gutted for a planned series of apartments.

The surprise of the car dealer paled in comparison to the shock of the real estate agent when he announced he would be purchasing the entire building, rather than wait several months for one of the proposed apartments. Though at first she tried to dissuade him, one call to the building's owners and a signed cheque later, and she didn't say another word about it. The deed was his, and he wasted no time arranging for contractors to section off a few additional rooms, patch up the loft, and install a kitchen and bathroom.

Left with a few weeks while his new home was being completed, Michael spent his time attempting to locate his quarry before they found what they were looking for…and with any luck, determine who sent them.

Much like the sword of Damocles, there was something heavy over him, and he was painfully aware it could drop at any second. Somewhere in the quiet town of Newhaven, there were three girls who were not only in trouble, but were probably unaware of the threat against them. Three girls, and their time was running out…

And then there was Michael, who mostly wished the damn sword would fall already and finish him off so he didn't have to worry about it.

---

All he saw were her large, hazel eyes staring at him. Hating him. Accusing him.

There was blackness everywhere else. Blackness that threatened to consume him at any moment—to bite down and tear him from reality, then swallow him whole, dropping him into an abyss. Darkness and her eyes. Her eyes and darkness. Always there, always following him.

Somehow he was running, one foot after the other, hitting the black, empty void beneath him. He wasn't going anywhere, and yet he ran. Her eyes were everywhere. Haunting him. Why did she glare at him like that?

Maybe he was running from her…but no, she only followed. There was no use—she'd always be there. He should give up. Just let go and fall down and let her consume him. She would win—she always won. Even dead, she would not let him go.

Michael closed his eyes, replacing the blackness around him with memories. Forget that she was out there, waiting for him… Don't run from her, Michael. No, forget all about her…run to someone else. Run to Anne.

God, he missed Anne. But she was nowhere to be seen, not here, not in oblivion. Not in hell. Anne would never be here. And though he squeezed his eyes shut and willed her to appear, she wouldn't emerge. He was alone.

His feet pounded down on something solid. He didn't open his eyes—he knew outside of him there was still nothing. But he was wrapped up in memories again—memories he didn't want, but ones that would not let him go.

A stone floor beneath his feet. The greyness took shape and now there were walls around him too, narrow and seeming to close in on him. He stood outside of a short row of cells. The place was all too familiar, and he stopped running. Stood straight, terrified. Breath coming in short spurts. Heart pounding. Why end up here? Why always this place, with her? Why not Anne?

He moved forward again, step after step, until he was next to a door. The cell beyond was dark, and he saw little through the bars but a shadowy figure huddled in the corner. His conscious mind left him as a distant memory took over and swept him along.

"Is that you?" came her cool, rich voice, as brash and unafraid as ever.

"You know it is," was his quiet reply.

In the darkness, he saw her form straighten and step toward the door; shoulders back and chin raised proudly. Her long red hair was matted and tangled into a frame about her round face, winding around her bony shoulders and skinny arms. She'd been captive for a fortnight, and she looked it. A filthy, torn shift was the only protection offered her otherwise naked body, and by the look of the bruises and singed flesh visible, its ability to shield from harm was painfully minimal.

"And why is it you are here?" She cocked her head to the side as she interrogated him, showing even in such a degraded state, she was in control. "Have you come to express your victory?"

"Once more, you know the truth of it. I haven't."

"I know nothing about you, it seems."

"Why are you still here, Elizabeth?" He shook his head sadly. "Simply leave. You could be far from here by daybreak, and none would find you. I will not tell a soul. You have my word."

She leaned in close so her face was nearly pressed between the bars, her hazel eyes rapt with fire and narrowing in on him. "It was your word that put me here. I care little for your vows."

"Elizabeth—"

"I am too weak, anyhow," she continued, dropping her gaze to the bars of the cell door's window. Her pale fingers reached up to clasp the grimy iron, and she tightened her grip. "Too weak. I would not get far before they found me." She met his eyes again, fury simmering below the surface. "I should think you ought to return to your home now. I am certain you would not care to be caught here."

"I never wanted this…" How he wished she could believe him, but the proud glare to her eyes told him she never would. "Elizabeth, I—"

She reached through the bars to press her index finger tip to his lips. What should have seemed a simple, harmless act, unnerved him. The truth was that, even in this state, he feared her.

"No more words," she shook her head, "no more words, not from you. It shan't do you any good. I am here now, I will die in three day's time, and you will regret what you've done." A calm smile overcame her lips, and he found himself taking a few steps back, eager to get away from her. Soon he was retreating, his feet pounding faster and faster against the ground, body suffocating with fear.

"And somehow," she called in his retreat, "I will see it. I shall feast on your regret, Michael"

"Michael!"

Michael opened his eyes and found himself staring at a red brick wall. Sheets were tangled about his legs and sweat on his brow; it was as if his running in his dream extended to real life as well.

"Michael, pick up the phone already," came a voice from the direction of his answering machine. He reached toward the nightstand and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle.

"I'm still in a different time zone than you, Laurie," he growled into the receiver.

"Oh, whine, whine, whine," she said with a sigh. "You got your stuff?"

His belongings had safely arrived at his new home in a manner that was timely for Laurie…which meant three weeks after he told her to send them overnight express.

"Yeah, they're here."

"Good. I gotta go pack up the rest of your books from the apartment…got a flight tonight. Ridiculously late. And have I mentioned I hate Hong Kong? Because I do. A lot. Like, really. I'm not sure I'll forgive you for this."

Michael glanced at his bedside clock. Four a.m. his time, nine for Laurie. He sure as hell didn't fucking care if she hated Hong Kong—if he wasn't firing her already, he'd give her an even worse place to go for calling him.

"Anything else before I slam the receiver down on your ear over waking me up at such an hour?"

"I just wondered how things were going. Like if you found anyone yet or not."

Michael sighed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and sat up straight. He wouldn't be going to sleep after speaking to Laurie—not when she reminded him he had a hell of a lot of work to do.

"No one yet."

"What's the hold up?"

"Uh, small town where I don't have a single contact."

"Good point. And I don't suppose anyone is wearing a big ol' sign that says, 'Hey I've got special powers—come rescue me!'"

"Not that I've seen, but at four in the morning I'm willing to believe anything's possible."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Talk to you la—"

Michael hung up the phone.

He was wasting time. He knew it. But knowing and doing something about it were two very different things.

It wasn't that he didn't know the source of his reluctance. He did. He knew what finding them could mean…

Go home, he thought. Go back to your life. Forget all about this. Let it go. Who cares if the world goes to hell? He certainly didn't. His world was already gone…

But no. No, he had spent too much time preparing. He had to find those girls.

And what if I'm too late? He didn't know how The Brethren even knew where to find them. Michael had spent so long trying to locate the girls, and had to eventually resort to following his opponent. He had no idea where to look…

Or you can keep following The Brethren.

He just had to find them, and they would lead him to their targets. And how hard would it be to find four assassins in Newhaven?

---

The answer was "very hard."

Not too many people were willing to be forthcoming about whether or not they'd seen four men that Michael couldn't even describe. A fake I.D. identifying him as R.C.M.P. didn't get him anywhere either.

He checked the papers daily. Surely if he was too late, he'd find a new story about the murder of a young woman or two. But nothing turned up…

Nothing until one late evening when he drove home from meeting with another useless contact. As his car sailed along the road, down a back street, he saw a teenaged girl racing along the sidewalk. Auburn hair flew behind her, tall black boots pounded on the pavement. He wasn't about to pay her any heed, when he saw her turn and glance behind her, a look of fear in her expression. Following her gaze down the street, Michael saw four men following the girl.

Shit.

He swung the car around and the girl paused as he pulled up beside her.

"Get in," Michael said.

She reached for the door, and then their eyes met.

The girl backed up in terror at the sight of him, and bolted down a side street.

Well, that must be the Seer. Michael sped after her, cutting off her pursuers.

It came as little surprise that with a car now following her as well, the girl freaked out even more. The street stopped in a dead end, a dark brick building blocking her from continuing. She spun around, hair whirling then settling about her shoulders as she froze. The knapsack on her back slipped from her shoulder, and the strap came to rest in her hand. She tightened her grip on the improvised weapon, ready to attack. Michael stopped the car, popped open the door, and got out.

"Get in the goddamn car already."

The girl shook her head. Her wide-eyed gaze travelled behind him, and Michael knew without looking that her pursuers had caught up with them.

"God fucking dammit," he muttered with the roll of his eyes. He pointed to the girl. "You, stay put."

He slammed the car door shut and stalked toward the men. Non-descript black clothing, blank stares, no expressions, and each with an identical silver knife. Yep, these were definitely the latest offering from the Brethren. They weren't after Michael himself—he could walk away right now and be fine. But since he stood between them and the Seer, his life was essentially forfeit.

Though appearances could be deceiving, of the four men, Michael was only concerned with the younger two of the group. They couldn't have been over thirty, and even if they had less experience than the elders of the group, they were bound to be faster, more agile. At that moment, it was speed Michael was more concerned with.

Best not to waste time, he thought, and proceeded to rush at the group. Though he reached for his jacket pocket, he realized he hadn't brought a single weapon with him. In retrospect, it wasn't the smartest decision he made that day, but there was little to be done about it now.

Michael took a swing, which easily connected with the older man's face, his fist hitting bone. The man's head snapped back, but no sense of pain registered in his eyes. A chill rolled through Michael at that look; he'd seen a lot of things, but there was something positively disturbing about someone who didn't seem bothered when Michael hit him.

Soon he was amidst a blur of attacks, and instinct took over completely. Block. Counter. Block. Block. Kick. Block. Avoid the slash of a knife. Bear a punch to the kidney. Try to block the next hit.

One on one, he could take any of them. Two on one would be successful as well. But four on one wore down on him heavily; while he wouldn't admit he was losing, he knew even a stalemate at this point would be a blessing.

While he fought with the others, he caught sight of the girl in the corner of his eye. The flash of movement drew his attention momentarily, and he saw her skirt his car and attempt to pass them. Unfortunately, as Michael noticed her, so did her pursuers.

Stupid girl…

He elbowed and shouldered his way past the two men that attempted to pin him in place, and grabbed a third by the arm, swinging him back into the group behind him.

"Goddammit, I told you to stay put!" he managed to yell before his attention was diverted by another attack.

A sudden sharp pain in his left side slowed him down considerably. Michael sucked in a breath and punched the man in front of him hard enough that the guy fell down.

He felt around his side, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife.

Apparently deciding their quarry was no longer of interest to them, the group of attackers took off. Michael yanked the weapon out of his flesh. The blood pooled around his fingers—it was bad, though he'd be fine. In for a long night of aches and little sleep, sure, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Will you get in the car now?" he said to the girl, holding his side and wincing with pain.

She stared in silence for a few moments, then nodded and slipped in the passenger side.

"Where do you want me to drop you?" he asked once they were on the road.

"The bus station?"

"Not happening."

"I'll leave if I damn well please."

"You're needed here."

At this, she went silent. Her fingers drummed nervously on her knee, then fidgeted with the hem of her short pleated skirt, and at last she felt around the pockets of her black bomber jacket until she found a pack of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke?" she said, the end of one cigarette between her lips and a lighter poised in her hand.

"Doesn't bother me."

She lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply, then breathed out, filling the car with swirls of grey. A few more puffs, and her nerves seemed to settle considerably.

"So who the hell are you?" she asked, leaning back in the seat and watching him warily.

"Someone who's trying to help you. Do you know why you were being followed?"

She took another deep breath of smoke as mulled it over, then shook her head. The pause suggested to Michael she suspected, but didn't trust him enough to say.

"I'll explain what I can…" He considered launching into the details right then, but his side ached. Bringing his hand away from the wound, he saw nothing but blood.

"That looks bad," she said. "You okay?"

"I really don't like getting stabbed," he replied dryly. "But I'll live."

"Yeah," she said with a small smile. "S'pose you will."

"We'll meet tomorrow, around noon. There's a Coffee Time on Main Street."

"Okay."

"You'll be there?" he said, remembering her request to head to the bus station.

"Yeah. Might as well, right?" She pushed the remainder of her cigarette out in the ashtray, leaving a stub stained in her dark red lipstick amongst the ashes. "Let me out here."

He pulled up next to a twenty-four hour drug store. The girl stuffed her cigarettes into her beat up backpack.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, thinking, though what her mind debated, he couldn't say.

"Merri," she said at last.

His gaze fell on the shoulder strap of her backpack, where "Swanson" was graffitied in ink along with peace signs and various other simple drawings.

"McCreary," she said quickly. "Meredith McCreary."

"Michael Parris," he said, offered her his non-bloodied hand.

She hesitated for a few seconds, then took his hand and shook it. Clearly eager to get away, she let go of him and pushed open the car door.

"Merri," he said.

She froze, grip tightening on her backpack, body tensing to run, all as she looked back at him again. Her brown eyes, lined as they were in black and shadowed in a smoky colour, seemed particularly huge and fearful as she stared at him.

"I don't care who you are or what you're running from," he said honestly. "All that is irrelevant. I'm here to help you."

She didn't say anything for a full minute then at last nodded her head. "I'll see you tomorrow, Michael."

He watched as she exited the car and headed into the drug store.

You'd better show up tomorrow…or we're all damned.

---

"You must learn patience, Parris-san."

As Michael slept, the old man's voice echoed in his mind.

How could he not be considered patient? After all this time? Stupid man didn't know anything. Michael was the very definition of patience.

But patience did him no good in the water now. Void of sound, of sight and smell, even of feeling, he floated there under water, suspended in place, unable to find his way to the surface.

"Patience…"

Fuck you, old man.

"True Patience requires faith. Faith that you are patient for a reason—a purpose. And you lack that faith. You cannot wait for the right time because you don't believe it will arrive."

I know what will come because I decide my fate, and no amount of your crazy ramblings will change my mind about that.

"Too much is at work. Too much that you cannot control. If you are patient, you will understand that everything that was done to you was for one purpose only."

I'm glad I slit your fucking throat.

"But I do not die that easily, Parris-san. My voice is never silent in your dreams."

No, I should have cut out your goddamn tongue, too.

The old man chuckled.

Get out of my head.

"If you are patient, you will see. You will understand. You have a higher purpose—you are needed."

Just wake up, Michael…wake up, and it'll be gone until the next night, the next dream…

"But perhaps it not only a lack of faith that drives you to disbelief…perhaps it is fear."

I seem to recall you were the scared one when you saw the knife.

"Because the paradigm that has been your life and situation would shift drastically if my words were true and that frightens you."

Michael tried to struggle now. The water gave him nothing to grip, nothing to help him, but he wouldn't be deterred.

"If Anne was gone for a reason—for the greater good—you could not bear to face it."

If I ever see you in the afterlife, I'll kill you again.

The water gave way now, and up he went. No light pierced the dark depths, but he knew somewhere above him was the surface. Light. Air. Land. Warmth. Life.

Anne.

His face broke through the water to the surface. He sucked in a breath, and liquid popped in his ears as he swallowed.

And Anne waited for him by the water's edge.

She reached out for him, stretching her pale arm toward him, offering her open hand. But though he tried to swim toward her, he seemed to be treading water in place.

"Anne—"

"I'm always here," she said, smiling sadly.

An icy hand gripped his ankle and dragged him back down into nothingness.

---

Michael sipped from his cup of bitter black coffee and checked his watch. Twelve-thirty. It was possible the Seer wasn't coming. To make matters worse, he had avoided taking anything stronger than a couple of aspirin for his wound, and now his side ached horribly. At least it wasn't bleeding, though.

The chair across from him scraped against the floor and a figure sat down. She set a cup of coffee down on the table, and wasted no time grabbing the sugar.

Michael did a double take, and nearly asked the girl to sit somewhere else when he recognized Merri. She had dyed her hair a dark brown and pulled it severely back. All her dark, dramatic make-up was gone, as was her eclectic jewelry. Even her clothes were different styles all together—punk boots, short skirt, and bright halter-top were exchanged for simple jeans and a faded lavender T-shirt. She was dressed to disappear, but that she sat in front of him suggested she planned to stay.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, stirring the sugar into her drink. "Still finding my way around town."

"That won't hide you from them," he said, nodding to her clothes.

"They're not the ones that scare me," she said dryly and took a gulp of her coffee.

"They should."

"How about you explain who they are, and we'll see how I feel about them then?"

He explained what he could—about what she was, that there were others like her, and how there were people out to kill her. She took the news well, but then he expected no less from the Seer. Of the Children of the Apocalypse, she was the one most likely to have grown up with strange abilities, seeing things that others couldn't, reading people around her… She made describing the situation far easier on him than he expected the others would.

She nodded as he finished up. "Okay. Sounds about right. Now do you mind telling me what—"

"Yes, I mind," he interrupted, anticipating what she was about to ask.

"But you're—"

"When you're ready to reveal what you were doing prior to my finding you yesterday, I'll let you in on my situation."

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "That seems fair. None of my business, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly."

"So I guess we have to find the other two girls now."

"One would think."

"And you don't have any information about them?"

When he didn't speak immediately, he knew she suspected there was something he wasn't telling her, but that wasn't a conversation they would be having…yet.

"They'll be about your age," he said at last. "And given that the people after you have settled here in town, I'm willing to bet they live here as well."

"High school starts in about a week," she said. "I guess I should start looking there."

"Probably."

"And I won't be able to tell there's something different about them? No freaky auras? Nothing helpful?"

"Not that I've ever heard."

"Okay then, way to give me nothing to work with," she said with a grin. "If I see or hear about any girls exhibiting strange, magical behavior, I'll put them on the list."

Merri no doubt thought they were looking for a needle in a haystack. Michael only wished it were so, but already forces drew him forward, and someone beckoned to be found. They should have a clear idea of who it was soon enough.

"So do we have a base of operations?" she asked.

"I guess my house will do."

Merri drained her cup. "Got coffee?"

"You bet."

"Well, let's go there, then."

Michael finished his coffee, and the two of them stood and headed out of the shop.

If you are patient, you will see. You will understand. You have a higher purpose—you are needed. That is why you live. But perhaps it not only a lack of faith that drives you to disbelief…perhaps it is fear. Because the paradigm that has been your life and situation would shift drastically if my words were true and that frightens you. If Anne was gone for a reason—for the greater good—you could not bear to face it.

But that is the truth, Michael. Anne is dead. You live. And no matter the monster Elizabeth drove you to become, it was all for a reason. You have a purpose.

Though he was awake, the old man's voice still drummed loudly in his head.

But, much like in sleep, Michael ignored it.

"And I just don't know what to do!" The middle aged woman, perched on the edge of the couch, wiped at her face. Tears traversed the aged lines around her eyes, snaked down her cheeks, and then gathered at her jaw where they fell in fat drops onto her shirt. The royal blue blouse had about a dozen dark wet spots on it now.

Krysta Guerin regarded her from the divan opposite the couch, legs crossed over one another and fingers tapping her knee. She was quite certain sobbing wouldn't solve the woman's problems, but then she'd made a point of never drawing attention to the obvious with a client. Condescension rarely paid the bills.

"It's been two months," the woman--Amelia, Krysta believed her name be--continued. "It's never gone on this long before. He always comes back to me. I just know that tramp has something to do with it."

And nothing to do with the fact that you're desperate and keep accepting him back again and again. Some women never learned.

"And what would you like me to do?" Krysta said.

Amelia's dull brown eyes locked with Krysta's, a spark of fury in their depths. "I want him back and I want her dead."

Not asking for too much, I see. "That's a little out of my realm of expertise."

"Oh, no, it can't be." Amelia shook her head emphatically. "I heard that you're the best--that you can do anything."

I can...for those who can pay. If Krysta had a dime for every poor idiot that came through her door begging for someone to love her, or to kill a rival, or to curse an employer, perhaps she could retire away from Newhaven. But she'd never work for so little.

"Please," Amelia begged.

"What you're asking for is very dangerous," Krysta said, her face dead serious. "And very wrong. I can't kill people. That goes against every spiritual code there is." Not to mention the limit on your bank account by the look of that outfit.

"But...can you make him love me? Make him come back to me?"

Krysta shook her head. "Coercive love spells are also out of the question. And he wouldn't be back because he loved you. It would be like living with a zombie. It wouldn't be real. You can't make someone love you."

Amelia's lower lip trembled and her voice fell to a whisper. "I just want him back. I don't care if it's true or not, I just want him with me."

Pathetic.

"The supplies for such a spell are very costly," Krysta said. "It's nothing I have on hand."

"How costly?"

"Think of a number between one and ten."

Amelia nodded. "Okay."

"Now add at least four zeros."

The woman paled and a little, "Oh," barely passed her lips. Amelia bowed her head and chewed on this new information for a bit, and for a moment Krysta almost thought she'd go for it. At last she looked up again, a sense of cautious hope to her eyes. "What can I get for about two hundred?"

Figures. Krysta stifled an annoyed sigh, plastered on a fake smile, and stood. "Get a photo of him--and your chequebook--and return to me on the afternoon of the new moon in six days. We'll cast a spell to draw him back to you."

"Oh, thank you so much!" Amelia rose as well and ran to Krysta to clasp the witch's hands in her own.

Krysta stiffened at the contact, but continued to smile as she casually wiggled her hand loose. She watched Amelia gather her purse and head for the door. She'd cook up the usual for the woman--a little candlelight, a little incense. The chick's boyfriend would probably come home on his own, but she'd add some magical kick-in-the-butt to get him back sooner. The pay wasn't great, but she did have a certain reputation to cultivate, and she liked having her name out there. Happy clients were usually good at spreading the word.

Just as Amelia exited, the buzzer by the front door sounded. It was the middle of the day and Krysta hadn't been expecting any more visitors. A "no solicitations" sign on the front door usually kept people away; she hadn't so much as encountered an Avon lady in the year since she'd lived in Newhaven.

"Yes?" Krysta said as she pressed the button below the intercom.

"It's Michael."

She held back a smug smile as she buzzed him inside. Took him long enough. She'd spoken with his little witch a day earlier and she'd expected him there that night, but perhaps he felt like drawing it out. Couldn't fault him for that. Still, she wasn't pleased he took off so abruptly last Saturday night. She'd better make him grovel a little, or at least as much as Michael was capable of.

Krysta left the door open for him, and then sat on the couch while she waited for him to come upstairs. Pity she hadn't had some warning; she had a cute teddy delivered the other day, and she would have liked to slip it on. Not like he ever noticed anything she wore, but Krysta liked it, and that was what mattered to her.

She heard his footsteps in the hallway, approaching her apartment and moments later he appeared in her doorway.

Krysta smiled. "I thought you'd be here sooner."

Michael didn't cross the threshold into the apartment. Krysta's eyes locked with his and her heart sped up a little. Something was wrong... She retained her composure and waited as he suddenly fished something out of his back pocket.

He tossed the item onto the couch beside her. Krysta's gaze flickered to the pendant she'd given the witch the day before. Of course--I didn't think he'd be terribly impressed about that.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" he said coldly.

With a bored sigh, Krysta folded the pendant and chain up in her hand, and then dropped it in the wooden box that sat on the shelf behind the couch. "Doing your friend a favour."

"Leave her alone."

Krysta's skin prickled at the order. Still, she played it calm. Played the smiles, the nonchalance. "She came to me, Michael. Maybe you should get her a leash."

"First you sent her to that fucking kid--and we both know what he's capable of--and now you're helping her with spells. This has to stop."

Her anger rose, but she gave him a casual shrug. "You're the one who told me what a powerful little witch you had on your hands." Krysta stood and strolled toward him. Her full lips fell into a playful pout. "Rethinking that position, are you? No reason for you to get so upset about your mistake." She paused just a step away from him. He looked down at her, rage-filled eyes fixed on her own. He could play mad all he wanted--she'd win him over. She always did.

"Leave her alone," he repeated.

Why so fixated on that witch of his? The goddamn child? This wasn't funny anymore. "Let me remind you once more: I didn't contact her in the first--"

"She doesn't need your influence."

My influence? Oh, this was rich. She was the corrupter now. What a concept.

"And what's so bad about me?" she asked. "Hmm? Maybe I could teach her a thing or two."

"Stay the hell away from her."

"Sounds like you're getting mad. Tell me, what's so special about her? Why is it you're so worried about someone corrupting her precious little brain?" She waited to see if her bait would work; if he'd reveal anything she knew he'd been keeping from her.

"If she comes to you again, send her away."

Krysta grinned and reached for him, her fingers running over his arms. He'd give in to her sooner or later. There's no way this was a social call.

Still, she played along, and gazed up at him with a mix of innocence and wickedness. "Or what?"

"Or I'll kill you."

That was a little rougher than she'd usually go for, but like anything else in life, Krysta was game. "I'm starting to think I might find it interesting to see you try..."

His arms snapped out and fingers wrapped around her wrists. In one swift movement, he twisted her arms to a painful angle and she couldn't disguise the fact that he'd hurt her.

"No," he said in a low voice. "I actually don't think you would."

Krysta's chest rose and fell with anger. He couldn't do this--that's not how this was supposed to work. "Get the hell out of my apartment."

Michael let her go. His eyes were distant, cold. "With pleasure." He turned and left without another word, heading down the hallway toward the elevator.

Infuriated, Krysta stepped past the doorframe into the corridor and watched him go.

"This isn't over," she called.

She didn't hear whether or not he responded. Though she waited a few minutes longer, he didn't turn to come back to her--didn't bother even glancing in her direction.

Krysta stalked back into the apartment and slammed the door closed. She paced across the carpet, running her hands back through her hair. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd come and go, sure, and she expected tempers to flare, but this? Arriving at her doorstep to tell to stay away from The Witch? Since when did some fucking ditzy teenager have more control over things than she herself did? No. She wouldn't accept it. Children of the Apocalypse or not; it didn't matter who the kid was. Krysta would not play second to anyone ever again.

She couldn't cool down. Couldn't calm herself. It all kept playing over and over again in her head.

What if he didn't come back?

"No, no, no...no!" She stormed through the apartment to the bathroom, where she knelt at the cupboard beneath the sink and threw open the doors.

Inside sat the same wax figure and circle of herbs that had been there for a year. A candle still burned, the flame flickering in the dark space under the counter. She changed the votive candle daily, never letting it burn out until a new one had been lit. Every fucking day. All to draw Michael Parris to her...

And he threatened to kill me, then left.

With a frustrated scream, she reached inside and tore the items out of the cupboard. Everything scattered across the clean white tile. The wax figure broke into several pieces and the black candle went out.

Krysta slumped on the floor in a heap, head buried in her hands. It's not supposed to happen this way...

She brushed away angry tears that hovered in her eyes. She could handle this; she'd handled worse plenty of times before. Take a deep breath and think clearly. I'm better than this. I'm not giving up.

She'd bring him back. It was that simple.

Krysta stood straight and smoothed her hair, all the while taking several deep breaths. Her step calm, she exited the bathroom to retrieve a broom and dustpan from the closet, then swept up the mess on the floor and deposited everything in the trash. From there, she moved toward her laptop, which sat in sleep mode on the end table next to the couch, with a particular contact in mind. A delivery of supplies was definitely in order.

I've spent too many years looking for him; I'll die before I let him go.

The waning moon hung high in the clear sky over Krysta's apartment building. She sat cross-legged on the tar roof beneath the stars, facing the east where Michael's house lay. Though she could see over much of Newhaven from her position, she couldn't see his place. Still, she knew where it was.

A dark red, silk cloth lay on the ground in front of her along with two lit pillar candles. The items required for spell casting were arranged on the cloth: John the Conqueror root; a spool of red thread and red bag; several jars of various powdered substances; a piece of parchment; and items belonging to her target. Yes, she seemed to have everything.

Before starting the ritual, Krysta had one final ingredient to prepare. Standard Goofer Dust was fine for the average client, but not for her purposes. She opened a jar that contained a mix of sulfur, salt, and ground up bugs. The only thing left was dirt from a grave.

It couldn't be just any dirt, however. No, for something like this, she was supposed to have the dirt from the grave of someone who loved her.

The only trouble is, no one loves me. Not anymore...

She lifted another jar from the far corner of her set up and held it up to her critical eye. No, she might not have the grave dust of someone who loved her, but she had that of someone who both loved him and was loved in return. It had to do the trick. It had taken her two years of combing the English countryside to find the grave she sought.

Anne's Parris's grave. Michael's wife.

She'd filled a large jar with the dirt that lay over the other woman's heart, knowing it would be of use to her one day. And now her supply was over half gone; she'd used it twice already when locating Michael, as well as when drawing him to her the first time a year ago. She tried to be sparing, but...

But I'll use it all if I have to.

She shook most of the remaining dirt from Anne's grave into the jar of other ingredients, then shook the mixture together into Goofer Dust and left it on the cloth within reach.

After writing Michael's name over and over again on the parchment along with the words of her spell, she put a slice in the small round root and stuffed inside it the personal items of his she'd collected. Hair. Semen. Dirt lifted from his footprint. A square of fabric cut from a pillow case that had been drenched in his sweat. Dried blood scraped from beneath her nails. The final bit was the Goofer Dust, which she sprinkled among the other items.

"Make him return to me," she whispered to the dust, willing it to do her bidding. "Make him love me."

When everything had been fit in the tiny slit, she set it aside. Next, she took the knife and drew it over her palm, letting the blood drip on the parchment.

She envisioned him returning to her apartment, walking through her door, following her to her bedroom. She closed her eyes and felt him again, moving atop her, surrendering to her only. She pictured him there, burning for her. Just her.

The parchment now soaked in her blood, she put the stuffed root in the center of it and molded the paper around it. Taking the new spool of red thread, she started wrapping the package again and again until the "jack ball" was completely covered. She left off a length of thread at the end and pinched it between her fingers so the thread-wrapped root hung below.

"Michael Parris, love me or die," she whispered and she swung the ball back and forth. "Michael Parris, love me or die. Michael Parris, love me or die. Michael Parris, love me or die..."

Krysta sat in front of her coffee table with her client, Amelia, and finished the final words of the spell.

"Sprinkle this around your bed," she said as she handed the older woman a small sachet filled with a special powder. "As well as over the thresholds in your house. Bury this package," she gestured to the small bag in the centre of the table that held an egg and a few personal items belonging to the target, "by your front step. Within a few weeks, he'll be back."

"Oh, thank you!" Amelia said as she gathered the items up. "Thank you so much!"

Krysta smiled coolly as she watched the woman put everything in her purse and walk to the door. Just so long as your cheque doesn't bounce. Thank god she made her living dealing items on the supernatural black-market--if she had to rely on the petty cash her occasional clients provided, she'd starve in no time.

With that final appointment over, Krysta moved out of the living room and toward her bedroom. Beneath her pillow sat the small red bag that held the jack ball. She pulled out the magical item, sat on the edge of the bed, and closed her eyes.

Nearly a week had passed since the initial casting, and yet nothing. She repeated the spell every day. Bid him return to her. But he hadn't.

It would be easy to give up. Spells never took this long to work--not for her. She'd put everything she had into it, and yet he hadn't come yet. But she had to have faith. Had to keep believing he'd come.

"Michael Parris," she whispered as she swung the jack ball by its thread. "Love me or die."

It had to work. She'd done the coercive spell for other clients and it always got them what they wanted. The desired lover had to come back--he or she would be sick and die otherwise.


You will love me or die...

Late that night there was a knock at her door.

Krysta's heart thudded in her chest as she looked up from the book she'd been reading. Her gaze fixed on the door and she held her breath for a few beats, waiting to see it had been just her imagination or not.

A second knock sounded, though it was more of an insistent pounding this time.

She closed the book, set it on the coffee table, and rose from the couch. The security door downstairs kept out unwelcome visitors--who the hell got in there to bang on her door at eleven o'clock at night? Sure, she wanted it to be him. Prayed it would be him. But she'd been let down far too many times to let herself believe it just yet.

Krysta padded toward the door to her apartment, threw back the lock, and opened it.

Michael stood in her doorway. His green eyes were fixed on hers, boring into her--looking right through her, it seemed. He smelled like whiskey and looked pissed off.

He knows, was her first thought. Somehow, he'd figured out what she did. Maybe the witch told him. Maybe he just--

He stepped forward suddenly and grabbed her. One hand slid around the back of her head and tangled in her hair, and then he jerked her face toward his. His lips mashed against hers and she opened her mouth to the welcome fire. He almost never kissed her--seemed like the type who'd find it too intimate. She seemed to have him now, though...

But no, she didn't feel him there with her, or so she realized suddenly. He was angry. Trying to forget something--trying to lose himself.

Then I'll help him, she thought as she yanked her blouse open. Buttons flew in all directions, striking the floor around the apartment. It didn't matter why he was there, just as long as he was there.

Everything else would come in time.

Love me or die...

Michael kicked the door closed behind him.

“There was a guy in Newhaven who used to do readings,” Janine said as she and Genevieve got out of the car.

Gen barely pivoted out of the way of a taxi that whizzed past her on the busy road, and swore she’d park on the other side of the street next time. Sure, that meant her girlfriend might get hit instead, but Gen hated downtown Toronto enough to risk it.

“He moved away,” Janine continued as the two girls started down the block and into the area known as Kensington Market. Although few cars traversed those streets, a bike or two nearly clipped Gen as cyclists rushed past. “Haven’t seen him in awhile.”

“Austin?” Gen guessed.

Janine gave her a confused look. “Maybe. Was he an old guy with weird elbows?”

“Definitely not,” Gen said, recalling the little boy with the blood and snake fixation. She slipped her hand over Janine’s, and the two strolled past the many shops. Neither bothered pausing to take in the many scents or sounds, however, as Janine had a destination in mind.

After turning a few corners, they stopped before a storefront painted a dark purple, with cheesy silver stars and moons stenciled over the window. A sign that read “The Magical Pentacle” hung over the door, and a red flashing light in the shape of a palm advertised readings.

This looks lame, Gen thought, but before she made a joke, she glanced at Janine to gauge the other girl’s expression. Playfulness twinkled in the depths of her dark eyes, so Gen tried to remain open-minded.

“How’d you hear about this place?” Genevieve asked.

“There are always ads in the paper,” Janine said. “Plus my dad’s girlfriend went here and said they gave a great reading.”

With a sigh, Gen took the lead and walked up to the front door. Merri would probably have been a more trustworthy psychic, but she wasn’t exactly reliable, and Gen didn’t think anyone would be too pleased if she told her girlfriend about her other friend’s superpowers. When Janine suggested they drive out to the city to see some psychics that sunny July day, Gen couldn’t come up with a reason not to go, so there they stood.

“Oh...damn.” Janine pointed to the sign on the front door.

“’Out on my broomstick—try Curio Killed the Cat down the street,’” Gen read.

“This sucks,” Janine said.

“Yeah...well, we could try the other place?” Please say no...

“I guess,” Janine said.

“We could not,” Gen said quickly. “We could try some other—”

“We came all this way. Might as well check out the other store.”

Gen pretended to smile.

They followed the arrow on the bottom of the sign and wandered down the street until they came to the storefront they sought. Gen would have infinitely preferred checking out the marijuana café next door, but Janine carried on toward the occult store. Black paint trimmed the big, dark wood door. As the girls opened it, a little bell jingled.

Hard rock played over speakers on either side of the shop, which seemed out of place among the old wood and musky scents.

“Wow,” Janine whispered as they gaped at the shelves. Dozens—if not hundreds—of labeled bottles lined one, while big jars of herbs—or something Gen wasn’t sure of—ran across the other. Towards the back, she caught sight of a book section.

Her gaze travelled next to the front counter. A head of black hair, wound into two buns, rested on the wooden surface between the old fashioned cash register and a display of crystals. Deciding against bugging the sleeping employee, Gen moved instead to the books while Janine went her own way.

The floorboards creaked beneath each step she made. As she slipped between the stacks, a shadow moved suddenly and Gen jumped a little. The shadow turned out to be a tall, skinny Goth guy with shoulder-length black hair. He turned to look at her, eyes a clearly-fake blue and set in an unnaturally pale face. He hovered over a book clutched tightly in his white fingers and stared at her accusingly until she moved on.

Weirdo. Raji always wanted to go to occult stores, but Gen would never go with him and that creepy customer was exactly why. Nothing but a bunch of wannabes who wouldn’t know real magic if it extinguished a candle right in front of them.

She browsed the spines until she came to one that looked promising: a little hardcover book of sigils. As she returned—book in hand—to the counter, she met up with Janine, who carried a little sachet of bath salts.

Janine held it up. “Follow Me Girl bath crystals. It’s so that I can make you obsessed with me if you ever leave.”

“I don’t think you need any help with that,” Gen said with a grin.

“Will that be everything?” the cashier said without looking up.

“Actually, we’d like psychic readings,” Janine said. “If you do those.”

The cashier pulled herself up into a sitting position, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned. A light yellow tank top exposed enough brown skin to show black tribal tattoo on one upper arm and glimpses of more tattoos on her back.

At least she’s not waving around a crystal ball, Gen thought.

“Yep, we do readings,” the woman said. “You,” she pointed to Janine, who stood directly in front of her, “can come with me. And you,” she jerked her thumb in Gen’s direction, “ring the bell on the counter and Liam will be right with you.”

It seemed an odd request, and as Janine and the cashier walked toward a side room, Gen considered not bothering with the bell and going back to the books. But guilt at possibly lying to Janine won her over, and she tapped the bell lightly.

Moments later, a thirty-something blond man walked out. Dark-framed glasses sat on his nose, and though he wasn’t much taller than Gen, she felt incredibly small around him—as if he was somehow judging her, and his verdict wasn’t at all good.

“Can I help you?”

“The other lady said you’d do a psychic reading with me...?” Her voice trailed off into a question, realizing as she spoke that she should probably be asking rather than telling him.

He nodded. “Follow me to the back.”

Gen did so without a word and hoped the whole thing would be over soon.

A small round table sat in the center of a tiny room that wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. Two chairs were pulled into either side. Candelabras—with small light bulbs rather than candles—hung from the walls and lit the dark space.

The woman from the counter snatched a package from a shelf near the door, then dropped down heavily on one of the chairs. While she unfolded the cloth parcel, Janine took the seat opposite her.

“So I’m Briar,” the woman said. She spread out the burgundy fabric across the table and pulled out the stack of cards wrapped within.

Janine watched with rapt interest as Briar shuffled the large Tarot cards. “I’m Janine.”

“Any preferences today? Standard spread or do you have a particular question?”

Though she opened her mouth to speak, she couldn’t quite get the words out. She did have questions, of course, but part of her didn’t want to voice them.

“Just about my love life, I guess.”

“Okay, let’s see how this goes...” She cut the deck a few times, then began turning cards up on the table in a pattern. Janine couldn’t make much sense of them, but then she’d never tried Tarot before.

“What’s it say?” Janine asked after Briar had studied them in silence for a few moments.

“This one,” her red-tipped fingernail tapped on a card with cup, “says you don’t know what you want with love. You had your heart broken in the past.”

That’s more than a little accurate, Janine thought, but she had to remember to stay rational. Every person has had his or her heart broken at some point—that was hardly a revelation. Unless the psychic mentioned Trish by name, she wasn’t getting too excited.

“Your heart wants what you know is wrong for you,” Briar continued. “You’ll struggle with that for awhile. And your current lover is lying to you.”

Janine swallowed hard and the hair stood up on her bare arms. She shivered a little. God, I don’t want to ask this...I don’t want to know. She didn’t think her heart could take again...but she spoke up anyway. “Is she cheating on me?”

Briar shook her head almost immediately. “No. Not yet, at least, and maybe not ever. But...I see others in your future.”

The psychic’s words stung, but Janine smiled anyway. “As long as she’s not cheating, though...”

“Well, she’s not sleeping with anyone, if that’s what you mean. But she’s keeping other people—and another life—from you.” Briar cocked her eyebrow, the stud in her brow glittering in the light. “We could do something about that, you know. Like...a little fidelity spell? Something to keep her with you? That’s doable...for a fee.”

“I...I don’t think I can afford that kind of thing...” Janine said. She glanced absently at the packet of bath salts. Five bucks for some smelly salts? Fine. But no spells—that stuff was just weird.

“Ah well,” Briar said with a sigh. “You know where to find me if you change your mind. Just don’t tell my partner in crime here—he disapproves of that kind of thing. Anyway,” her dark gaze scanned the cards again, “the outcome won’t necessarily be that bad for you and your girlfriend.”

Janine looked over the cards. In the center sat The Wheel of Fortune, though she couldn’t derive any meaning from the pictures.

“Sometimes people are fated to find their way back to one another again and again,” Briar said. “And I get that sense from...” She glanced up and put on a quick smile. “From the pair of you, of course. No worries.”

Gen fidgeted a little in her seat while she waited for Liam—the psychic guy—to shuffle the cards. He seemed to do so deliberately slowly, as if pausing to feel the weight and smoothness of each card before sliding it back into the deck.

“So I’m Genevieve,” Gen said. “Do you need to know anything about me?”

“I’d rather not,” he said, his voice cool and detached. “It would influence things.”

“Oh. Right. So...what exactly makes you a qualified psychic?”

He glanced up at her sharply and his eyes narrowed. She tried not to fidget any more than she already was.

“Fifteen years involved in various Wiccan covens, and three years as a High Priest. I’ve also been reading Tarot since well before you were born.”

“Ah, so are you one of those naked ritual, waving around an athame kind of wiccans then, or do you do actual spells and stuff?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s just do this reading. I don’t have time for inane questions about my religion from people like you.”

Good thing I’m not expected to tip the guy, Gen thought.

Liam quickly drew cards, one after the other, until he had a selection of them spread across the table. Gen had tried ages ago to learn Tarot, but always failed to remember what they all meant and quickly gave up. She only recognized the odd one Liam drew, and even then, she had no idea what the significance of them was.

“This,” Liam pointed to a card with a woman in blue, “represents you in the spread.”

The High Priestess, Gen read the label at the bottom, which faced her.

“She looks pretty bad ass,” Gen said. “So that’s a good thing?”

Liam frowned. His lips parted, as if to speak, but he said nothing for several long moments. “It’s reversed.”

“Uh...so that’s bad?”

“It means...” His gaze moved over the cards for a moment, then darted up to hers. He switched focus again to stare at the cards once more, and Gen got the distinct impression that he intentionally avoided her eyes. “It means you don’t know something about yourself. About the things you’re capable of.”

“How about that one?” Gen thrust her finger on a card that sat at the top of a row.

Liam gave her a cold glare and looked pointedly at her finger. She shrank back a bit and gave him an apologetic smile for touching the cards.

“The Wheel of Fortune,” Liam said. “Consequences and possibilities...there’s a lot of movement and change around you. Things are coming that you can’t escape. The Wheel of Fortune is, in essence, representative of your destiny.”

Gen studied the card again, and realized it was surrounded with different cards from the sword suit. “That doesn’t look good.”

“You’ll have a lot of obstacles to overcome.”

Her gaze settled on one card with several swords protruding out of a dead man. “You don’t say. Maybe we should go back to The High Priestess.”

Liam gathered the deck up suddenly. “Maybe we should call it the day. The cards aren’t speaking to me well today—this one will be on the house.”

The crappy psychic visit had Gen feeling shivers up and down her spine. Clutching her sigil book tightly, she didn’t argue with Liam, but instead exited the room. Out in the main area of the shop, she found Janine browsing a rack of necklaces by the door with a paper gift bag labeled, “Curio Killed the Cat” in hand.

Guess I’d better hurry... Genevieve dropped her book on the counter and pulled out her wallet. “Liam said he couldn’t read the cards and it was on the house.”

The dark-haired tattoo girl at the counter glanced back toward the private rooms, but Liam hadn’t followed Gen out. With a heavy sigh, she punched in the price of the book and didn’t argue about the reading.

“Can I ask you something?” Gen said. “About the Tarot?”

“Sure. First, gimme fifteen thirty-five.”

Gen passed her a twenty. “In my cards, there was The Wheel of Fortune with a bunch of swords around it. And then he said I was represented by The High Priestess, and she was reversed. What does that mean?”

The woman glanced up quickly, her dark eyes wide with worry. Her fingers trembled as she handed Genevieve her change.

Oh god, it means something bad...

“Your power...it’s significant. But dark. You’re going to do something horrible, but you don’t even know it yet.”

Gen felt hyperaware of everything suddenly; the air she pulled into her lungs with every breath, the weight of the change in her hand, and the chills running along her skin.

Things are coming that you can’t escape... Genevieve swallowed hard, stuffed the money into her pocket, then grabbed the book and ran to meet Janine at the door.

Just as the two girls left, Liam approached Briar at the counter. “What was—”

As she turned to answer his question before he could get much further, the bell over the door chimed. Both looked towards the entrance.

A woman marched in, heavy heels thumping loudly on the hardwood. Long black skirts swirled around her legs, and dyed red hair—complete with fake extensions—mimicked similar movement around her shoulders. She stormed to the counter and slammed a piece of paper on the surface. Rage danced within her dark eyes.

“Hey Billie,” Briar said with a grin. “What’s up?

Wilhelmina Raven glared at her. “Next time, I’m phoning the police.”

“I don’t know what your problem is today,” Liam said coolly, “but—”

The intruder held up the paper, which Liam took and read aloud. “’Out on my broomstick—try Curio Killed the Cat down the street.’” His gaze moved to Briar, who looked up at him innocently. She doubted he believed she was blameless in this, but he didn’t dare reprimand her in their rival’s presence.

“I’m very sorry,” he began.

“And we have no idea how that happened,” Briar interrupted. “Though maybe if you got said broomstick out of your ass, your customers wouldn’t end up here.”

“I mean it!” Wilhelmina spat. “Don’t do it again!” She stomped off again without another word, slamming the door and leaving the poor bell shaking above it.

Liam turned to speak, no doubt with a lecture in mind, but Briar raised a hand to stop him. “Hey, at least my sign got a couple of new people here. Not like it did any good, with you giving readings on the house.”

“I don’t like reading Tarot, which is why I generally don’t,” Liam said. “The girl left in a hurry, though, so what did she ask you?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, she wanted to know what The Reversed High Priestess meant.”

Liam frowned. “I already told her that. She didn’t know the things she was capable of. What did you tell her?”

“Uh...” Briar grinned and looked away. “That she was going to do something really evil.”

Liam closed his eyes and shook his head dramatically. “What is wrong with you? Why do you have to make up things like that?”

Briar shrugged. “I just like fucking with the tourists. I’m sure she won’t take it too seriously.”