Page 29 of Death Card

“Since I didn’t offend you with that other question, I want to ask you another.” She picks up a package of incense from the box. “You’re telling me that you don’t believe in any of this?” She points to the rest of the row, which is stuffed with packets of herbs and teas, essential oils, and mortars and pestles.

“From the way you read my cards yesterday, I thought you were a true believer. But if it’s all a show—”

I hold up my hand, cutting her off midsentence. “When did I say it was a show?”

“I guess you didn’t. I assumed, since you said you don’t practice voodoo…” she says, trailing off. “I can’t seem to get a read on you.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

Revealing the secret of magic to mortals isn’t something a witch takes lightly. The only acceptable reason is during a romantic relationship or a close friendship. Joelle is neither my lover nor my friend, so I’m sure as hell not going to give her any indication of what I believe or don’t believe when it comes to witchcraft.

It’s my job to read people, not the other way around. If she has some nefarious reason for wanting to know more about me, then I’m not going to make it easy for her.

The bell over the door jingles. “Mikaela!” Orion yells. “You’ve got a customer!”

I scramble to my feet, but Joelle doesn’t make any move to stand. “Let one of us know once you finish up here, and we can show you where the rest of the stock is.”

She lifts her hand in a mock salute. “Got it, boss.”

I bring one of my regular customers into the back for a reading, but all I can think about is Joelle and our entwined fates.

I end updoing three readings back-to-back. By the time I’m done, my shift is over. I’m packing up my cards when Joelle leans against the doorframe. “Do you have time for one more reading?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Her expression looks so silly, I can’t help but laugh.Idiot. She’s your murderer!

“Didn’t I already give you one?”

Joelle shrugs and slips into the chair across from me. “There’s always something new for the cards to reveal.”

I’ll give her that. Wordlessly, I hand her the stack of cards and think of all the questions I have about the girl sitting across from me.Why is she fated to kill me? What does the future hold in store for her?

“I don’t have a specific question I want answered,” she says. “You can give me a general reading.”

She hands me back the shuffled deck and I waste no time in arranging them on the table facedown in a Celtic cross. It’s not a position I often use. With a total of ten cards drawn, it usually provides way more information than my customers want or need. But if there’s any situation that calls for one, it’s this one right here.

I explain to Joelle as I go. Each of the cards drawn has a different significance. The first card represents the situation; the second card is the challenge. For my purposes, the most important card is the sixth: the near future.

Slowly, I flip the cards over, observing the titles. I touch them only briefly enough to see what they say. I’m not ready for a vision yet.

Joelle remains silent as her eyes rove over the cards. My breath stalls in my throat as I reach for the sixth card. The vision overtakes me before I can even flip it over.

It’s the same damn vision I’ve seen over and over again. Howmany times can someone watch their own death before they lose their mind completely? Because I’m close to the edge.

“The Death card,” Joelle states solemnly. “We meet again.”

The words slip out before I can process my thoughts. “You’re on the precipice of something big. Your life is going to change completely very, very soon.”

And with it, mine and my family’s. There is no alternative reading. The cards aren’t wrong. My visions are clear.

To her credit, Joelle doesn’t look happy. Instead, she looks downright frightened. The look only lasts for a moment before disappearing in a flash. “You’re really good at this…even if you don’t believe in it.”

A sigh slips from my lips. “I never said what I believe.”

“I know.”

I turn away from her smirk to set my cards back in their place on the bookshelf. When I turn back, her eyes are soft and she’s holding out her phone to me. “Put your number in,” she says. “You’re my supervisor. I might need to call you if I’m going to be late to work or if something comes up.”

My skin prickles as I take the phone from her. It’s so unfair that the pretty girl asking for my number is someone I don’t have the slightest chance with. Not when she’s planning on plunging a knife into my chest in the near future.