Page 47 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

“Hi!” I greet the rainbow-haired person sitting at the table Sam gestured at. “Are you Dillon?”

“That’s me!” They leap out of their seat and smother me in a hug that smells like patchouli, lemongrass, and something herbal.

“You must be Lila,” they say as they set me away, their eyes skimming over me.

“Holy shit, no wonder Sam’s down so bad for you.

You’re fucking gorgeous. And those tattoos!

You gotta give me the name of your artist. Goddamn, you’re a whole ass, edgy goddess.

” All of this said without them once taking a breath.

While I try to figure out whether I’m more impressed or concerned by that fact, they glance over my shoulder.

“Well done, Sammy, she’s—holy shit, I’m half in love with her, and I just met her. ”

There’s a growl from behind me seconds before arms wrap around my waist and tug me backwards. “Hands off.” It’s a deep rumble that sounds like Sam, although there’s something darker, more threatening, in it than I usually hear from my even-keeled doctor.

Dillon’s lips curl in amusement, trapping a huffed snort that sounds like it might be a laugh if they let it grow up.

“Don’t mind him.” Subtly, I twine my fingers with Sam’s where they’re sitting at my waist. He has gotten way more touch-oriented since he told me he loved me, which should bother me.

No matter how anxious I get about being touched, though, most especially when I’m not expecting it, I can’t bring myself to freak out when it’s Sam doing it.

It seems he’s the exception to every rule I have. “He’s a little possessive.”

“It’s all good.” With a wave of their hand, they drop back into their seat. “Caveman is a good look for him. He’s been way too buttoned up all these years. Honestly, until he met you, I always assumed he was ace or aro. I don’t think he’s had a significant other in all the years I’ve known him.”

Sam nudges me to the chair with the caramel cappuccino in front of it like he doesn’t even care that they’re talking about his sex or love life.

“But seeing him with you?” They brace their elbows on the table and prop their chin in their hand. “Like, I get it. You feel right for him.”

In the seat next to me, Sam rolls his eyes as he hands me my muffin. “You just met her, Dill. Not that you’re wrong, but whatcha basing that on there, buddy?”

“Instinct,” they chirp. “You know I’m never wrong when I go with my gut.”

“They’re always wrong when they go with their gut,” Sam mutters to me.

“Hey! You take that back!” Dillon flips their middle finger at him in a playful gesture even I can tell isn’t malicious. “The spirits have never steered me wrong.”

“Did you ever get your car back from that nighttime car-wash service?” Sam asks offhandedly before taking a sip of his own drink.

“Okay, the spirits steered me wrong one time.” Dillon hums with a thoughtful smirk. “Ooh, wait, Lila!” Lurching forward, they seize my free hand in theirs. “You have to let me do a spread for you!”

I blink at them, not really noticing the warmth of their grip as I turn to Sam in confusion. “Do a spread? I don’t understand.”

“They read tarot,” Sam clarifies at the same time as Dillon says, “I want to do a tarot reading for you!”

I shake my head emphatically. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

” If anything, I’m sure it’s an absolutely, empirically terrible idea.

I’m not certain how the cards would read, but I’m imagining some horrifically detailed rendering of my long life and tragic last few decades, all read by this joyous butterfly of a human.

What if the cards show them who I really am?

They say something in response—likely a plea to reconsider, given their jutting lower lip—but I don’t hear it.

All of the sounds around me, only background noise before, are deafening.

The sharp crash of the coffee grinder. Some pop song that’s more bass than music playing overhead.

The rise and fall of conversations around us.

The cheerful ring of the register accepting payment.

The shuffle of feet through the storefront.

The slam of the door as people enter and leave.

Everyone is staring at me. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. All of the customers’ eyes are on me, seeing straight through to my soul.

They know who I am. They’re going to try and take me. They’ll have to fucking kill me fi—

There’s a tap on the back of my left hand.

Annoying. I swat at it with my free hand.

Another tap. Then another. And another. They’re at intervals, short and long, some pressed to my skin for seconds at a time, others for no time at all.

I blink once. Again. It’s Morse code.

The world around us quiets as Sam—and I know it’s Sam tapping now, I know those long, elegant fingers better than my own by this point—presses out a dah then three dits.

B

A dit, a dah, a dit.

R

A dit.

E

A dit and another dah.

A

I know what he’s tapping out before he finishes the last three letters of this cycle. Breathe. He’s reminding me to breathe. Without saying a word, without drawing any attention to my panic, he’s anchoring me. All because he knows how badly I want to see the world outside of our home.

I love this man.

In the middle of this crowded room, the scent of coffee and baked goods all around us, the realization strikes me with the force of a punch. So unexpected I flinch.

I love him.

The thought comes again. This time, it’s less brutally unanticipated. Has more quiet certainty that should fill me with terror. Panic that I’m going to ruin his life. Instead, the recognition is peace and clarity. Warmth and happiness.

I love Sam.

Without hesitating, I lean into my sweet doctor and press a kiss to his cheek. Inhale the scent of him. Under my lips, his muscles tighten as a tiny smile takes over his face.

“You two haven’t been listening to a thing I said, have you?”

“Not even a little bit,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Sam’s profile.

“Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted.” Dillon snickers, pushing their chair back with a screech of metal legs against the wooden floor and standing up. “You’re gonna kick yourself for not hearing about Sam’s reading.”

I pull away from Sam and frown down at my muffin. They’re starting to collect their things when I blurt out, “What were his cards if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I did a past, present, future spread for him,” they answer as they pick up their coffee cup. “It was weird. I pulled the upright tower for his past, the devil reversed for present, and upright death for future.”

“It’s transformation,” I murmur.

“You know tarot?” they exclaim, their eyebrows jumping upwards in surprise.

“Umhmm,” I hum noncommittally as I consider the cards they drew for Sam.

In the early 1900s, I spent an inordinate amount of time inspiring Arthur Waite as he co-authored the mystical texts that eventually formed the basis for the 78 card deck now known as the Rider-Waite tarot.

As a result, I have an intimate familiarity with the myriad meanings associated with most of the cards.

Upright tower in the past position: a sudden, unexpected change that shifted everything about the subject’s life. Not hard to figure out what that was.

Reversed devil in present? If I remember correctly, it’s all about empowerment and the subject becoming who they were always meant to be.

“Upright death as future?”

“Yup. It means—”

“Transformation. Embracing new beginnings with courage and openness.” It’s clearing the slate and evolving. It’s the potential for deeper connection or a necessary end. Neither negative nor positive, it’s still telling.

“Damn, you know your stuff.” They dance in place excitedly. “Sammy, she’s so fucking cool! How could you keep her from me for this long?”

“When did you read for him?” I ask before Sam can answer.

Their face crinkles in thought before they snap their fingers. “It would have been last Thanksgiving. Mama Eaton invited me for dinner, so I wouldn’t be alone.”

Right before Sam found me in Arthur’s living room. All that transformation showing up as his future in a reading mere weeks before I showed back up in his life.

I shoot them a weak smile, which they take as their signal to leave, leaving me and Sam sitting at the table with a wave and an order to call them so we can all “do dinner” next week. I’m pretty sure I nod in response, even though I’m too lost in my thoughts to pay much attention.

“What’s up?” Sam asks the second they’re far enough away from the table that they won’t hear us talking.

“Hmm? Oh nothing.” When he cants his head in my direction, the edges of his mouth pulled downward in an unimpressed expression, I drag my focus away from Dillon’s read and back to Sam. “I promise. It’s nothing.”

One eyebrow pops up.

“Fine!” I flick my hands in irritation. “I was just thinking about the tarot read they did for you. It was interesting, that’s all.”

“So they told me.” He takes a big bite of the lemon poppyseed muffin in front of him. “I’ll be honest, though, I didn’t put much stock in the superstitious side of things.”

“Despite having a goddess living with you?”

“The reading was before you.” He shoots me a fond smile. “After you, I find it all too easy to believe in magic.”

Turning back to his laptop like he didn’t just drop a romantic bombshell, he tilts the screen towards me.

I drag my gaze away from him to the computer where I see, for some inexplicable reason, an ancient Sumerian text detailing an—I skim over the blurred words, convinced my rusty memory of the language is throwing me off until I get further down the page—yep, an ancient fertility ritual.

“Why are you showing me a Sumerian fertility ritual?”

“Wait, what?” He shifts the laptop back around. “No way! There’s no way that’s what it is.”