Page 15 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Ezra

D o I want to have my future told? Hell no. I know what my future holds—eating sin, getting laid when I’m not doing penance, and moving on when things get weird.

Now, do I want to hear what the psychic predicts for Damon? Hell yes, especially if she says he’s going to get busy with a guy carrying more baggage than a fucking United flight.

That’d be me.

He’s been kinda handsy all night, which should bug me the shit outa me. I usually hate PDAs, though for some reason, if Damon is involved I don’t mind. I like the way he feels, his hands big and strong and warm. I like the way he smells, like soap and some kind of sandalwood hair product.

And while I hate to admit it, I like the way he’s ready to take care of me, whether I want him to or not.

It’s been a long time—longer than a month of Sundays, as my grandma would say—since someone looked out for me. My mother washed her hands of me as soon as I was old enough to look at another boy with bad intentions. Somehow she knew what I was up to, or what I wanted to be up to, anyway.

She wasn’t much a fan of sin eaters, either, though she’d been with my father for however many years. I stop myself before I can go any further down that wormhole, instead reaching for Damon’s hand. He gives mine a squeeze and together we walk toward the shadows.

Golden lights embedded in the dirt begin to glow, showing us a path. The air smells like patchouli and ahead of us, a small purple tent appears. Now, I can’t swear as to whether it had been there all the time or if it just dropped down from Oz, but the closer we get, the more substantial it is.

The purple tent is a lighter fabric than the big top, silk instead of canvas, and a young woman is sitting at an ornately carved desk near the door. She has dark hair and a septum piercing, and for a psychic, she gives off a fairly normal vibe.

More normal than most of the people we’ve run into here. Like, wtf was with that talking dog, anyway?

“Hi, guys. Having fun?” she asks, and I scoot a little in front of Damon.

Fun? Fuck . “My friend wants to see the psychic.” I leave her question unanswered because this place is testing my tolerance for strange and I don’t want to be rude.

She clasps her hands on the desktop, her jeweled rings catching the light. “Madam Persephone is unfortunately indisposed. I’m her apprentice, Amelia and I would be happy to help you.”

“Sure.” Damon puts his hands on my shoulders, his body warm behind mine. “What’s your specialty?”

She tilts her head just like the woman at the shell game, like she’s listening to voices in the wind or whatever. “I can read your palm or the cards, or I can bring out my crystal ball.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Tarot cards?” he asks, and I stifle a protest. Jesus, enough with the damned Tarot cards .

“I’ve got Tarot, or I can use Viking rune cards or an ordinary deck, if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“Why don’t you try the damned crystal ball?” I mutter.

“Why don’t you?” He gives me a little shake, and I jab my elbow in his gut.

“I already know what it’ll say.”

Amelia fixes me in her gaze. “I’m not sure you do.”

Okay, there’s the crazy. And she’d seemed so normal . “Be real.”

She blinks and shakes her head. “Give me your palm.”

“What? No.” I stuff my hands in my pockets.

That earns me another tilted head examination. “What are you afraid of?”

“Yeah,” Damon says, his voice soft, his lips brushing my ear. “What are you afraid of?”

I’m afraid you’ll figure out what I am even though I can’t say the words myself, and I’m not ready for you to give me that you’re repulsive look .

Still, they’re both waiting for me to answer, so I finally sigh and rock my head against his shoulder.

“All right. Read his cards and then you can look in your crystal ball and make some shit up.” I admit I wince inside at my snotty tone.

She’s been perfectly nice and I’m being an asshole.

The words hang there for longer than I’d like before she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a deck of cards.

It’s a Tarot deck, the edges worn, the colors deep and jewel-toned.

She shuffles them with practiced hands, her rings sparkling.

For a moment she closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, it’s as if a new spirit has inhabited her.

Nothing has changed, not her hair, her eye color, or her skin tone, but someone older watches us.

Older and, if not world-weary, then a soul who has seen a whole lot of bullshit and can somehow find compassion.

I blink and she’s back to being her ordinary self, assuming anyone in this place is ordinary. Damon keeps saying we’re in a kind of AI art installation, and while he could be right, I’m leaning more toward some magical bullshit straight out of a romantasy novel.

“I’m going to use a three card spread, okay? The card on the left will reflect your past, the center will reflect your present, and the right will be the future.”

“That’s cool.”

Damon’s standing close enough that his voice vibrates against my back, which feels way better than it should.

He has a deep voice, lush with a touch of sexy.

I like it as much as I like the rest of him, and if I had the sense god gave a dog—another of Grandma’s favorites—I’d step away from him and let him face his fate alone.

I don’t, of course. He feels too good.

She makes three piles of cards, then asks Damon to turn over the top on the pile to her left. “Nine of Wands,” Amelia murmurs. “Now the center.”

He does. “The Knight of Cups.” Somehow that makes her smile. “And the last.”

Before reaching for the last card, he presses his lips against my ear. “For luck,” he whispers, and he turns over the last card.

“The Page of Swords. An interesting spread.” Running her fingertip along the polished wood at the edge of the cards, she hums tunelessly. “How old are you?”

Damon clears his throat. “Twenty-seven.”

Tension creeps into his body, which amps up the tension in mine. He’s clearly nervous about what she’s going to say.

“At least you didn’t get the fucking hermit card.” My attempt at relieving the tension is too jovial to really work.

She gives me another of those I can see right through you looks. “The cards have their own plan.”

“You’re the expert.” I shrug, half tempted to escape before things get ugly. I’m just curious enough to stay.

“So, the Nine of Wands is a card that shows you’ve overcome significant challenges. You had a difficult childhood, maybe?”

He waits a beat before answering, and when he does, his voice is rough. “Yeah.”

“Mm.” There’s sympathy in the sound. “The Knight of Cups shows you’re a romantic at heart.” She flicks a grin at me. “You’re a lucky man.”

I’ve got no sassy come-back for that one.

“The final card, the Page of Swords, is about new beginnings, a new project, of finding a place for new ideas.”

“Does a new romance count?” Damon chuckles like he’s not taking this seriously. His body is hard against mine, the tension at odds with his laughter, like he wants to hide how much he cares about her answer.

Or maybe I’m being overly optimistic.

“Could be,” Amelia says, though she sounds doubtful. “The cards say you’ve overcome quite a bit and kept your heart intact. Maybe it’s time to dream a little and do the thing you’ve always wanted to.”

He’s so still I can’t tell if he’s breathing until he speaks. “Don’t suppose there’s a card that’ll tell me what that is.”

Her eyes go dark. “I think you already know.” Her voice has an extra resonance and then she blinks. “Now, since you brought the subject up, turn one more card.” She holds the deck where he can reach it and, going slow, he takes a card.

“Look, the Two of Cups!” Her smile is full of joy. “I can’t make promises, but the card speaks to compatibility and harmony, so... “

He exhales, some of the tension leaving his body. “That’s all great. You’ve, uh, given me a lot to think about,” he says with a laugh, and reaches into his pocket. “Here.” He slides a bill across the desk. “Gotta cross the fortune teller’s palm.”

She’s got that bill tucked away faster than I can see the denomination.

I’m ready to move along when she says, “Wait,” and lifts a goddamn crystal ball from the depths somewhere.

It’s about the size of a large orange, perfectly clear, and seated on a gold base studded with rubies and tiny diamonds. “Do you have a question for the globe?”

There’s an extra resonance to her voice and it pins me in place. “What the fuck?”

Damon shakes me. “Not that kind of question.”

I lean into him. “I don’t know.”

“How about asking why Jett keeps showing you The Hanged Man.”

“Sure.” I nod at Amelia. “That’s my question.”

She closes her eyes, palms resting on the desktop.

I stare at the ball, at first because I’m trying to figure out if the gems in the base are real.

A cloud starts to form in the center of the clear globe and I can’t look away.

The cloud grows bigger, filling it before fading away and leaving me with a single image.

The young murdered woman with her perfect ’80s hair and pink polo. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is moving soundlessly.

She wants something and I don’t know what it is.

“Aw, hell no. Now you’re really fucking with me.” I jerk out of Damon’s grasp, backing away so quickly I come close to tripping over my own feet. “I can’t... I don’t know... This is too fucking much.”

“What is it?” Damon asks.

I’m breathing so hard I can’t answer him.

“It’s a woman,” Amelia says, her voice puzzled. “She’s asking him for help.”

“Help?” I yell. “How the fuck am I supposed to help a dead woman?”

Damn it. I take off running before Damon can ask what I’m talking about.

I run without truly seeing the crowds of people around me.

The air is warm and the light hasn’t dimmed at all, but my body is numb and it’s an effing miracle I don’t knock somebody down.

I pass the big red-and-white striped tent and its smaller green neighbor where the dog did his tricks.

A ride where people are spinning around twenty-some feet in the air, every one of them screaming with laughter. Another tent. More food stands.

And finally, when I’m struggling to catch my breath, darkness.

Not total darkness, although I would have welcomed it.

I must have come to the end of the public areas.

Off to one side there’s a cluster of old covered wagons and an antique-looking bus, straight outa 1933.

I slow down, still struggling to breathe, wondering where the hell to go next that doesn’t involve busting into somebody’s private area.

“You won’t.” A voice says from way too close beside me.

I about jump outa my skin. “Fuck.”

“I apologize for startling you. I am Mr. Ame, and this is my Carnival.”

Pivoting slowly, I take in the man standing closer than he oughta be. He’s taller than me, though most men are, and he’s slender, lanky almost. His hair is dark, hanging to his shoulders, and he’s wearing close-cut black pants and a loose white shirt.

I’ve never seen something so dangerous look so good.

“And I guess I’m sorry for swearing. I didn’t know you were there until you said something.” Also, your Ringmaster said I’d be safe here and he obviously lied.

“Tell me what happened. What made you leave your friend behind?”

“For the love of—” I rake my hand through my hair. “It’s complicated.”

He sighs softly. “All right. Here’s what I know. You came to my Carnival and you were promised safety.”

I interrupt him by laughing. He simply raises a hand and for some damn reason, I go quiet.

“You carry darkness within you, and while I can keep you safe from external forces, I cannot help you with yourself.”

“Good to know. Thanks, dude—uh, Mr. Ame.” My mother would want me to be respectful. “I’m going to go find my friend. Sorry to have—”

“Wait. Your friend will be here in a moment. I want you to do something, though, once he’s here. I want you to tell him the truth.”

I start laughing, and no amount of hand-waving on Mr. Mysterious Ame’s part is gonna get me to stop. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Oddly, he doesn’t say anything. He simply nods and takes a step back. Someone grabs me from behind and by the time I freak out, figure out it’s Damon, and turn around again, Mr. Ame gone.

“What the hell, Ezra? Are you okay?”

“Um... “ I have no idea what to say, but I do know what not to say. Anything close to the truth. “Low blood sugar, man.” I deliberately echo his words. “Let’s blow this place and get some dinner.”

His expression makes it very plain that he doesn’t believe me. Rather than push, he takes my hand and says, “Let’s go.”

That’s when I begin to think Mr. Ame might be right, that I could tell Damon the truth.

But I won’t.