Page 30 of The Sin Eater
Miss Cat Eyes tilts her head, giving Ezra a close once-over. “Down there.” She points past us into a pool of shadows. “And if she says you’re about to have some good luck, come back and see me.”
“Thanks,” I say. I take hold of Ezra’s hand, as much to borrow some confidence as anything else. In all honesty, I like having the future wrapped in mystery. Jett and their damned Tarot cards are really all I need.
Chapter Eleven
Ezra
Do 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 Ican 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?”