Page 53 of Tricked By Jack

“The curse only matters because you let it,” she says, eyes never leaving mine. “It consumed your sister, and now you’re letting it consume you. And you…” her gaze cuts to Eve “… will drink his ghosts until they rot your veins. By the time you notice the taste, you’ll be too far gone. This is your warning from fate.”

Eve’s fingers flex against the table like she’s deciding whether to shove the cards away. My thigh under her tenses, ready to keep her seated if she does. I can feel her pulse through every point where we touch.

I keep rolling the words over in my mind. Rot in her veins and ghosts in mine. I know what mine means, but what did my Little Bride do? Or is this about the people she didn’t protect from Valentine fucking Grant?

The cards lay between us like evidence, each image a wound the crone pressed her finger into. Whether she believes her own words or just knows which scars to touch, the result is the same—Eve’s pulse is racing, and mine is too.

I stand abruptly, pulling Eve up with me. The table rocks, nearly toppling the candles. “We’re done here,” I say, throwing down bills without counting them.

The fortune teller doesn’t reach for the money. “You’ll return,” she says simply. “Both of you will be back.”

Chapter 18

The Trickster

Idrag Eve from the booth, not caring if I hurt her. The night air hits us like a slap, cold after the incense-thick interior. The fog seems to have thickened, wrapping around us in tendrils that cling to our clothes and skin.

Her stomach growls, the sound barely audible above the carnival din but loud enough for me to catch. It’s been at least twelve hours since she last ate—my fault, I realize with a detached sort of awareness.

I already know that the hunger pangs aren’t enough to break her. Though they add another layer of vulnerability I can exploit, that’s not the reason I haven’t fed her. I’ve tried, she just refuses most of what I offer.

A starving performer won’t give the show I want, so when I spot a food vendor through the mist, I move us closer. The grill is hissing and popping, releasing the scent of roasting meat that cuts through the artificial fog like a blade.

“Want some?” I ask, nodding toward the stand.

Eve’s eyes follow my gesture, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “No, I’m not hungry,” she lies, her pride still intact despite everything.

“Liar,” I say, not unkindly. I steer her closer to the vendor, my hand firm on the small of her back. “You’ll need your strength for later.”

The vendor’s stall is draped with strings of tiny orange lights shaped like skulls. Behind the counter, a woman in elaborate Day of the Dead makeup arranges skewers of meat on the grill. The flames leap up, casting grotesque shadows across her painted face.

“We’ll take two, please,” I tell her, holding up two fingers. She nods, not speaking—part of the Sanctuary’s immersive experience.

While we wait, I study Eve in the flickering light. The aftermath of captivity has left its mark on her in the shadows beneath her eyes which are deeper. But it’s not enough to hide the fierce vitality to her that’s strangely compelling.

Her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, the orange ends catching the light like embers I can’t look away from no matter how much I try to. With a reluctant sigh, I run my fingers through the soft locks.

“You better not pull any hairs out,” she sniffs, which makes me laugh.

The vendor hands over two skewers of meat and vegetables, dripping with a dark, sticky sauce that smells of smoke and spice. I pass one to Eve, our fingers brushing in the exchange. She doesn’t pull away immediately—an interesting development.

“Thank you,” she says, the words formal and precise.

I guide her to a small standing table away from the main flow of traffic. From here, we can observe the crowd while maintaining a bubble of relative privacy.

Eve takes a careful bite of her food, then closes her eyes briefly, the simple pleasure of eating after deprivation evident in the slight relaxation of her shoulders.

“Is it good?” I ask, watching her mouth as she chews.

She nods, swallowing before answering. “They’ve achieved the perfect balance of char and tenderness,” she explains, examining the skewer with clinical interest. “The smoke compound is artificial, though. Liquid smoke with additional chemicals to enhance the sensory impact.”

I laugh, surprised by her analysis. “Most people would just say it tastes good.”

Her eyes meet mine, sharp and uncompromising. “That’s boring, and it doesn’t actually explain anything.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs as if my question is bothersome. “Good is a relative term. You can’t compare it or measure it.”