“Well, I haven’t exactly known you my whole life and I’m staying with you,” I snapped.
“I know. But I can’t help but worry for you,” he said.
“Well don’t. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself, you know.”
Gavin said nothing, shifting aside to allow me to pass. As I descended the long stairway, I didn’t turn around but still I knew that Gavin was at the bedroom door, watching me walk away, that dark unknowable gaze fixed on me as I walked out the front door, following my dad.
“WHAT TYPE OF MUSIC DO YOU LIKE?” my dad asked me as hopped in his Jeep and pulled away from Gavin’s house.
“Surprise me,” I said. “Let’s hear what you’ve got. And if it’s lame, I’ll be completely disappointed in your status as a new-found dad.”
“How’s this?” he said, as he turned up the music.
Vintage grunge stuff. I smiled. “Not too shabby. But I’ll send you some of my boyfriend’s music. His band is called Last Chance for Zombies and they are excellent.”
“That’s quite a mouthful for a band name,” my dad said.
“Yeah, and guess who thought of it,” I said. “That’s right, yours truly. This one night we were all talking about how movie zombies gravitate to malls, and I brought up how if it happened in real life, someone would find a way to just go ahead and put them on sale. Like everyone would want one as a pet, but soon enough they’d start smelling too ripe or eating kids, so they’d go out of style again like hermit crabs or sugar gliders. You know what I mean?”
“Well it’s hard to believe a good zombie would ever go out of style, but yes, I understand” my dad replied.
“I know. But anyway,” I continued, “All these mall stores would have to have some serious clearance events on zombies—you know, everything must go—and hence, ta da, Last Chance for Zombies!”
My dad laughed and told me he’d love to hear them. He asked more about my life so I told him about Matt and Angie, and about my job at Flatiron Hardware. We chatted as he pulled into a parking garage at a large building, and I followed him from his Jeep to his place on the top floor.
His condo was spacious, open, sleek, and nearly empty. A black leather sofa faced a gigantic television and four different gaming systems. Sweet. A table with a computer on it was pushed against the far wall. The stacks of books left randomly around the room were the only things that kept the room from looking totally bleak. No pictures, no rugs. I smiled; no woman could be possibly be living here.
“It could probably use a little decorating,” he said, catching my expression.
“Yeah, mom’d go crazy in here,” I said.
“How is Claire?” His voice was warm.
“Mom is good. She’s so pulled together that sometimes I wonder if she’s an android. She’s smart, maybe a bit uptight, looks great, even still runs the Bolder Boulder 10k every year. She doesn’t have any bad habits at all, which means I must have gotten all of mine from you.”
“It’s a distinct possibility, kiddo,” he said. “I cherish my bad habits. They keep me interesting.”
He disappeared down a hallway and returned with a pillow and some blankets. “Do you want couch or bed?” he asked.
“Couch, please.”
He placed the blankets on the sofa and wished me good night, promising that we’d talk more in the morning.
I awoke to the sounds of clattering in the kitchen. Peeking my head over the edge of the sofa, I was able to see my dad rummaging through cupboards in his kitchen, which appeared to match the rest of his home: stylish and empty. He didn’t seem to be any better at keeping up with grocery shopping than I was.
“Hey, good morning,” he said. “I was thinking I’d make breakfast, but I appear to be out of any two ingredients that might mix to make a breakfast food.”
“That’s cool, I’m not that hungry anyway.” Actually, I was ravenous, but didn’t want to seem demanding right out of the gate.
“Did you have plans with Gavin today?” he asked. “Because if not, I thought I could take you out, show you the sights of Savannah.”
“Nope, no plans.” I smiled to myself. It would be fun to spend the day killing time in a new city. I excused myself to the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day, taking my time to text Matt and Angie. My dad had asked me not to tell anyone about him, but even so, I had plenty of news to share.
We spent the morning taking in the sights of Savannah, the lavish décor of the buildings and the myriad historic attractions. I learned that the people of Savannah took great pride in the town’s history, since so many other cities in the South had been destroyed during the war. We ate lunch at an outdoor café and shopped along River Street all afternoon before returning to my dad’s condo.
“Lucy, your talent for the cards is remarkable. You’re better at it than either me or even your grandmother, and she had the true talent,” my dad said. We were kicked back on his sofa, flipping through the channels.
“Gavin used that phrase, too—‘true talent.’ What do you mean by that?” I asked.
My dad thought quietly for a moment before responding. “Anyone can learn to read the cards,” he said. “Although some are much better at it than others—more intuitive, more insightful, whatever. But when someone has the true talent, it’s different.”
“How so?”
“It’s a deeper talent for divination. If you have the true talent, the cards will focus you—assist you, you could say, but the power is coming from you.”
“So do you know a lot of other people who have this…true talent?” I asked.
“Just one, really, a woman who goes by the name of Benna. I’ve been thinking it might be worth our while to seek her out, but I’m not entirely sure it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“She can be…unsettling. Sometimes when you talk to her, it’s like she’s seeing the past, present and future all at once. It doesn’t always make for easy conversation. And she looks a little unorthodox to boot.”
“Is she a member of the Guild?”
“No, definitely not. I can’t picture Benna taking any side of anything. She’s in her own world. Plus she doesn’t read tarot.”
“I thought you said she was great at tarots—that whole true talent and everything?”
“No, the true talent can express itself in other ways. It’s not tied to the cards. Maybe we’ll take a trip out there after dinner and you can see for yourself.”
“That sounds interesting. Do you need to call and book an appointment?”
“No,” my dad replied. “She’ll know we’re coming.”
BEFORE DINNER, I SHOWERED AGAIN AND CHANGED into a white top, shorts and sandals that I’d bought during our shopping excursion. I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, smoothing down a few flyaway hairs and wiping away a goopy mascara smear. My dad had been so in love with my mom; was he disappointed that I wasn’t more like her? I was small like her, but shared none of her cool blond sophistication. I sighed and flipped off the bathroom light.
My dad was in the living room playing a kickboxing game. He smiled as I sat next to him and picked up his second controller. “So, I have a challenger, eh?” he said.
“You might as well prepare for annihilation,” I replied, pressing the button to jump into the match. His character swiftly approached mine with a jab that I easily blocked. I didn’t know the game, so I mashed buttons at random, resulting in a beautiful roundhouse kick to his gut. We laughed as our characters swiped at each other until finally my dad caught me with a throw, tossing my character out of the arena to win the match.
“Two out of three?” I asked.
“Actually we should probably get going. I made reservations for us at The Pirate’s House.”
“Pirate’s House?”
“Yep, it’s a Savannah institution, been around for like two hundred and fifty years. You’ll be pleased to know that it’s supposedly haunted. Of course, half of Savannah claims to be ha
unted. Whole tourist ghost trips are built around the idea.”
Fifteen minutes later we found ourselves at The Pirate’s House. The restaurant was covered with weathered wood siding, with haint-blue shutters and trim. From the outside, at least, it did indeed look historic but not particularly haunted. We took our seats in a cozy wood-paneled dining room.
“So, were there ever legit pirates here?” I asked my dad as I eyeballed the crowd.
“Actually, yes. Supposedly there are parts of the book Treasure Island that took place here.”
“I didn’t really like that book,” I said.
“Well, neither did I, but it’s still cool trivia. But what’s really weird is that there is a staircase here in the restaurant, and it’s rumored that it used to lead to a tunnel connecting the old rum cellar to the Savannah River. So according to legend, men might have one too many drinks here one night and end up being carried through the tunnel to the ships on the river, kidnapped and forced to work aboard the ships.”
Before I could reply, our server approached the table, welcoming us and asking if we’d been to the restaurant before.
“This is my daughter’s first trip to Savannah,” my dad said. “I was just telling her about this place’s colorful history. Pirates and ghosts and such.”
“Well now we don’t see any pirates these days. But the ghosts are still mighty active, for sure.” I studied the server’s face. He didn’t seem to be kidding, there was no trace of a smile on his smooth face. Did he really think there were ghosts here? He gave me a quick wink and took our drink order.
“People here sure take the ghost thing seriously,” I told my dad as the server left the table. “Do they really believe it, or is it like a tourist gimmick?”
“Oh, a bit of both, I think,” said my dad, “Depends on the person. I still haven’t made up my mind, myself. If we weren’t already planning to see Benna tonight, I’d take you on a ghost tour.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” I replied, happy with the thought of a future that included my dad.
Chapter 18. Benediction.
We’d been driving for almost half an hour when I realized that, save for the faint moonlight and the Jeep’s headlights, the road had become completely black. No streetlights broke the darkness, no homes or businesses lined the street. Trees loomed at the edges of the narrow road, their silhouettes clutching at the moonlight.
We drove onward, twisting and turning our way through the small rural roads before finally turning on to an unpaved path. We bumped along the dark, uneven path until, unexpectedly, my dad stopped the Jeep.
“We walk from here,” he said, leaning across me to pull a flashlight from the storage compartment in the dashboard. “It’s too narrow to drive.”
I stayed close to my dad as we walked away from the Jeep. The flashlight provided enough light for us to see our way, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that just outside the perimeter of the beam, beasts were lurking, biding their time.
My imagination was running away with me; I told myself I was being ridiculous. I’d never been afraid of the dark before, but I’d let the waiter’s comment spook me.
“This is kind of freaky,” I told my dad.
“Don’t let yourself get too scared,” he said. “A little realistic apprehension is fine, but don’t let fear overtake you completely, ever. Fear is the mind-killer.”
“Poetic,” I said.
“I can’t take credit,” he replied. “It’s from a book. But still good advice.”
“I’m just freaked out a little, not really scared. I’m the toughest chick you ever met,” I joked.
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied. “But here we are.”
I hadn’t thought about what Benna’s home might look like, but after seeing Gavin’s home and Durendal, I supposed I was ready for anything. The home in front of us, however, was little more than a wood shack. No larger than my mom’s garage, it looked as though a strong breeze might knock it over at any time. I was surprised that Benna hadn’t used her supreme talents or whatever to make enough money to buy a better house.
“Not everyone shares the same goals,” my dad said under his breath, correctly guessing at my train of thought. We approached the three rickety wood steps that led to the front door.
“Just come on in,” said an elderly woman’s voice as we were on the steps. My dad reached forward and opened the shack’s door and we stepped inside. The shack was tidy but dilapidated. Just inside the front door was a shabby rust-colored sofa that faced an empty fireplace. Beyond that was a wobbly kitchen table bracketed by four mismatched wood chairs, the dining area pushed close against the shack’s back wall that served as a kitchen, complete with a stained sink and stubby bullet-shaped old refrigerator. Two closed doors stood along the left wall; I assumed these were the bedroom and bathroom.
“You’re later than I figured you’d be,” said the old woman seated at the small table. I assumed this must be Benna. An afghan was wrapped around her hunched narrow shoulders despite the heat. She was tiny, with thinning white hair clinging to her scalp in small curls. She looked older than Nathaniel. Older than his house, even.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Benna,” my dad said. “But I’d like you to meet my daughter Lucy.”
She nodded and raised a bent arthritic hand, motioning for us to sit down. I sat in the chair to her right, she smelled like dried paper. “So you’ve brought one who’s like me, have you Tyler?”
“I’m not sure. But possibly,” my dad said.
“’Course, isn’t no one really like Miss Benna, but you are something, girl, aren’t you?”
My throat was dry as I answered her. “I’m not too bad at the cards, I guess.”
“The cards. La di da. Never did too much take to the cards,” she said. “Show me your hand, child.”
I extended my hand and she held it palm-up in her own. “Left-handed, of course.” She bent her head close to my palm, tracing along its lines with her free hand, muttering as she turned my palm this way and that under the dim light of the house. My dad was quiet as he watched her work.
Benna sat up abruptly and slapped her hand on the table, causing my dad and me to jump. “Tyler, what do you think you’re doing with this child? I see you know full well that long as you stand at her side, her life ain’t no more than an egg balanced on that thick skull of yours.”
My dad looked down as if to study the scarred surface of the table. “So the prediction hasn’t changed then. I’m still putting her life in danger?”
She clucked her tongue at my dad and returned to my palm. She dropped my hand and sat silently for some time. “Fool,” she mumbled nearly inaudibly. I didn’t dare ask if she was referring to me or to my dad.
“Well child, you won’t be bored, that’s for certain,” she said.
“Can you see if I’ll find the missing card?”
“Missing card, huh, so that’s what you’re looking for. Wondered about that. But I don’t know about a missing card. What I do know is that you need reminding about looking and leaping and which order they should go in. You got some luck, sure, but luck don’t always win out.”
“Is she safe for now?” my dad asked.
“Be a sight safer if she wasn’t with you, like I said,” Benna replied. “But she’ll be fine for tonight at least. Should be some comfort to you.”
“That’s good, I guess,” I said, but I felt uncertain. If I was going to be fine tonight, did that mean I soon wouldn’t be? I was disappointed she didn’t have anything to share about finding the Empress.
Benna continued to peer at me. “Haven’t done much with your talent, have you now, Lucy? Well, it’s bigger than you think, your daddy is right on that one.”
“If that’s the case, how can I use the talent to find the card I’m looking for? Do I just need to study the tarot some more?”
Benna didn’t reply. She stood up slowly, pushing her worn chair from the table as she motioned for my dad to stay seated. She walk
ed to the counter beside the fridge and, oddly, reached toward the bread box, rolling its wooden slats upward. It seemed like a weird time to make a sandwich, but whatever.
She reached into the bread box and turned to face us, though it wasn’t bread she held. In her left hand was a stubby black candle, knobby little threads of wax dried down its length; it was pushed into a candleholder that looked like a tea saucer with a handle. Her right hand held an unremarkable matchbox, red with gritty lighting strips on the sides. It also held a dagger.
The dagger was maybe eight inches long, double-edged and sharpened to a cruel point. Its handle was a dark wood, deeply carved and worn, though I couldn’t make out any specific image. Benna seemed entirely comfortable holding it, as if she’d used it many, many times before. And certainly not for sandwich-making.
I looked from the dagger to my dad and nodded slightly in the direction of the door. He shook his head from side to side and held up his index finger, signaling me to wait. I looked to the door again. Was Gavin right? How did I know I could trust my dad? If I ran now, could I find my way back to Savannah? I thought of those dark, tangled roads and my heart sank. I doubted I’d get cell reception out here. No one would hear me scream, no one would ever find my body. Wild animals would gnaw at my corpse—
“Sakes alive, child, I’m not going to kill you,” said Benna. She placed the candle, dagger and matches on the table and returned to the breadbox, this time pulling out a rusted tin box, a white muslin cloth and what looked like a metal goblet. She paused at the sink to partially fill the glass before seating herself. She carefully arranged her supplies in a semi-circle and then picked up the matchbox.
A whiff of sulfur hit the air as she struck a match, lighting the black candle in front of her. Benna took the dagger in her left hand and passed it back and forth through the candle’s flame, a pensive expression on her withered face. The room seemed to grow warmer, the thick humidity of the air pressing heavily on my skin.
“Let me see your hand again,” Benna said, settling the dagger on the table.
I hesitated, my clenched fists shaking between my knees.
Tarot's Kiss (Tarot Chronicles) Page 12
