“Don’t get angry.” His voice was still maddeningly calm. It made Lissa furious. She remembered from childhood sometimes doing things solely to try to get a rise from her father, and almost never succeeding. She had gotten her own unstable emotional thermostat directly from her mother.
“Don’t get angry? I bring my girlfriend to meet you, and after three hours and a perfectly nice visit, you’re telling me she’s dangerous?”
“I don’t want to argue. I want you to be careful, though, and to watch. It is the nature of some people to be as changeable as the weather.”
“Well, I’ve seen nothing but blue skies.” Lissa was aware as she said it that it was a lie, that she was as angry as she was because her father was right, and had seen in one evening what it had taken her six months to admit to herself.
“Blue skies so far.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and continued in his usual understated fashion, “Weather changes every day, too. Don’t forget that some storms can blow you away.”
—
NOW, EIGHT MONTHS and who knew how many temporary breakups later, Lissa lay next to her, listening to her lover’s breathing slow down as she fell asleep.
This relationship was going to ruin her life. She could sense disaster coming. She was already finding the constant turmoil intruding on her ability to concentrate at work, and she’d spent more time in Furness than at Berkeley over the past few months. It was time to face it. She was going to have to end this, end it and keep it ended.
But not till tomorrow. Maybe she’d find some way out tomorrow, some way that she hadn’t seen, something that would make all of this tie up neatly and peacefully, and allow her to get on with her work at the university.
At the moment, it seemed like a cataclysmic fight followed by months, years of emotional chaos was more likely.
5
AND THE SIBYL said: It will come upon you, however you watch and wait. Do not believe that by timidness and caution and wariness you can escape. It will still fall like an axe upon the neck of a condemned man, like a lightning strike on a lone tree on a hill. Many live in knowledge that the blow will come, for they have been warned, but in their hearts they do not believe it. Therefore, when the hour comes, they will be taken unawares, no better than a rabbit in a snare.
See that you heed my words, you who have ears to hear and eyes to see.
—
ZOLZAYA DUBROVNA LEFT the coffee shop feeling profoundly unsettled.
Ten people in a café, all with similar horrid dreams, the day after she’d had a pair of awful readings. How could this be anything but meaningful?
It would have been easier if she actually believed in psychic stuff. Then she could have gotten all superior about how she’d known all along that there was proof of telepathy and precognition, and now the skeptics wouldn’t be able to doubt any longer.
The problem was, she was a skeptic herself. She had started doing Tarot card readings because of a chance comment from her sister, Rachel. They were having lunch in a café across from a little building with a sign out front that said, Celestial Crystals: Books, Supplies, Psychic Readings and Tarot.
Rachel had laughed about it. “How do you become a psychic reader?”
“Dunno. Maybe there are classes, or something.”
“You should do it, Carrie. You’ve got the looks for it.”
Rachel was right. Even modesty wasn’t enough to prevent her from recognizing her own exotic good looks, inherited from a maternal grandmother from the Greek islands. Rachel had taken after their father’s side of the family, which was Germanic, blond, and more the corn-fed, broad-shouldered type.
“I don’t know a damn thing about it,” she said, and then laughed herself.
“You could learn. You’ve always been a quick study. I bet you could make bank. Get some gauzy, Middle Eastern-looking dresses and jewelry, change your name, you’d be golden. You don’t love your job, right?”
“Hate it.”
“Then do it. It’d be a hoot. I’d pay to hear you do your thing.”
She’d shrugged it off, but then had a series of days at work that made her sister’s words keep coming back unbidden to the forefront of her mind. Her boss, Steve Dolan, was an arrogant prick who thought he was not only the smartest man in the world, but the sexiest. As evidence of this, he drove a Camaro and wore way too much cologne.
So Carrie went to the library, checked out books like The Tarot Revealed and Everyone Is Psychic, and started to learn the basics. She bought herself a couple of Tarot decks, finally settling on a set of Art Nouveau cards because the nearly naked guy on the card of The Sun was drop-dead sexy.
A month later, Caroline Loeffler applied for and got a business license, asked for and received permission from her landlord to do psychic readings in the rental house she shared with Vincent Gregory, and quit her job at the insurance agency. The following day, she put out a sign in front that said, Zolzaya Dubrovna, Wise Woman from Bulgaria. Tarot Readings, $20.
At first, it was awkward, and she had to exert her willpower to keep from laughing at her own patter. But after a few weeks, she became smoother, more convincing, and word of mouth worked in her favor. Amazingly, she was paying the bills. She still felt like a fraud—she characterized herself as an “actor” on good days. But it was certainly better than dealing with Steve Dolan’s sexism and stinky cologne.
After this morning, she might have to reconsider her approach to the whole thing. Ten people in one coffee shop, and two people coming to the same psychic, all had premonitions of destruction and death. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but Angela was right. How could that be a coincidence?
With some trepidation, she put out her sandwich board and the flag that said Open, and unlocked the door, then went into her bedroom to change into her work clothes—a flowing mauve dress, a deep purple scarf tied around her dark curls, and five bracelets of various styles.
Vincent wasn’t there. Maybe, just maybe, he was off job-hunting. But not very likely. Angela had been right about that, too, little as she liked to admit it.
Zolzaya’s first client walked in a half-hour later. She had her lines all worked out, in preparation for a bad reading that was beginning to seem inevitable. The client, a round-faced middle-aged woman with thick glasses, straight black hair in a pageboy cut, and a cheerful smile, looked like the type who might be on the forgiving side.
“Good morning, my dear.” Zolzaya slipped into an accent Rachel called Sort of Eastern European or Something. “How can I help you today?”
“You did a reading for a coworker of mine last week, and she said you were amazing. Today’s my day off, so I thought I’d give it a try, too. You know, for fun.”
Zolzaya smiled. “I’m happy you came in. But before I inquire more into what you would like to learn today, I must warn you about something.”
“What?” The woman’s smile dimmed.
“There have been ripples in the realm of the spirit in the last day or two. Many sensitives have experienced it. It has manifested as dark prognostications. I cannot guarantee that what I tell you will be positive and cheerful. It appears that there is a great deal of unrest in the invisible world.”
The woman looked around her at the decorations in the sitting room—paintings of what were meant to be druids, astrological charts, a model of Stonehenge—and said, in a hesitant voice, “So it’s really nothing about me in particular?”
“No, my dear, not at all. It appears to be more widespread.” That, at least, was certainly true.
The woman’s cheerful demeanor returned. “Oh, okay. No problem, then.”
Zolzaya gestured toward a chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The woman sat down at the table, and Zolzaya seated herself on the other side, making sure her wide sleeves brushed the table top as she arranged herself. It was all about creating an ambience, she had found, and it was the little things that made the difference. “What is your name, dear?”
�
�I’m Margo. Margo Nishikawa.”
“My name is Zolzaya Dubrovna.”
“What a lovely name! Where is it from?”
“I was born in Bulgaria, and came here when I was a little girl.” The story rolled from her tongue without any hesitation. How many times had she told this lie? She didn’t know, but lately it sounded true in her own ears, which was disturbing in and of itself. “I have lived in Oldenburg for only the last two years. It is a lovely town. It reminds me of the tiny village near Plovdiv where I grew up.”
That was enough for Margo, who was apparently thrilled by the whole thing. “Well, I’d like to see what the cards have to say. Not about anything in particular. I’ve been aimless, lately, like I could use a change. So I thought I’d find out if there was anything the cards could tell me that might help.”
“We will center ourselves, and make an appeal to the Spiritual Realm for guidance.” Zolzaya shuffled her cards, hoping like hell that the Spiritual Realm wouldn’t respond with another death notice.
But the cast, this time, was fairly ordinary. There were a few cards that pointed toward disruption and upset, but she got the card Strength in an important position—the card of inner power, wisdom, and peace—and Margo’s “future” card was The Sun, his blond curls brushing his bare shoulders, his abs rippling, well-muscled arm outstretched, his smile saying, “Hey, beautiful.”
“Wow, he’s in my future?” Margo said, her eyes wide.
Zolzaya laughed. “It could be. It’s the message the spiritual world has sent you. But The Sun also means happiness, fulfillment, cheer, and friendship.”
“I’ll take it,” she said. “Or him.”
All of which resulted in twenty dollars for the reading, a five-dollar tip, and a promise to bring friends along the next time she came.
But Zolzaya’s good fortune didn’t last. The next three people in a row got dreadful runs of cards, similar to the two she’d cast the previous evening. The disclaimer allowed her at least to deflect the worst of the reaction, and she was paid for each session, although no tips were forthcoming. She was pretty certain, however, that none of these clients would be repeat customers. The last, especially, an elderly man with stooped shoulders and a hesitant manner who had wanted to try to contact his recently-deceased wife, gave Zolzaya a wry and not very friendly look as he tossed the twenty down onto the table, pulled his cardigan back on, and headed to the door.
Vinnie came home at a little before four-thirty. He’d put in two more applications, he said, at the skateboard shop in downtown Furness and at a small bookstore/café.
“Did either of them have openings?” she asked.
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “They could, soon. They’d be awesome places to work.”
“You need to find work, soon. Stop applying at places that aren’t likely to give you an interview. Call around, see who’s hiring.”
“I don’t want some kind of dead-end job.” His voice was sulky.
“The skateboard shop isn’t a dead-end job?”
“At least it’s my kind of people.”
“Look, it doesn’t have to be permanent,” Zolzaya said, in a pleading tone. “Something to tide us over. I’m having a hard time making enough to pay the rent.”
“I’ll have something soon, Carrie. Get off my back.” He walked out of the room, setting the beaded curtain swinging. Then came the sound of the fridge opening and the pop of a beer can lid. She thought about calling after him, or following, but decided not to.
“Shit.” She huffed under her breath, then picked up the cards still laid out on the table, shuffling them once, twice, three times. “You know, I suck at giving ultimatums.”
She looked down at the stack of cards face down in her right hand. She said, quietly, “I cast these cards for Vincent Gregory,” closed her eyes, and cut the deck into three stacks. She dealt the top card, face up.
It was Death.
Shivering, she picked the card up and slipped it back into the stack at random. She stood and went outside to retrieve her sandwich board and flag. It was twenty minutes until closing, but her heart wasn’t in it. Anyone who came by would have to try again tomorrow.
—
SHE DIDN’T BRING up jobs again that evening, chiding herself the whole time for being a wuss. They dined on lukewarm canned ravioli with a dessert of some leftover heat-and-serve cherry pie she’d splurged on three days earlier. Whether because of Angela’s suggestion, her own libido, or a need to be comforted, she tackled Vincent after dinner, and they spent a diverting hour in bed, falling into a contented doze amongst tangled sheets and limbs at a little after eleven. She half-expected terrible dreams of monsters and flames and destruction, but her sleep passed undisturbed.
When she woke up at 6:45, Vinnie was gone.
She came to awareness gradually. She was facing away from his side of the bed, and she turned and reached out for him, hoping for a repeat of the previous night, and knowing that he’d definitely be happy to be awakened if that was the cause. His spot was empty, but still warm.
Gone to the bathroom, probably. There was no way Vinnie got up early to put on coffee or make breakfast.
She pushed that away, not wanting her general irritation with Vinnie’s personal habits to interfere with her amorous mood, and fell back into a light doze, waiting for him to return.
Twenty minutes later, she turned to look at her digital clock, and extended an arm. Still no Vinnie. The depression in his side of the bed was cool to the touch now, and the house was silent.
“Vinnie?”
Nothing.
“Vinnie, come back to bed!”
Silence, except for the sound of the wind in the trees, and birds singing in their tiny back yard.
She got up, not bothering to pick up her bathrobe, and padded barefoot into the living room. From there, she could see into the bathroom and kitchen. The house was empty.
Was he out job hunting? Maybe he was more bothered by what she said yesterday than he seemed to be. It was unlikely, of course. Most places weren’t even open yet, even if Vinnie had been the type to hit the road as early as possible, which he wasn’t.
Then a more disturbing thought came to her mind. Maybe he’d been pissed off enough by her goading that he’d left her. Would he do that, though? He’d already tried couch-surfing with his three brothers, each of whom in turn had shown him the door after a couple of weeks. He’d acted perfectly normal at dinner. It was unlike Vinnie to do anything that took effort unless he had no other option.
She went to the window, pushed the curtains back enough to peer out, and saw his dented Geo Prizm sitting in the driveway.
A shudder twanged its way down her backbone.
She headed back to the bedroom and quickly donned jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then went outside.
Castle Street was empty. It wasn’t a busy road, but usually by this time of day, there were at least a few cars carrying people to work. She walked down to the end of the driveway, looked first up the street, then down toward where it intersected with Wallace Corners Road. She waited there, the cool breeze ruffling her hair, still untidy from sleep.
Five minutes passed, but no cars did.
She looked up Castle Street again, along the row of little houses that sat so close to each other that residents could have shaken hands while leaning out of their windows. Two doors away stood Ruth Garrett’s house. Missus Garrett was an eighty-year-old widow, suspicious of everyone and everything, who liked her three cats but no one and nothing else. Missus Garrett’s door was wide open, which of all the things in that still, surreal tableau, stood out as the oddest.
Zolzaya walked slowly down the sidewalk, then turned toward Missus Garrett’s cottage. One of the cats, an ill-tempered black tom with golden eyes named Geronimo, sat on the front porch, licking his front paw with elaborate insouciance. Another shiver passed over Zolzaya. Missus Garrett never let her cats outside.
She stepped up onto the front porch, then went to
the door, and with some hesitation, leaned in. “Missus Garrett?” No response, so she tried again, louder this time. “Missus Garrett, are you home? It’s your neighbor, um, Carrie Loeffler.”
Geronimo regarded her through narrowed eyes, and gave a nasal, grating meow. Otherwise, there was no answer.
That was when Zolzaya looked down, and saw a bathrobe and a nightgown crumpled on the floor just inside the open door.
This was at first so bizarre that she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. She leaned over and picked the nightclothes up, and regarded them hanging from her right hand. The nightgown was old-fashioned, faded, with tiny flowers and a narrow ruffle around the neckline. The bathrobe was heavy, plaid flannel, and looked more like a man’s robe than a woman’s. But it was definitely Missus Garrett’s. Zolzaya had seen her, early in the morning, plodding down the sidewalk to retrieve her newspaper, wearing the baggy robe and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
Zolzaya looked down again, and there were the slippers, underneath where the robe had been. “What the actual fuck?”
She tossed the robe and the slippers into the dimly-lit foyer, then went to retrieve Geronimo, who was regarding her with a suspicious look. She reached out to pick up the cat, but he hissed, dashed to the end of the porch, and jumped down into the bushes.
“Fine. Stay outside.” She shut the door, then headed back toward her own house, feeling like a sleepwalker. Her house was still empty, and there had yet to be a single car down Castle Street. The silence was becoming unnerving.
She went to the telephone, and called her sister, Rachel.
No answer.
Her friend, Angela Morley.
No answer.
Likewise, there was no response from Vinnie’s brother Stephen, her gym partner Connie Masterson, and Jason Sullivan, the guy she’d dated before Vinnie, a relationship that—truth be told—she still regretted ending.
The Fifth Day Page 4
