The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss

by Max Wirestone

  But I wouldn’t reschedule my appointment for all the money, contacts, or goodwill in the tri-system. I gestured toward the door, intending to walk him out. “I’m sorry, but perhaps next time you’re in town.”

  He looked as if he hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving. “If you’re concerned about the time, my people can ensure you arrive at the fertility clinic before nine this morning.”

  I froze. “Excuse me, but that information is classified.”

  “And so it will remain. It would be a shame for One Gov to learn the true nature of your appointment, after all.”

  My eyes narrowed. “It’s just a routine fertility consultation.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I ask only for a brief reading. Surely you can spare a moment?”

  I should have been both angry and terrified that he knew my plans. Hell, I hadn’t even told my boyfriend, Roy! His words stopped just short of blackmail. And yet … I found myself intrigued, damn it. What would this Tarot reading show me? I had that odd feeling again—the one that hit deep in my gut and paid no attention to what I had lined up for the rest of the day, let alone my life. It demanded I follow through on whatever happened next. Over the years I’d learned never, and I mean never, to ignore that feeling no matter how pesky it might be.

  He removed his sunshades and I was snared by blue eyes so intense I wondered if he had to hide them or risk turning people to stone—or women to mush. I peered closer, considering the whole package. The looks. The play of his muscles beneath his clothes when he moved. The symmetry. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t caught it earlier: His MH Factor—Modified Human—was turned up high enough to scorch.

  Out of my mouth came: “I can fit you in now with a short reading.”

  “Wonderful.” He offered a smile that had no doubt removed numerous panties. Nice to know one of us was having a good time.

  “I don’t see many advanced-stage Modified Humans in my shop. Are you fifth generation?” My question was beyond rude. Asking about genetic modifications was worse than asking how much money someone made. But if he knew my business, I didn’t see why I couldn’t know his. “I heard it’s less invasive to upgrade technological modifications later in life rather than opting for full pre-birth gene manipulation. The t-mods are supposed to be less expensive too.”

  “Perhaps it depends on how many gold notes exchange hands and how natural you want it to look,” he said, noncommittally.

  So there was some genetic manipulation involved. I knew it! But how much? Some people went overboard with their upgrades and the results weren’t always as advertised.

  I waited for more follow-up from him. Instead, the silence stretched. Okay, then. “Is there a particular aspect of your life you want to know about? Or an issue that’s troubling you?”

  “I’m concerned about a meeting and its success. Should I continue on my current path, or cut my losses and run? You no doubt receive many similar requests.”

  He was right; I’d built my business on less. I had a steady clientele including a few minor celebrities, but nothing had really launched my career. Not that I wanted to be a card reader to the stars, but I definitely wanted to ensure I never had to worry about money.

  “Follow me,” I said, and with those words went my last lick of common sense.

  I removed the c-tex bracelet I’d put on—so that no one could accuse me of skimming the Cerebral Neural Net and faking a reading—then led him through the shop. Gentle lighting flicked on as we entered the back room. Soft music began, the automatic soundtrack set to a Mars chill funk vibe. The room was decorated with thick Venusian carpets, decadent pillows on velvet chaise lounges, and paintings of exotic Old Earth terrain and new-world Martian landscapes. Rich colors that begged to be touched—a tactile experience for the senses. Customers had certain expectations as to how a Tarot card shop on Night Alley, the most exclusive and decadent street in Nairobi, should appear. If my Russian stranger had been there the night before when business was in full swing, he would have seen my designer silk print dress and makeup just this side of too much, instead of the prim beige knee-length skirt and sky-blue blouse I now wore. I looked overdressed, conservative, and slightly out of style.

  Oddly, the idea that he’d caught me this way made me feel vulnerable, like I’d allowed him to see the real me instead of the persona I wore when I cast a reading. That woman didn’t care what her clients thought because she knew they were all in awe of her. In those silk dresses she was untouchable. She held their future in her hands. This stripped-down me was too exposed, too likely to get caught up in things that didn’t concern her. Well, too bad. I wasn’t letting a hot guy and an off-the-chart gut feeling get the best of me. What I wore now was just another disguise. After all, how could I convince the Shared Hope program’s fertility Arbiter I should be allowed to have a baby if I didn’t look like a respectable member of society?

  “Have a seat.” I directed him to one of the chaise lounges with an ornate gold-leaf table beside it. A chandelier that appeared to drip with gemstones, but were really artfully colored glass, hung overhead.

  “Interesting décor,” he said.

  “Would you be as impressed with a rickety table and some collapsible benches?” I asked as I took the chaise across from him.

  He laughed. “I suppose not. I understand the need for show-manship. At times, it can be as important as the act itself.”

  “Hence the décor.” I gestured around us.

  I smiled, so did he, and suddenly the table between us seemed ridiculously small. The feeling in my gut grew, paired now with a growing sense that this man, whoever the hell he was, held some significance for me. It hung in the air.

  I took a breath to center myself and refocused on the box in the middle of the table. Whatever designs were once painted on its black lacquered wood surface had long since faded. What it contained was easily the most valuable thing I owned.

  I opened the box and removed the Tarot cards. They’d been in my family for generations, dating back to a time before the Earth’s axis shifted thanks to a series of massive global quakes, polar melts, and then the two wars of succession that followed. Family lore claimed they came from the Old World—an all but forgotten place that existed only in history books and on the bottom of the ocean floor.

  “Since we’re pressed for time, I’ll do a five-card spread using only the Major Arcana,” I explained. “They are the heart of the Tarot. Each card represents a different state of being. I’m forgoing a Significator since you’re asking about yourself, but I want you to select five cards from the deck that represent what may or may not happen, what will prevent it from happening, why you’re in this situation, what you can do to either encourage or change it, and finally, depending on the steps you take, what will happen.”

  As I shuffled, I fell into my usual banter where I reassured the client they were in capable hands. Its familiarity made me feel more secure. I could do this. No need to panic because I was looking into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Once done shuffling, I fanned out the cards, let him pick his five, then arranged and flipped them over.

  I’d been doing this too long to gasp, but that was what I wanted to do. I had a bizarre affinity with this set of cards—more so than anyone in the family according to my dearly departed Granny G. In fact, the cards had bypassed two dis-gruntled and pissed off generations of Romani to come directly to me, per her wishes. So when I examined the cards, I never lost my smile, even though I’d cast this identical reading for myself only an hour earlier.

  I’ve always believed that things happen for a reason, and when the universe taps you on the shoulder, you pay attention. This was the equivalent of the universe punching me in the face.

  He leaned forward. “What does it mean?”

  “This is the Emperor, reversed.” I pointed to the first card. “You have goals, but waste energy on pointless things that get in the way. You have the will and strength to fight, but aren’t using those gifts properly. Nex
t, the Moon. You want to shape events, not be shaped by them. You need to learn to read what’s happening around you and act accordingly. However, you also need caution. You have hidden enemies who’ve yet to reveal themselves. The third card is the Falling Tower. It’s the destruction of everything you’ve built because of your own misunderstanding and lack of judgment. Your bad choices may have put you in a situation where you could lose everything.”

  The man laughed. It didn’t sound forced nor did he look worried, but at the same time, I could tell something was going on in his head. “So far it appears I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.”

  “It’s not all bad,” I said consolingly. “Fourth is the Lovers. It could mean attraction or love, but given the other cards, it appears to be a partnership and mutual commitment. This connection will help you overcome your difficulties and further your control of the events. Lastly, the Judgment. It represents the end of an old life, and the beginning of a new one. It’s a radical change, but one you will need if you are to overcome your situation.”

  When I looked up, he was gazing at me with such an intent expression that I worried I’d offended him. Well, I didn’t have time to couch the reading in the prettiest of terms; he got what he got. He had to smarten up or he’d lose everything. Sadly, the same applied to me as well. Quickly, I swept the cards back into their box.

  “I hope you found it useful.”

  “Very. I appreciate you making the time to see me.”

  He was still looking at me. I mean, really looking. Looking at me the way a man did when he wondered how a woman looked naked or was considering ways to get her naked. I wondered if he was thinking about the Lovers. Or maybe I was the one thinking that? My throat went dry. I hadn’t been studied like that in a long time and it felt better than it should. Even if I didn’t have an active MH Factor, I was no slouch. My almost-black hair reached mid-back, my olive skin held tones of Old World ancestry, and I could make my green eyes pop by dressing in shades of blue-green. My figure and height also fit One Gov’s genetic specification guidelines, hence putting me in the Goldilocks zone: just right.

  No, enough of this. What was I thinking? I had a boyfriend. I had plans for the future. In an hour, my whole world could change. And yet…

  I stood. He stood with me. Even in my metal-clad high-heeled boots, my eyes were barely level with his shoulder. I felt feminine in ways I hadn’t in years. The air felt charged with potential. My gut jerked again, reminding me to act before the moment disappeared. What the hell did it want me to do? Jump him? Rip his clothes off?

  He held out his hand. I shook it. It swallowed mine. “Thank you, Felicia. I know how I need to conduct my future affairs now.”

  I froze when he said my name. Not that him knowing it was a surprise; it was how he’d said it. If I tried to describe it I’d sound crazy. He said it like he knew me. Or, had made it his business to know me. Or, planned on knowing me so well, I would someday learn what his body pressed against mine would actually feel like.

  I flushed and released his hand as if it burned. “Feel free to leave your payment on the way out.”

  He laughed and a bolt of heat shot through me. “As I said earlier, my people can ensure you make your appointment at the clinic if you’re concerned about time.”

  Again, I should have been terrified. If he contacted One Gov, getting arrested would be the least of my problems. Yet I had the oddest feeling that whatever this stranger knew, he’d keep it to himself. Still, I had to make some sort of a token protest, didn’t I? “My private schedule is just that—private. I understand your investigating my flat-file avatar on the CN-net. Many clients do and access is always open. However, any personal information I’ve logged is off-limits. I would appreciate it if you left my shop now.”

  He seemed amused instead of angry. “My apologies. I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. Hopefully, we will have other dealings in the future.”

  Gut feeling be damned, I sincerely hoped not. However, I must not have managed to school my expression well enough since he added, “Despite what you may believe, the future isn’t decided yet. There are always gray areas left to explore.”

  He turned on his heel to leave. Bemused, I followed. Outside, I found two personal bodyguards—all muscle and matching suits. They fell into step behind him as he continued down the sidewalk to the street. I saw four more musclemen at either end of the block, and a helicon hovering overhead in the dull gray sky. Street-side were two flight-limos ready for takeoff, one with its windows down. I could see the pilot in front while in back sat a gorgeous redhead. My mouth fell open. I know it did—just open and flapping in the breeze.

  He paused before he climbed inside the first flight-limo. “Ms. Sevigny, you’ll find my payment inside, as well as my halo should you need to get in touch. Your reputation is well deserved. Feel free to use me as a reference.”

  With that, he got into the flight-limo. I saw the redhead attempt to climb onto his lap and watched him push her away before the windows rolled up. The security detail ducked into the second flight-limo as the helicon zipped away. In a few seconds, the street was empty.

  I ran back inside. On the reception desk was a blue chip wafer used to transfer funds between locked CN-net accounts. It was old tech, the kind used by people who didn’t have direct CN-net t-mods. People like me. I tapped its face and the readout displayed an obscene amount of money. I charged seventy gold notes a reading. The readout said ten thousand—very near to the amount that had been in the savings account I’d recently decimated. I almost fainted. Beside the chip was the promised halo. Like the blue chip, it was also old tech. I touched it and watched the name unfurl in bold script.

  So I’d been right about the accent. I knew the name. Who didn’t? I’d just never seen his face. He rarely surfaced in public, and when he did, he came and went like smoke.

  Alexei Petriv. Crown Prince of the Tsarist Consortium—though “crime lord” and “thug” would also be accurate descriptors. Robin Hood too, in some circles. Thorn in the side of One Gov. Pirate of the tri-system. In my office. Wanting a reading. The need to faint grew stronger. So did the feeling in my gut.

  I had a terrible suspicion I was about to be made an offer I could not refuse.

  if you enjoyed

  THE QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOR OF DAHLIA MOSS

  look out for

  STRANGE PRACTICE

  A Doctor Greta Helsing Novel: Book 1

  by

  Vivian Shaw

  Meet Greta Helsing, doctor to the undead.

  Dr. Greta Helsing has inherited the family’s highly specialized, and highly peculiar, medical practice. She treats the undead for a host of ills—vocal strain in banshees, arthritis in barrow-wights, and entropy in mummies.

  It’s a quiet, supernatural-adjacent life, until a sect of murderous monks emerges, killing human and undead Londoners alike. As terror takes hold of the city, Greta must use her unusual skills to stop the cult if she hopes to save her practice, and her life.

  CHAPTER 1

  The sky was fading to ultramarine in the east over the Victoria Embankment when a battered Mini pulled to the curb, not far from Blackfriars Bridge. Here and there in the maples lining the riverside walk, the morning’s first sparrows had begun to sing.

  A woman got out of the car and shut the door, swore, put down her bags, and shut the door again with more applied force; some fellow motorist had bashed into the panel at some time in the past and bent it sufficiently to make this a production every damn time. The Mini really needed to be replaced, but even with her inherited Harley Street consulting rooms Greta Helsing was not exactly drowning in cash.

  She glowered at the car and then at the world in general, glancing around to make sure no one was watching her from the shadows. Satisfied, she picked up her black working bag and the shapeless oversize monster that was her current handbag and went to ring the doorbell. It was time to replace the handbag, too. The leather on this one was holding up b
ut the lining was beginning to go, and Greta had limited patience regarding the retrieval of items from the mysterious dimension behind the lining itself.

  The house to which she had been summoned was one of a row of magnificent old buildings separating Temple Gardens from the Embankment, mostly taken over by lawyers and publishing firms these days. It was a testament to this particular homeowner’s rather special powers of persuasion that nobody had succeeded in buying the house out from under him and turning it into offices for overpriced attorneys, she thought, and then had to smile at the idea of anybody dislodging Edmund Ruthven from the lair he’d inhabited these two hundred years or more. He was as much a fixture of London as Lord Nelson on his pillar, albeit less encrusted with birdlime.

  “Greta,” said the fixture, opening the door. “Thanks for coming out on a Sunday. I know it’s late.”

  She was just about as tall as he was, five foot five and a bit, which made it easy to look right into his eyes and be struck every single time by the fact that they were very large, so pale a grey they looked silver-white except for the dark ring at the edge of the iris, and fringed with heavy soot-black lashes of the sort you saw in advertisements for mascara. He looked tired, she thought. Tired, and older than the fortyish he usually appeared. The extreme pallor was normal, vivid against the pure slicked-back black of his hair, but the worried line between his eyebrows was not.

  “It’s not Sunday night, it’s Monday morning,” she said. “No worries, Ruthven. Tell me everything; I know you didn’t go into lots of detail on the phone.”

  “Of course.” He offered to take her coat. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

  The entryway of the Embankment house was floored in black-and-white-checkered marble, and a large bronze ibis stood on a little side table where the mail and car keys and shopping lists were to be found. The mirror behind this reflected Greta dimly and greenly, like a woman underwater; she peered into it, making a face at herself, and tucked back her hair. It was pale Scandinavian blonde and cut like Liszt’s in an off-the-shoulder bob, fine enough to slither free of whatever she used to pull it back; today it was in the process of escaping from a thoroughly childish headband. She kept meaning to have it all chopped off and be done with it but never seemed to find the time.