Chapter One
Elara
There’s something to be said for the “opposites attract” theory. It certainly holds true in my life. Every important person I’ve ever known has had a personality the complete opposite of mine. I’m like a magnet, repelling the similar and attracting the different.
Which is why instead of celebrating her birthday my way—splurging on dinner at the Modern and taking in a Broadway show—my best friend, Stella, has chosen a themed night of “wine and witchcraft” at her place.
Much like my mother who abandoned me and my grandmother who raised me, Stella is a free spirit—a modern-day hippie. She believes in the power of crystals and the idea that fate steers us toward our destiny. She reads her daily horoscope, takes fortune cookie advice seriously, and regularly burns sage to cleanse her apartment of evil energy.
I’m the pragmatic sort; I only believe in what I can see with my own eyes, and I’m confident that I’m theone carving out my path in life, nothing else. But I envy Stella’s innate ability to just go with the flow and trust in what she thinks are signs from the universe. In my thirty-two years, I’ve never quite mastered the art of being carefree.
That’s why I love Stella. She’s the peanut butter to my jelly. She balances me out, and I like to think I do the same for her. Plus, she reminds me a lot of my Granny Bea, and although my grandmother’s free-spirited tendencies caused me a lot of headaches and anxiety growing up, she was my home. And now that she’s gone too, Stella is all I have left. I’d be lost without her.
Holding up the bottle of Malbec, she waggles her thick brows at me. “Can I tempt you with another glass, El?”
“You know the answer to that,” I say, shaking my head. “No more than two—”
“Or then you spew,” she finishes for me with a playful roll of her warm brown eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know the rule.”
That rule has been my mantra since freshman year of college when I had three rum and Cokes and spent the rest of the night heaving up my spaghetti dinner. Marinara sauce burns like hell coming back up, and undigested pasta looks disturbingly like worms. The experience was horrible enough to convince my brain I can only handle two drinks, max.
“One of these days, I’m going to get you to break it. But until that day comes, we can do these instead.” Stella reaches into her hobo bag and withdraws a small, gleaming silver tin, placing it carefully on the polished lacquered oak coffee table between us. Staring up fromthe lid’s label is a pink cartoon bear dancing in front of a green five-pointed leaf.
“Gummies? I don’t know, Stell. I think I’m good with just the wine,” I say, eyeing the tin warily.
“Oh comeon.” Her curls bounce as she dramatically tilts her head and draws out the last word. “I know you don’t like feeling out of control, but that doesn’t happen with these like it does with alcohol. You’ll feel relaxed and giggly, that’s all. Please? It’s my birthday, and I wanna do edibles and tarot readings with my bestie. Is that too much to ask?”
Stella pins me with puppy-dog eyes and a practiced pout that’s felled many a man and, if I’m being honest, me. The woman is a menace. Laughing, I give in, as I always do with her. “Okay, fine. Let’s get giggly and predict our futures.”
“Yes!” She raises both arms in the air in celebration, her stack of turquoise bracelets sliding down her narrow forearm.
I pick up one of the gummies from the tin—a tiny bear molded from translucent amber gelatin. Its little ears and rounded belly are almost too cute for something that was outlawed up until a few years ago. I squeeze it between my fingers. For a moment, I hesitate, misgivings swirling in my mind about relinquishing control. But with a resolute sigh, I banish the doubts and pop it into my mouth.
“Ooh, I almost forgot.” Stella strikes a match and lights three black taper candles before digging through her bag again. “I found a new tarot deck today. I swear I felt it pulling me in when I saw it in the shop. Check it out.”
She hands me the new deck. Or rather her new deck, because it’s apparent that it’s actually quite old. The artwork on the worn box is captivating—ornate golden filigrees framing an illustration of a full moon. Its silvery beams of light silhouette a forest of trees, knotted and twisting toward the sky. Their branches form intricate patterns, and if I knew more about tarot, I’m sure I’d pick up on the symbols hidden in the boughs.
I tilt the box, and the cards slip out like they’ve been waiting for freedom. I riffle through the deck, the cards emitting a subtle, musky scent of aged paper and sandalwood as I move them from one hand to the other with the push of my thumb. They’re slightly curved from countless readings, their edges feathered and soft. Each one wears its years with small nicks, faint scratches, and faded earth tones depicting figures draped in flowing robes, mythical creatures, and ancient ruins.
“I can see why you were drawn to this deck,” I say, tracing the long braid of a woman who sits regally on a throne nestled in a lush, blooming meadow, ripe pomegranates hanging above her. “The cards are beautiful.”
“I know.” Her smile is a flash of white against her tawny skin. “I’m excited to see what they tell us. Want to go first?”
She holds her hand out, but I shake my head, red hair dusting my bare shoulders. “You’re the birthday girl. You get to hear about your future before I hear about mine.”
Stella practically bounces off the puffy cushion embroidered with mandalas and adorned with tassels and straight onto the hardwood. “Yay! Okay, now you need to shuffle—”
I arch my brow. “Stell, how many times have I done this with you?”
Yes, I know how to pull tarot cards for a reading, though that happens to be where my expertise ends. And no, that doesn’t mean I believe whatever the tarot says. I went through too many years of schooling to have my psychology practice questioned by a deck of cards. But my best friend wholeheartedly believes, so I play along.
“Right, sorry. I’m going to go break the seal quick. BRB.”
After she scurries off to the bathroom, I finish my second and final glass of wine, then start shuffling. The air thickens, charging with the electric energy of a summer storm about to break. The hairs on my arms stand on end, but a scan of the room doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary. It’s probably just the wine. Or the gummy taking effect.
Preparing for another shuffle, I split the deck again. A single card slips out, almost jumping from the deck, and lands face up on the coffee table. It’s the Nine of Swords, but the design style is completely different from the warm, earthy tones of the other cards.
A deep purple backdrop highlights a solitary figure cloaked in darkness and illuminated by nine swords so vibrantly silver I have to squint to see their glistening points. The sky is a bruise of purples and blues, and wisps of shadow seem to reach out from the card’s edges.
