“Yesterday in class, you said something about a lake and standing stones.”
“It was your dreamcast.”
“It’s not a dream,” she says. “It’s the Star. Trump Seventeen. What does it mean?”
“It means you’re connected to its energy,” I say, which is the truth, though not all of it.
“I thought my affinities were with the Princesses of the Tarot?”
“They are. This is… different. Not an affinity, but…” I let out a breath, searching for the words to explain this, wondering if now is the right time. If I should call the others in. If we’re all making a grievous mistake. But before I can utter another word, her eyes turn glassy, her features twisting into a deformed sneer that looks so out of place on her beautiful face, it’s like she’s wearing an ugly mask.
“Why do you have the dark book?” she asks, her voice high and childlike, her sneer turning into manic laughter. “It’s a very, very, very bad book, and you are a very, very, very bad mage, Cassius Harding Devane.”
She giggles, and a chill slithers down my spine.
This isn’t Stevie. It’s something else—some dark force twisting her face, her voice, her words.
“Which dark book do you mean, Stevie?” I ask, playing along. Whatever this thing that’s taken hold, I don’t want to alert it just yet.
“Book of Shadow and Mists,” she says triumphantly, as if she’s proud to be in on the secret. “It’s a very bad book, and you have it. I saw it, when you wrote on it with your blood.”
How could she have seen that?
“Legend,” I say automatically. “Just a legend.”
“What does the legend say? Will you tell me the story?Please?” Now she pouts, her eyes big, making her look about ten years old.
My mouth has gone so dry, I have to take a drink of her water before I can continue.
“I don’t know, Stevie. It’s an old tale, a long one, and you really need to rest now. Perhaps I will tell you another time.”
“Myths and legends come to pass,” she says, her voice taking on the lilting, sing-song quality of a child taunting a rival. “When all are dead and first comes last. He wants his book, Cassius Harding Devane. He really really really wants it.”
She laughs, a nervous giggle quickly boiling into hysterics.
My heart bangs a tympani drumbeat against my chest, and I school my features, praying she—it— doesn’t see right through me. “Who wants it?”
For a minute she says nothing, her eyes rolling back, her head lolling against her pillow. I try to convince myself it’s the delirium of the venom, still working its way through her bloodstream. That she’s hallucinating, repurposing images and stories from her library books.
But then she shoots bolt upright and grips my arms so tightly I’m sure her nails draw blood. A low rumble vibrates in her chest, quickly turning into a growl.
“The Dark Magician is rising,” she says, the voice no longer high and child-like, but deep and raspy, older, darker. Ancient. Terrifying.
And it’s not simply recounting her visions or mixing up old legends.
It’s warning us.
“Tell the Arcana the son of the Fool has come to reclaim his birthright. And this time, he’s bringing an army. None will survive.”
Thirty-Seven
ANSEL
“Once again,” Kirin says to Baz, “we’re running damage control on account of your complete inability to keep your dick in your pants.”
“Shut it, asshole.”
“Oh, I would love nothing more than to shut the book on this topic. To be fair, your dick has been the subject of more conversations than I care to count.”
