The fire in his eyes is louder and more fierce than his tone, and I sit back in my chair, waiting for the rest. The offer. My only chance, as he so eloquently put it, at getting out of here alive.
“According to Anna, your mother was the most gifted Tarot witch the Academy has ever known,” he says, every word a revelation, a knife in my heart. “In the months before her departure from the Academy, she allegedly worked around the clock, researching esoteric occult knowledge, transcribing the visions and messages she channeled from her cards, desperately trying to correlate the two. Anna claims she wasobsessedwith her work. Utterly obsessed. Even your father didn’t understand the innermost workings of her mind.”
“That… sounds about right.”
Of the two, Mom always seemed to have more innate power. I always got the sense Dad was happy to leave magick behind—that deep down, he believed he was meant for the so-called normal life. With my mother, it was different. Whatever compromises she and my father had struck to live that mundane life, keeping her end of the bargain was clearly a struggle—one I only began to recognize after their deaths. I wasn’t surprised to find her grimoire stashed in the attic; though there was no trace left of my father’s magickal history, my mother’s practically permeated the house. The café. My childhood. My connection to her.
It still does.
“The research she left behind is thorough and impressive,” Devane continues. “As a result, we’ve been able to piece together some of her prophecies and predictions, which is how we started—belatedly—connecting the dots on these murders. But while her notes are extensive, they’re essentially written in code. Even with our most advanced witches and mages working on translations, we’ve hit an impasse.”
An image of Mom’s grimoire floats into my mind. Drawings and symbols, ancient words, rhymes, footnotes and references to books upon books I’ve never read, authors I’ve never heard of, information that baffles even those great mages of Silicon Valley… aka Google.
If my mother’s academic research is anything like her book of spells, it’s no wonder they can’t make sense of it.
“It’s the Academy’s belief,” he says, tapping the table, “and our hope, that you might be able to crack that code.”
“But… how? I don’t know anything about magick, let alone my mother’s secrets.”
“Surely she told you something, even in passing. Some small thing that might help—”
“Nosmall thing, Doctor Devane. Magick? The Academy? None of that was open for discussion in our house.” The hope I felt when the guard first announced a visit from some mystery attorney dims, and I shake my head, knowing I can’t give them what they want. “My parents died trying to keep me out of that life—away from all things magickal—all because of what your precious Academy did to them. Even if I did know something, I can’t… I can’t help you with this.”
“Maybe not today, no. But with the proper training, we might tap into something… something you may only understand in retrospect. You have the potential to save hundreds of lives—maybe even thousands—from meeting the same gruesome fate as your friend Luke Hernandez.”
I flinch at the mention of Luke, the images it stirs. Burned flesh. Blood. My old friend, throwing French fries at me under the Grande.
“Miss Milan. Starla…” Devane’s eyes soften when he says my first name, and when he speaks again, his tone softens too. “We’re just asking you to try. In exchange, you’ll receive a top-notch magical education that will not only assist you in this task, but will serve as the foundation for any private- or magical-sector career you could want. You’ll receive full room and board, research assistance from trusted advisors, and a personal stipend you’ll find more than adequate. Best of all, you won’t be here, awaiting your end. You’ll be free.”
I laugh, sour and bitter. “I’m on death row, Doc. So unless you’ve got a damn good escape plan—”
“Free, Starla. You’ll be free.” He glares at me, almost as if he’s forcing the word through my mind.
Sighing, I fold my arms over my chest. “So this is your big offer, then. You’ll get me out of here, but in exchange, you want me to… to…”
I can’t even bring myself to say the words.
“I want you to enroll at Arcana Academy,” Devane supplies for me, his eyes reclaiming their original fire. “To study your craft. To fully embody your Tarot magick, as you were meant to.”
From the moment he introduced himself, some part of me knew it would come to this—to the Academy. Why else would he be here?
Still, hearing it out loud makes it real.
Enroll at Arcana Academy… Embody your Tarot magick…
The idea sends a bolt straight to my gut—more guilt, mostly. Just being in the same room as a professor from my parents’ traitorous alma mater feels like a betrayal. But there, flickering behind that white-hot, tangled-up guilt and shame, other things surface, snapping at my heart like startled copperheads.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
A sense of inner rightness I can’t deny, no matter how hot the rest of it burns.
They’re not just offering me my freedom; they’re offering me my dreams. Every last forbidden one of them.
A chance to learn magick. To unlock this power inside me. To uncover the mysterious past my parents tried so hard to outrun.
Forget magick, Stevie. It’s a curse…
