Free The Immortal Circus: Act Two by A. R. Kahler Page B

me doesn’t want to know the truth the Tarot cards are
actually revealing through the haze of my migraine. She doesn’t want to know
that her son is addicted to heroin, and her ex is about to take her to court.
She doesn’t want to know that she’ll lose the house in the settlement or that a
year from now her start-up business is going to go under. And yeah, there is a
tall, fair-skinned man involved, and he will make her happy. Until her
son goes into rehab and the douchebag leaves her.
    I try to tell myself it’s not lying so much as twisting the
truth. Giving her hope.
    The woman’s still not looking at me. Her eyes are transfixed
on the Death card. She’s staring at it like it’s some viper waiting to
attack. I really wish someone would make a deck where Death is called
“Happy Change” or “End to Suffering” or something more accurate like that.
Explaining it to the public is getting old. Granted, in this case it actually
does mean someone’s going to die. Potentially.
    Heroin’s not something to mess around with.
    She points to the skeleton card with a shaky finger.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It just means things are
changing. But hey, that’s life, right? It’s always changing.”
    She just smiles timidly and nods.
    I should tell her about her son. I should warn her about her
bastard ex-husband. I should, but then she wouldn’t leave a nice tip in my
little glass jar, because the truth hits too close to home. And I can tell she
already knows. The worry lines carved into her forehead, the way she twitched
the moment I set down the less appetizing cards. A great deal of telling
fortunes isn’t reading cards but reading the story inscribed in the
questioner’s features, their ticks and tells. Most people already know what I’m
going to tell them. Which is why I don’t always point it out.
    She stands. Before she goes, she pulls out a five and rolls
it up, then places it discreetly in my tip jar.
    “Thank you,” she says. She’s got the voice of someone
hanging on by a thread, grasping for any hope she can find. Like most people
who come to me. God, if only Mab had warned me just how depressing the job
could be.
    I do my best to smile comfortingly, even though my stomach
drops at the way her hand shakes.
    Warning her wouldn’t make a difference. That’s kind of my
mantra. I can’t change someone else’s life. I can’t even change mine.
    Still, as she walks off, I can’t help but feel like a bitch
for not trying.
    I slide the cards back into the deck and start shuffling,
staring idly out onto the promenade. There are still people lined up at the
sparkly green ticket booth to my right, and the noise and congestion closer to
the tent is starting to fade out. Another full house, another night of flawless
acts and standing ovations. If only I could take some pride in that. If only I
didn’t feel like I was waiting for the ax to fall.
    Kingston didn’t say much the rest of the afternoon. And for
my part, I didn’t press him. The headache from that morning kept getting worse,
and no amount of water or coffee or meds took the edge off. Pride is pretty
much the only thing keeping me from asking Kingston to soothe it, but right
now, with the ache that’s nestled happily behind my temples, I might just cave.
    I tell myself it’s pride and not lack of trust, but I have
to be honest with myself; a small part of me isn’t so certain that if I allow
him to use his magic on me, he won’t just erase the whole Austin thing to save
himself a great deal of inner trauma. When I hear the fabric rustle behind me,
I immediately tense up and stop shuffling.
    “Hey, pretty lady,” Kingston says. “Care to tell my future?”
    “You scared the shit out of me,” I say, but I’m smiling. The
twist in his voice makes me think maybe everything’s back to normal, at least
from his standpoint. I put the deck back on the table and reach my hands up and
behind me, wrapping him in an awkward reverse