Summer of Supernovas (20 page)

I nod, opening my clutch and digging out the single wooden matchstick and a clove cigarette. I add, “I have the money, too.”

“All right, all right.” Angeline impatiently waves me inside. “Put all of it over there.” She points to a bronze bowl sitting on a stack of boxes adjacent to the door in the entryway. As I place the cigarette, match, and fifty dollars in the dish, she elaborates. “Can’t touch what’s not made in offer to me, you see? Muddles the energy of the exchange.”

“Okay,” I reply uncertainly, swallowing the knot of fear in my throat. I still don’t understand what one match and an herbal cigarette have to do with anything. But I didn’t come here to judge the process. I came to know, once and for all, if incorporeal entities are working against me from the otherworld.

Angeline moves over to the cramped kitchen, placing a kettle on the range. The gas pilot
tick-tick-tick
s before igniting. “There’s some rules you must abide, ’fore I can let ya pass through that curtain.” The swathe of purple velvet hanging to my left ripples from the sudden rush of air from the AC unit.

Since Angeline hasn’t invited me to join her at the chipped, gold-speckled Formica table, I don’t move from my spot next to the boxes and offering bowl.

“Rule Number One: Don’t speak unless spoken to. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Staying silent is easy, especially when I’m scared out of my gourd.

“Rule Number Two: No touching. She might ask you for your hand, but you never reach first.
Ever.
That goes for looking, too, she don’t like for people to watch her. Ya hear?”

My head bobs. I will be a mute statue who sees nothing.

“And Rule Number Three: No guarantees on what gets told, so don’t go thinkin’ you can roll in here demanding answers. What gets said is the spirit’s choosing. And it could take five minutes”—the woman lifts a bony shoulder—“could take sixty, but you’ll know what you know when they want you to know it. Understand?”

Umm…

“Can she tell me if I’ve been cursed?”

Angeline rolls up her newspaper, giving it a hard whack on the table. She flicks away the squashed fly. “Girl, did any of Rule Three sink in that head of yours?”

I jump at the sudden scream of the kettle. Angeline rises, smirking at how easily spooked I was. “Well, go on, Wil Carlisle. Miss Laveau’s ready for you.”

Slowly I cross the room until I reach the curtain. My hand trembles as it clutches the soft velvet, and my heart hammers a Morse code warning me of imminent danger. I give my amethyst stone a squeeze.

Please don’t let this be a mistake.

Then I force myself over the threshold and to the other side.

I enter what looks to be a sparse living room made crowded by the curling wisps of burning incense. Votive candles in glass holders are on the floor along the perimeter. Stifling a cough, I immediately spot Miss Laveau in an upholstered rocking chair facing a barren wall. But I can’t really
see
her, only the top of her wiry black hair threaded with streaks of silver.

I remind myself I can trust this woman. After all, my mother wouldn’t have written her name in one of her books if she were some conjurer of evil. Those books were Mama’s bibles.

“Sit.” Miss Laveau’s deep voice slithers like smoke through the icy air.

I take wobbly steps to the lone chair, stationed at the back of her rocking chair, and dutifully sit, staring at the threadbare fabric smack in front of me. Then I can’t help staring at the top of her head, curious about the body attached to it.

“Child of Grace Carlisle, you’ve come for insight, just as your mother before you. Are you prepared today to receive it?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” Even with the chilly air, I’m damp with nervous sweat.

And a strange hum begins. At first I think it’s the old AC unit, but soon discover it comes from Miss Laveau. Her head has tipped forward and she shakes something in her lap. A bunch of somethings. Whatever she’s holding makes a clicking sound like dice being shaken. The continuous hum in her throat joins the clicking in a mystical melody. The rhythm of her shaking speeds up faster and faster and her chair rattles and rocks in time.

My heart races as I slide to the edge of my chair, afraid to stay but more frightened to leave.

Then Miss Laveau freezes, and all sound and movement in the tiny room ceases instantly. Her weathered hand slowly stretches out from the chair and drops an object on the black cloth covering the table at her side. It tumbles across the surface.

Chewing my thumbnail, I lean in closer to see. A rune of some kind? It’s roughly the size of a domino and is etched with black markings—it must be a rune. The clairvoyant pauses, drawing her arm back to her lap. She then drops a second and, finally, a third tile on the cloth.

“Chaos,” she murmurs, without close inspection of the runes. “And temptation—I see two suitors.” A shiver runs the length of my spine at her prophetic accuracy. “But one brings suffering, devastation…you have been warned of this before.”

Startled, I draw a breath to speak.

“You needn’t answer, girl, I can feel its truth.” Her hand hovers above the ivory tiles, flat and still. “Love…trust…forgiveness…that is the crux of your solution. But fear warps your perceptions, child of Grace. If you ignore the voice—that wisdom inside you—then eventually it will stop speaking.”

My mind spins as I bite my nail, trying to piece together Miss Laveau’s perplexing reading. “So…the solution is…
inside me
? Is that what you’re telling me?” If so, then I’m totally screwed. “Wh-what about a hex? Do you see any of those? Any curses, I don’t know,
plaguing me
?”

The old woman bristles. “The only curse you have is the one you’ve placed upon your own head. Now give me your hand,” she demands. “The spirits will do the asking now.”

Not wanting to piss off Miss Laveau
and
the spirits more than I already have, I lean forward, stretching out my shaky hand.

The diviner’s chapped hand grips onto mine. I tense, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for whatever happens next. Will there be voices in my head? A bolt of psychic lightning that will strike my third eye, causing it to flutter open? Oh my God, I haven’t even considered the possibility of soul invasion! How would I explain a soul possession to Gram and—

Miss Laveau’s body begins to shudder. She’s…
laughing
? She releases my hand and her alto laughter reverberates in the room.
What the hell?
The old psychic shakes her head. “You amuse the spirits, girl.”

“Peachy,” I grumble under my breath, my angst and fear now transformed into spiritual annoyance. Without a care for speaking out of turn, I ask, “Can you at the very least see the outcome?” Regardless of the metaphysical medium, there’s usually
some
sort of outcome. Please tell me fifty bucks would—at a minimum—buy me that.

She turns, although not enough to glimpse her face, and nudges the little table with the runes toward me. “See with your own eyes.”

I lean forward. “What about that one?” I point to the blank ivory tile on the left. “It doesn’t have anything on it. Is it turned over or something?”

“No,” Miss Laveau sighs, the air of humor dissipating. “That’s the symbol of the Fates, girl. A precursor to an end…or a beginning—a birth or possibly a death. It means the outcome is so fixed nothing can change the course of things to come. It is inevitable.”

My outcome is…
inevitable
? And involves possible death? Could there
be
a worse fortune? Obviously, this has to be a mistake! Some sort of astrophysical lines of communication that got crossed. Or misread.

Her wrinkled hand floats over the runes momentarily before pulling away. “You won’t wait long for your outcome. All will come to pass before the seventh month.” The psychic’s chair begins to softly creak with her rocking. “Go now. The spirits have said all they will say on this matter.”

“What? You must be kidding!” I exclaim. “But that can’t be
it
?”

Miss Laveau stops rocking and stiffens in her chair. The air charges with her displeasure, causing all the little hairs on the back of my neck to rise on end. Suddenly I’m recalling Angeline’s Rule Number Three, about knowing what I know when the spirits want me to know it. I was given three rules to follow, and I’ve broken two.

Somehow knowing that doesn’t make me any less pissed.

I snatch my purse from the floor and stand. But the good manners Gram’s instilled come involuntarily, whether I feel them or not. “Thank you, Miss Laveau.”
For nothing.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Assuming I can make sense of
any
of it.
“Goodbye.”
To you and my cash.

I pass through the velvet curtain. Angeline doesn’t so much as glance up from her newspaper crossword, engrossed in her land of puzzles.

So I mumble my farewell and show myself the door.

Walking back out into the blistering heat of Dugan Street does little to distract me from the irritation brought on by the fruitless session with Miss Laveau. No. It’s the scuffle outside of Pinky’s Topless Bar that plunges me back to reality.

And I run. As fast as my high-heeled feet will carry me, believing the image ahead
must
be a mirage.

It isn’t.

It really is Grant. And he has the foul-mouthed creep who yelled at me earlier pinned against a brick wall.

The creep wheezes, lips stretched tight over his nicotine-stained teeth, scrabbling at Grant’s iron grip at his collar.
“Let me…go…”

“Stop!” I shriek. “What are you doing?” But Grant doesn’t respond.

“If I
ever
hear you talking like that to a girl again, you piece of shit,” Grant snarls, “I’ll knock every last tooth from your worthless head.”

My gaze catches on what I presume to be the girl in question, hurrying in the opposite direction much as I’d done.

Grant’s hold manages to tighten. “And I swear to God, that isn’t a threat…
it’s a promise.
”

The creep’s blotchy face bounces up and down.
“N’kay.”
His voice comes out a strangulated whisper.

“He hears you!” I grab Grant’s arm, attempting to pry him away. “Let go,” I say firmly when he doesn’t budge. Wedging myself between the pair, I place a hand on Grant’s flushed cheek, directing his wild stare to me. “Grant, you need to let him go now.” I shake my head. “He’s not worth it. Do you hear me? He’s not worth it.”

Somewhere my words must reach him, because Grant drops the guy and slowly backs away.

“Come on,” I say, slipping my hand in the crook of his elbow. He doesn’t resist as I pull us in the opposite direction. Tremors of rage continue rippling through him, making his skin hotter than the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?” My voice sounds foreign to my ears, almost as foreign as the boy beside me.

“Yeah, I just need a few minutes to…calm down.”

I start to let go of his arm. “Alone or…”

He stills my hand, holding it in place, making my adrenaline spike even more. “Stay with me?” It comes out more plea than question.

I nod. Already I’m breaking my decree against being alone with Grant. It lasted less than forty-eight hours. But how can I tell him no?

We walk two blocks without speaking. Grant inhales and blows out slow, steady breaths.

“Any better?” I ask, squinting up at him.

“Yeah.” He gently disengages me from his elbow. “Um, thanks for being my anchor. I don’t invite trouble, but disrespect is sort of a hot button. Always has been, but it got worse after A—” He clamps his mouth, and his jaw muscle twitches. “It just bothers me.”

I am learning when it comes to Grant, the simpler the response, the more likely a complicated story lies behind it. He has shut down, exactly as he did Saturday in my kitchen. Maybe one day he’ll trust me enough to tell me the real reason disrespect sent him into a blind fury. Maybe one day I’ll tell him all about my mom, and then he’ll understand why astrology means so much to me.

Someday.

But not today.

“Sorry if I freaked you out back there,” he says.

“No, you didn’t. I mean, I was a little thrown but…”

Suddenly Grant’s hand is on the small of my back. Again. And now I
am
freaking out. His touch sends a surge of electricity buzzing up my spine. I suck in a breath and look up. God, he’s so beautiful—the way the sun halos his head, he could be Apollo. It takes all my strength to remind myself he’s the harbinger of heartache and devastation.

“Broken glass.” He motions toward the amber shards on the sidewalk. Oh…right, he was being nice and guiding me around it. His hand falls away. “What are you doing in this neighborhood, anyway?”

“I was…” Well, crud. I can’t tell him I was consulting a psychic about the melee of my warring emotions for him and his brother,
or
that I temporarily believed it to be the result of an otherworldly attack. Instead, I settle on something truthful, if not complete. “I was visiting an old friend of the family.”

“Cool.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket.

“Um, my bus stop is the next block up, and I’m afraid I can’t keep walking without these shoes chemically bonding to my feet.” I fan my face again. “Are you good? Or I could catch the next—”

“I’m parked over on Chestnut”—he pauses—“and you’re not taking the bus.” Grant smirks at my relieved smile. “Huh, not even an argument? That’s a first. Usually you put up some sort of fight when I offer to help.”

My eyes widen. “Are you kidding? Do you even
know
the condition of this city’s public transportation?”

He chuckles. We cut across Dugan, working our way toward the side street where the pickle wagon awaits. “Uh-oh. What is it?”

“Hmm?”

“Well, either you’re about to throw a dart at me, or you’re concentrating really hard on something else. Your tongue,” he clarifies.

“Oh, um, no. I just…the ride home. I don’t want to create any more”—I fumble for the right word—“
friction
between you and Seth.”