Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles) (5 page)

In a voice marked with a faint French accent, he requested a position at her store. Gaping, she stared into eyes that were an odd shade of pale green against the swarthiness of his skin. Wordlessly, unable to form a coherent thought, and not asking for references, she hired him on the spot.

To this day, she never regretted her decision. His skillful and artistic touch magically altered the shop’s lackluster interior. Items beyond imagination lined the shelves, and the overall look of the store still stole her breath away. She trusted Sebastien enough that, within a year, she’d made him co-proprietor and allowed him to live in the third floor of the structure, free of charge.

Presently, Sebastien stood at the stoop of the shop, his arms folded. His long blonde hair ruffled in the slight breeze coursing past the buildings, his sea-foam colored eyes narrowed as he glowered at the darkening sky above. He breathed in, grimacing with disgust at the unpleasant odor traveling in the wind.

The offensive stench filling the encroaching night air made his senses tingle and, for the moment, his eyes glittered balefully as they scanned the crowded sidewalks. Rapidly, his gaze flicked over each person, dismissing tourist and sightseer alike. A small smirk twisted his lips, and his eyes skimmed, then settled on the lone individual seated at a table outside the café across the street.

Sensing the weight of Sebastien’s gaze, the man lifted his head. At first, his expression was indolent, and then rapidly changed. An odd shimmer akin to dread shot across his flawless features, and he rose, spilling his untouched cup of coffee. His response caused Sebastien to smile, a cold bitter twist of his lips, and he nodded. Secretly, he savored the terror flitting over the man’s face, and he nearly laughed aloud as the individual hastily left.

Turning, he went into the store, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. He flipped the sign declaring the shop closed in the window. Women approached, and he grinned congenially, and pointed to
The Mage
’s opening time with the touch of his finger. His smile deepened and he granted them a sly wink, eliciting giggles of delight before they left.

“You should stop flirting with the customers.” A gentle voice chastised, and he burst out with a roar of amusement.

“
Chérie
, you don't understand the obvious. If I didn’t flirt, you wouldn’t have them beating a path to our doorstep.” He pointed out astutely.

“You’re a wicked, wicked man, Sebastien DeClerq.” She scolded, but the accusation didn’t hold any bite. He turned to look at her as she traipsed across the dimly lit shop and headed toward the round table set before the window, her expression thoughtful as she sat.

“I’ve always been, iniquitous, Chesca.” He responded solemnly, the laughter vanishing from his face, but she didn’t detect the change. Instead, she smiled and lifted her worn deck of cards from its black velvet wrap.

“You, my dear, don’t give yourself enough credit for the blessing you are.” She rebuked with an impish grin, a dimple forming in the corner of one cheek.

Sebastien shook his head, the golden cascade of his hair glistening in the waning sunlight.

“I’m far from what one would consider a godsend.”

“In my book, you’ll never be anything less.” She retorted and shuffled her cards. “You appeared on my doorstep and saved me from ruin, you manage this place like a pro, and you draw in a crowd without saying a word.”

He managed a self-conscious smile, his lips tightening. He watched her dole out the cards on the black velvet scarf, her expression changing from teasing to worry.

Immediately, he realized her cards foretold an event that didn’t bode well.

Franchesca ruffled her hair and set the bells on her wristlets jingling. She scowled, unhappy with the fortune, her troubled gaze slipping to the sidewalk beyond the storefront. Inhaling, she shook her head, further tousling her riotous locks while she reshuffled the worn deck.

The bracelet jangled louder, every small bell resonating in the silence. She ignored the sound and raised her face to the crystals hanging from fishing lines above her, the tiny facets capturing the evening sunlight and showering a brilliant rainbow of colors across the store walls.

“What’s the matter, Chesca?” He interrupted and she forced a wan smile.

“Why would you think something was up?” She questioned saucily, her eyes flashing as the muscular man wove his way to a cluttered countertop.

“I know you too well,
chérie
.” He turned from her and began the nightly cash register tallies.

“Do you really?” She smirked and contemplated if their clientele truly visited to cure the latest worry or gather their fortune. If her suspicions were correct, many faithful patrons called for an opportunity to grab a look at the co-owner of
The Mage
.

“I know you well enough.” He left the register and neared her table, his fingertips tracing across the bottom of a needlepoint tapestry lining the wall before scowling at her cards.

“Then, Oh-Great-Sebastien, tell me what troubles me so?”

“Your reading hasn’t gone well?”

Chesca pulled her gaze away from the towering figure and back to the deck, where The Focus Card stared at her. The image portrayed a queen in regal white seated on a stone throne, wearing a heavy crown, and the weight of a golden chalice held in her hand.

“The Queen of Cups,” Sebastien’s voice deepened and he frowned. “She’s a wise woman, a counselor, warmhearted, and kind. She thinks with her heart, and not her head.”

He paused, tapping a forefinger to his solid jaw, his eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities.

“I believe this sounds much like your friend, Meghan.”

She nodded and her lips tightened. Whenever she asked a question concerning her friend, the card always appeared. Kind, loving, she’d given too much to a man who didn’t deserve her. Meghan had paid violently for her attachment to her ex-husband, to a point he’d almost taken her life.

“What’s your second card?” Sebastien remained distant from her table, but his concern was evident. Years ago, she tried to ask him why he stayed away from her when she did her readings, but had given up when he never provided her with a direct response. She learned to simple accept the fact he respected her space, and never neared her when she performed a reading.

Willing her hands not to tremble, she turned over the next few cards. Chesca’s actions were slow and deliberate, almost as if she feared what the colorful images would silently foretell. Her brow furrowed deeper and, with another jangle of her bangles, a low gasp left her lips.

“What is it?”

“Darkness,” she responded quietly, her words nearly indecipherable.

He repeated the word and the two syllables sounded menacing. She shuddered at his pronunciation, a sudden sense of dread sending chills down her spine.

“What are the cards after that?” He inquired, wondering if he’d regret his curiosity. Sebastien stared at the images presented, each glided illustration appearing to have a life of its own.

Mentally, he calculated the times she’d turned the cards since the store’s opening. By all accounts, Chesca hadn’t ever been mistaken in any fortune, and her reputation drew believers and skeptics alike. He reasoned her cards spoke the truth, her skill with interpreting each sign rivaling countless would-be impostors.
The Mage’s
patrons appreciated her fortune-telling skills, and there was often a line of lovelorn, curious, and faithfully returning regulars seeking her words of wisdom.

“I apologize.” He managed tensely and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

“My readings are never wrong.” She didn’t offer the normal amount of annoyance and her lips pulling downward as she mulled over Meghan’s whereabouts.

A worried crease formed between her brows. “Meghan said she had an appointment with a client, some old man having a difficult time adjusting to losing his sight.”

“Evil, I haven’t the faintest idea.” She admitted with a scowl. “Unless there’s someone out there that intentionally wants to harm Meg, she hasn’t been surrounded by any bad karma since she divorced that sack of shit she married.”

“If that’s true, who seeks revenge?”

Chesca huffed heavily, mentally running over the names of their joint friends in her head. She came to a dead standstill when she realized Meghan didn’t have anyone to count as a steady friend, except for herself. Everyone else was an associate, or an acquaintance, and not allowed into her ever-private inner circle.

“I don’t know.”

“Who holds the answer to the secrets?”

“I don’t know!” She shouted aloud, her forehead creasing with worry. “Damn it! I’ve never been to the point where I don’t have an answer!”

“Chesca…”

She raked her hands through her hair, tears brimming and spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t know what’s after Meg, or who intends to harm her, Sebastien!”

“If your cards have foretold this, then believe them.” His frown matched hers. “Trust your cards and your heart, and you’ll find her.”

She didn’t reply, rising rapidly from her chair and reaching for her the smooth crimson velvet of her floor-length cape. Shrugging into the sleeves, she flashed him a concerned look that said what she feared to say aloud.

“Can you close up?” She asked hesitantly.

“For you, Chesca, I’ll tally the books, place the Internet orders, sweep the stairs, and gloss the windows…”

She gave him a weak smile, knowing he was trying to drive away her apprehension. Childishly, she scrubbed the tears from her face with the back of her hand, smudging the heavy kohl around her eyes, before turning. Clutching the doorknob, she lowered her head, and muttered a swift prayer of guidance before dashing from the store.

As the antiquated bell above the door jangled loudly, Sebastien watched her hurry down the lane from his vantage point. He lifted worried eyes to the sky, tension radiating from every muscle in his body as she vanished from view. Dusk crept in, pulling the last vestiges of the day into its eerie embrace before he turned, and surveyed the shop interior.

His pale gaze alighted on Chesca’s scattered cards and he released a pent-up sigh. He’d leave the brilliantly illustrated deck where it lay, safely shrouded by the cloak of black velvet. He wouldn’t touch her Tarot Deck, the trademark of her profession, any more than he expected her to manage his countless herbs and salves. Certain objects of their occupation remained restricted to the other, and he didn’t dally in anything as volatile as Chesca’s cards.

Whispering for his partner and the sightless woman’s safety, he turned and studied the steadily darkening shop. Wherever her cards led her, Sebastien sensed Chesca could hold her own in the event of trouble, her stubbornness matching her fiery hair. He understood the strong-willed personality she was, lacking any sense of a weak resolve, and she wouldn’t allow any harm to befall her, but Meghan Stanley was another matter, though.

He’d met the woman the week
The Mage
had opened four years earlier, her cloudy and nearly sightless vision boring into his soul and shaking him. Somewhere in the gloom filling her dimmed gaze, he sensed she read more than he chose to disclose to even his closest associates.

Despite her impairment, she braved through a cruel world with the innocence of a tarnished angel. He admired her bravery, and the steadfast resolute in which she managed her life. Sebastien couldn’t imagine what it would be like, to live each waking moment in darkness, remembering scattered figments of colors and faces. He lauded the woman for her courage, knowing he couldn’t face the challenges her daily life presented.

For one, he couldn’t live in a world of shadows. He hated the inky depths prevalent from sundown to daybreak. As night slithered from the shop’s corners, he closed his eyes and willed his nightmares to cease for one night. Knowing his request was futile, he muttered beneath his breath. His jumbled and indecipherable whispers changed to the firm speech of a long dead language, and he turned on the heel of his boot.

His chanting utterance deepened, growing louder with every passing moment. The words were musical, the language one forgotten in time, lost in the archaic lands of Europe. Lifting a finger as he spoke, he flipped his wrist elegantly before issuing a sigh. While words stilled on his lips, his eyes opened, and a satisfied smile relaxed the tight line of his mouth. He twirled his forefinger, forming petite loops close to his heart. The encroaching gloominess of the store vanished with the action, and a mild breeze filled the room, whispering in a soft moan around him, reminiscent of the hum of hundreds of lost voices.

As the gentle breeze died into silence, every candle in the chamber flickered with illuminating light. Sputtering, they soon blazed, which lit the quiet avenue beyond the bay window.

Pleased with himself, he whistled a jaunty tune as he climbed the steep stairway leading to his apartment.