The incense didn't mask the smell beneath—it amplified it.
Like copper pennies left to rot in stagnant water, like the staleness of a room
where someone had died but no one had noticed yet.
The tarot deck on Roman's table wasn't shuffled; it
breathed, the cards expanding and contracting with a rhythm that made
Maryanne's skin crawl. His reading table, draped in black velvet, gleamed with
carved symbols of drowning figures reaching upward—echoes of ancient submersion
rites.
Maryanne, pregnant and anxious, stumbled inside, mistaking
the place for the bookstore she sought. Roman Thorne, charismatic yet cold,
rose to greet her. His eyes glinted with suppressed rage—a shadow of
sin.
"Destiny led you here. I'm Roman Thorne. I own this
shop," he said, his voice smooth as oil on water.
Maryanne clutched her belly, "Just looking
around," she murmured, her maternal hope straining for guidance amid the
growing dread.
Roman leaned forward. "What good is looking around,
tossing books aside? How about a reading instead?"
"I'm not superstitious," she said. "I just…
need answers for my mom's death—"
"Then let the cards fall where they may."
He shuffled with trembling fingers. The cards dropped: The
Tower (chaos). The Devil (temptation). The Star (hope).
Roman's voice deepened, menacing: "A child of promise,
but darkness hunts her. Sacrifice looms, as it did for those who sought to rise
above heaven."
Maryanne's heart pounded, her love for her unborn child
igniting. "No one touches my baby," she declared, her cross burning
warm against her chest—a quiet defiance.
Roman smirked, masking resentment. The reading had been a
Covenant trap.
A faint sound rose from the walls. Maryanne's vision
intensified, her child whispering: Mother…
She fled, the shop's door slamming behind her.
At her car, she fumbled with the keys. The battery was dead.
"God damn it!" she muttered, panic rising. "I'd rather die than
go back to that freak."
From a one-way window, Roman watched. "Minnie, go help
her," he ordered. "Bring the Penance Engine—just in
case."
Minnie's lips curled into a sadistic smile. "Sure,
Roman. I'll make sure she catches our drift."
She approached lightly, and Maryanne reluctantly rolled her
window down.
"I'm Minnie," she said, voice a mix of politeness
and resentment. "Looks like you're in a bind. I can help."
"Are you with that weirdo in the shop?" Maryanne
snapped.
Minnie's eyes narrowed. "That weirdo is my
husband. Still want my help?"
A shiver of unease ran through Maryanne. "Yes… but I
dread it."
Minnie chuckled, winking. "Maybe you
should."
She pulled jumper cables from her trunk, connecting them
with deliberate care. "If I do this, you owe me one."
"As long as it's reasonable," Maryanne said
warily.
"It will be." Minnie pressed a brittle, yellowed
note into her hand. "Read it later, as a favor."
The car sputtered to life. Minnie stepped back. "Bye
for now."
As Maryanne drove toward her new apartment, she unfolded the
note. Images of warped faces flickered in her conscience. The words crawled
across her vision even after she closed it:
Years served to the pact. Not jail—something older,
hungrier.
The steering wheel grew slick under her palms. Minnie hadn't
helped her out of kindness—she'd marked her, the way predators mark prey to
circle back for.
Will you seek beyond the masses, into the fire?
Shock rooted her to the seat. Yet as she drove, curiosity
stirred.
She knows my face now. I pray she doesn't come knocking.