“Eventually?! What the fuck? Do you really intend to go around New Orleans fucking whoever you want while we wait for you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He started to relax.
“You don't have to wait for me. Go and do the same—fuck whoever you want. It's just sex. I don't care.”
“You don't . . . what kind of a blessed soul are you?”
I stopped one last time to look him in the eye. “The badass kind.” Then I sauntered off like the badass bitch I was.
As I walked away, he called after me, “I'm Cyrus. Cyrus Demos.”
“I don't care!” I called back.
“For fuck's sake, woman! At least give me your name.”
“Salina Haven.”
And then I left Cyrus Demos in the dust.
I had to. I was about to be sick again, and I didn't want him to see me throw up twice.
Chapter Nine
Sick of men and sweets—two things I thought I'd never get sick of—I wandered through the French Quarter. Then something caught my eye. It was a Voodoo shop. Not unusual in that area. Quite common actually. But I felt drawn to it. I wandered inside, past shelves of dolls, candles, and necklaces geared toured tourists. Masks hung on the walls, their sightless eyes staring at me. The smell of incense hung in the air.
And a shiver ran over my arms.
“You need a reading?” a woman's voice came from behind me.
I turned, the word coming out of my mouth unbidden. “Yes.”
She was a small woman in stature but huge in presence. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark-skinned, she had a bright scarf wrapped around her head with braids trailing out of it. Very Marie. Again, probably for the tourists. But there was something about her. A gleam in those dark eyes. It spoke to me.
“Come with me, cher.” She waved to a back room, then nodded at a girl behind the counter. “We need some time. No disruptions.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the girl said.
I suppose their interaction wasn't unusual on the surface, but it felt odd to me. I went into a small room lined with shelves. Here, the accouterments weren't fake. I could feel tingles of power from them. How or why I was so sensitive, I didn't know. Must have been Hades. His magic.
“Sit.” The woman waved at a chair. It was one of several tucked under a round table in the center of the room.
The chair was simple but comfortable and an African-esque cloth covered the table. Beads clinked as the woman sat across from me. There was no crystal ball. She wasn't a gypsy. I wondered if she'd pull out a set of bones to throw, or maybe shells. But no, she pulled a little wooden box close and opened it to reveal an old set of tarot cards.
“You're feelin' lost,” she said. Then she nodded. “Uh-huh. Lost. Because you ain't where you belong.”
I looked from the cards to her face. She was older than I initially thought, with deep lines carved into her skin and jowls hanging around her mouth. But those eyes. They were both young and old at the same time. And they saw too much.
“Yeah. I know. But I don't have a choice,” I said.
“Hmm.” She nodded and took out the card. Shuffling, she said, “Choices. So many choices for you. But no, not that one. You don't belong here, but here is where you need to be. And maybe you will belong. Soon enough.”
I wasn't sure I liked that. So, I just stayed quiet.
She shuffled more, then set the cards down. “Tap them. No more, mind you.” She pointed at me. “I don't want too muchof you in them. Hard to get, I think.” She looked me over. “Uh-huh. You hard to get out.”
“Like a stain.” I made a little laugh. “Well, that's one I haven't heard before.” I tapped the cards.
