Pax pushes angrily out the door. I blink away distracting thoughts.
The client produces a photograph of her father from her satchel. He’s in a leather hat and vest, and a gray mustache dominates his face. “And we don’t know anything about the circumstances.”
His eyes! Black as coal. Looking at the photograph, immediate rage churns inside me. My breath turns shallow.
He was killed by the sheriff, Stella.
He was wanted dead or alive.
Robbed several banks and killed five innocent people. Including a mother-to-be.
“He was killed in the Arizona territory,” the young woman says between wavering breaths. “We don’t even know where he’s buried.”
He ain’t buried.
Not properly, at least.
They dumped his body in an abandoned mineshaft.
Too good a treatment, if you ask me.
“What can you tell me about my papa?” The woman is in tears now. “I miss him so much. He was the best gospel singer in the whole world!”
Her dead father’s wrath pulses through the room—how can she not feel that? I never know how to proceed in these situations. How do you tell someone their loved one is a murderer? Or a thief? Or a cheat?
“I, uh…” I swallow hard.
And through the throbbing rage, a chill creeps over us. I see this woman shiver, witness the goose bumps trail up her arms. The back of my neck prickles. I see the outline of a wide brimmed hat flickering in the shadows cast by candlelight. Herfather is one of the Dark Legion. And he’s brought the Trio here.
They are always so near. I curse their ever-presence.
“You will be consumed by the flames of hellfire!”
I blink, confused. “What was—?”
“You and your ilk must atone for your sins!” The voice is familiar and comes from outside. “Only the beloved creator can foresee our destiny. To pretend to do so is BLASPHEMY!”
Kiyoko peeks into my curtained-off area. “Time to close shop for the day.”
We escort our clients toward the back door. I slip the dime this woman paid me back into her palm. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish your reading. But please know—focusing on the past can bring great misery. Try to focus on peace.”
That’s the best gift you can give her, Stellar.
And maybe give yer own advice a try, eh?
Our clients scurry out the back door and through the alleys. I return to the front to spy Miss Willamina, the clockmaker next door, yelling at the zealots to get the hell outta here. And Clarice DuBois leans against a nearby lamppost, looking on. I take a deep breath and approach. She blows a fragrant stream of smoke into the sky, a cloud of cloves and detachment.
I am forthright: “You’re here? Pax told us you preferred not to help with the planning.”
She looks bemused. “He did? Interesting. Well. There’s work to do and not much time.” She says this wistfully, as though she means on an existential level.
“Can you believe these jerks?” I say, pointing at Reverend Jenkins with my thumb. “I don’t know how they find me, but they do. Every time.”
A grin stretches Clarice’s smooth cheeks. “You. Are. Welcome.”
“What?”
“I sent them,” Clarice says, and inhales her cigarette. The tip burns angry orange. “And you’re welcome.”
