Hazy orange light hisses out from between the teeth of the zipper, curling toward the ceiling.
“I don’t have anything flammable,” I mutter, half in denial, half trying to logic my way through something that I can’t actually explain.
I fumble the zipper open, fingers flying past lip gloss, a half-melted honey throat lozenge, my phone, to my Break Glass in Case of Emotional Instability kit.
Heart thudding, I grab it and my phone before the heat can warp the case. The kit’s button is hot under my thumb as I unfasten it. The satin edges of my tarot pouch glow like lit coals.
Heat sears my palm as I reach for it. I yelp and jerk it free, pinching it between two fingers and holding it atarm’s length like it might explode. Gray tendrils curl off the singed corners like breath from a dragon. The fabric is scorched, radiating waves of heat that prickle against my skin.
Inside, my tarot deck sparks, tiny arcs of light zapping in and out like fireflies.
Declan’s hand hovers near my arm, ready to snatch me back. “What the hell is that?”
I throw it onto the table like it’s cursed. It detonates in a flash of heat and light. A pop echoes off the booth as the pouch bursts open, and a gust of hot air hits my face. Cards whip upward in a spinning cyclone, their gilded edges slicing through the low light like shrapnel.
They twist and cartwheel above us, flashes of color and arcane symbols blurring into one impossible kaleidoscope before the whirlwind collapses. The deck rains down, cards slapping against leather seats, skidding across the table, tumbling to the floor.
One lands at our feet.
The Wheel of Fortune.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My heart hammers so hard it hurts. The smell of burnt fabric and ozone fills the air, and I can’t tell if I’m seconds from fainting or laughing.
“This isn’t happening,” I whisper. My voice sounds too small, too human for the moment. I squeeze my hands into fists, nails biting my palms, and try to take deep breaths so I can think straight. “Static electricity. That’s all. And faulty craftsmanship.”
Declan steps closer, jaw pulsing at the temples.
I force out a shaky laugh even as I follow his gaze down to the tarot card and the images that are…moving?
The gilded wheel at the center spins. Its middle glows white-hot, light pulsing outward in steady, golden rings, radiating like a star on the edge of collapse. Framing the wheel, the angel, eagle, bull, and the lion chase each other in a game of otherworldly tag. The background shimmers with inky starlight. It glows, deep and vast and impossible. I hold my breath and squat down to pick it up.
Crack!
A jagged bolt of lightning rips across the top of the card, splitting the wheel clean in two.
The shock hits me. It races up through the soles of my feet, seizing my calves, crawling higher until it’s in my chest, my throat, my teeth. Light shines from the card and pulses in time with my heartbeat, each thud sending another burst of electricity through my veins.
A rumble swells from deep beneath my feet, the earth clearing its throat. The floor shudders. The room trembles. Behind the bar, bottles crash against one another as bulbs strobe violently, throwing out craggy, stuttering shadows. Heat surges up from the floor, prickling every inch of exposed skin.
The door slams open with a gunshot-loud bang, and a blast of dry, searing air tears through the lounge, carrying the sting of sand. It whips my hair across my face and steals my breath.
Declan surges toward me, hand outstretched. “Amanda—”
He doesn’t get the chance to finish.
The wind roars, swallowing sound. The lights flare, then shatter, bulbs bursting in fireworks of glass and sparks.
A shockwave of hot air ripples out, and the roomdetonates around us in a blaze of fire. For a single, suspended heartbeat, everything is light and heat and the sensation of falling.
Then we’re gone.
Five
Sand explodes around me and coats my sweat-slick skin. The impact of the ground against my back knocks the breath from my lungs, dust flooding my mouth before I can gasp.
I groan. Limbs splayed, skin scorching, spine sinking into heat-packed grains. The sky above is so aggressively blue it looks fake, like some divine being cranked up the saturation. The clouds are wispy and few, painted on like set dressing.
Desert wind blows over me like an oven door swinging open. Whatever bullshit people say about dry heat doesn’t mean it’s not fucking hot. It’s a mouthful of cotton. A fever that’s impossible to sweat out.
