Page 15 of The Sisters of Crimson House

Another customer paying for magic instead of cognitive behavioral therapy. Must be Tuesday.

“Another?” Travis asked, not waiting for her reply as he went to work preparing the virgin peach bellini he made for her every week. When she was on duty, she rarely indulged in anything stronger than caffeine. In her particular line of work, it was easier to read the cards, fool a mark, or save your life when you had your wits about you. Hopefully she wouldn’t be needing all three skills this evening.

Travis set her drink on a Peabody cocktail napkin before her, and they clinked to good health and better tippers. She had on her black leather corset again but dressed down over jeans and a floral wrap. Witchy business casual. It certainly didn’t dissuade the tippers. Feeling the spirit, she slid a five-dollar bill toward him.

“Nope,” he said, pushing the money back to her.

“Um, yeah. Don’t pretend like we’re not both hustling this evening,” she said, pushing the five back toward him and thrilling over the way his fingers felt when accidentally brushing against hers.

“Let’s just pretend that this is on the girl whose life you just saved with those cards,” he said with a knowing smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

Charley grinned and looked at the spread still fanned out on the bar. She gathered them up and shuffled, keeping an eye on the far corner for her seven o’clock who sometimes liked to show up early.

She preferred coming here on the slower nights when the lobby was populated by business travelers and the occasional tourist, not on the weekends when patrons were already sloshed by 5:00 p.m. in preparation for the live ducks splashing in the lobby fountain. She had inherited Jenny Spencer, one of Sadie’s devoted clients willing to meet with a bargain-basement Bryde. Like Sadie, the Peabody was one of Jenny’s nostalgic favorites. Sadie had stopped reading professionally and, Charley would argue, living professionally. But Jenny seemed grateful just to be in the presence of magic by proxy. Maybe if she squinted and drank a second pinot grigio, Charley looked like a young Sadie? Whatever her reasoning, Jenny was her regular 7:00 p.m. The lobby bar had drop-in tarot—and Travis the bartender—every Tuesday at 6:00.

Charley tried to tell herself that she came here every Tuesday because it was a steady gig, that she could depend on a sturdy tip from Jenny. But right now she wished she could head upstairs to one of the Peabody’s elegant suites and touch more than just Travis’s hands. She wondered what it would feel like to have those hands on her face, his eyes searching hers, her hands searching the rest of him. She flushed pink at the thought.

Charley reflexively shuffled, deftly cutting the deck and arcing them into a bridge before letting the cards fall neatly into place. A lone card shot out of the deck, fluttering to the ground. She leaned over and picked it up, frowning. The Devil reversed. The card depicted everyone’s favorite prince of demons forever torturing two lost souls who didn’t seem to notice they could step free of the chains that kept them bound there. People were so good at being their own devils.

She sat back up in her barstool and realized with a sinking feeling that she was staring into the gold-flecked blue eyes of Sy Prescott. Speaking of the devil.

“Hi there,” he said, looking enormously pleased to see her.

She drew a deep breath. “Are you stalking me now?”

“You said to call to make an appointment. I was told it was Tarot Tuesday.”

She stared at him while she imagined murdering Zavier for pointing him her way.

He glanced down at the deck. “I believe those are the tarot cards?”

“Taco Tarot at the Peabody,” she deadpanned, scooping up the cards and tucking the deck back into her purse. “But I’m off the clock. It was, what? Prescott, right?”

“Sy.”

“Sigh? Like the big sound I’m making on the inside?”

“It’s short for Osiris, the god—”

“Of the Dead,” Charley finished for him, giving him an appraising look. “That has to be the most interesting thing about you.” He looked much younger up close, younger than his twenty-five years. His eyes looked ancient.

“My mom was big into mythology and the afterlife. But we don’t have to do the small talk thing if you don’t want to. Just get straight to the fisticuffs.” He held up his hands in an imitation boxer pose.

“Do they teach this at skeptic camp, or does being an asshole just come naturally to you?” Charley asked, not interested in engaging. “Have you tried just having a normal conversation with people?”

“I love talking with people,” he insisted. “I just don’t enjoy seeing them victimized by opportunists. It’s kind of a thing.” He reached into his jacket as if searching for something before finally handing her a business card. “Can’t seem to find my wallet, but luckily I had an extra card on me.”

She smirked at him, reaching into her purse and sliding over his wallet. “You left before we could return it. Not that there was much to come back for.”

“How thoughtful of you.” He peeked inside the barren wallet before slipping it back into his coat pocket with a laugh.

She examined the card he had placed on the bar. It was simple, off-white with black letterpress type. “Occam’s Razor. Sy Prescott, investigator,” she read aloud. “Hold up. You’re a professional asshole?”

“With fancy cards to boot.” He smiled at her, not taking the bait, and it pissed her off more. He was enjoying this. “It’s literally my job to put an end to con artists. Well,” he said, pausing, “technically more of an enthusiastic volunteer opportunity.” He gave her a breezy smile, like they were pals meeting for drinks. “The job part is for my thesis. I’m getting my master’s in the psychology of victimization, so yeah, I guess it’s kind of like skeptic camp after all.”

“Fancy,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Just psychics or we talking pyramid schemes, medical fraud, the whole pantheon of charlatans?”

“All flavors of con artists but psychics are a favorite scourge,” he said.