Nora Roberts - The Pagan Stone

So he did, and she took her notes. “Three,” she began. “Three boys, descended from her and Dent. Faith, that’s Cal ’s area. Believing not only in himself, in you, in the town, but having the faith to accept what he can’t literally see. The past, what happened before him. Hope falls to Fox, and his optimism that he can and will make a difference. His understanding and trust in what is. Which leaves the vision to you-what can be-for better or worse. A second three-Q, Layla, me-falls in with that, forming subsets. Cal and Q, Fox and Layla, and now you and me. Three into one-three men, three women, three subsets, into one unit. We’ve accomplished that in a very real sense. Just as we accomplished re-forming the three pieces of the bloodstone into one whole.”

“Still doesn’t tell us how to use it.”

“But she made it clear, at least to me it’s clear, that we have what we need. There’s no other tangible element. That’s something. Tears.” Frowning, Cybil drummed her fingers on her notebook. “She wept for you, and if I’m interpreting correctly, she’s saying I will. I’m happy to shed a few if it sends the Big Evil Bastard back to hell. Tears,” she repeated, and closed her eyes. “They’re often an ingredient used in magickal arts. I think they’re usually female tears. You’ll have your tears of a virgin, of a pregnant woman, of a mother, of an ancient, blah blah blah, depending. I don’t know that much about it.”

“There’s something you don’t know that much about?”

She shot him an answering smirk, tipped down her sunglasses to peer at him over them. “There are worlds I don’t know much about, but almost nothing I can’t find out everything about. We need to see. She appears to be saying that while the other subsets may certainly be called on to do more in their specific areas, they’ve done the bulk of their job there. It’s time to look ahead, and that’s up to you and me, partner.”

“I can’t whistle it up like a German shepherd.”

“Of course you can. It takes practice, concentration, and attention. All of which you’re capable of or you wouldn’t be able to make a living playing cards. What may be more problematic is both of us being capable of calling it up together, and narrowing in on one potential future event.”

She dug into her voluminous handbag again, and this time pulled out a deck of Tarot cards.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Tools,” she said, and began to shuffle the oversized cards with some skill. “I also have runes, several types of crystal balls, a scrying mirror. At one point in my life I studied witch-craft very seriously, looking for answers as to why I could foretell. But like any religion or organization there are a lot of rules. The rules began to crowd me, so after a while, I simply accepted I had this gift, and my studies spread out in wider circles.”

“When did you first know?”

“That I could foretell? I’m not altogether sure. It wasn’t like you, in a blinding flash. I’ve always had vivid dreams. I used to tell my parents about them, when I was a little girl. Or cry for them in the middle of the night if the dreams scared me. They often did. Or there would be what I’d have called déjà vu if I’d known the term as a child. My paternal grandmother, who had Romany blood, told me I had the sight. I did my best to learn how to refine it, control it. There were still dreams, some good, some bad. I often dreamt of fire. Of walking through it, of dying in it, of causing it.”

She did a quick spread. The colorful illustrations on the cards drew him closer to the table. “I think I dreamed of you,” she said, “long before I met you.”

“Think?”

“I never saw your face. Or if I did, I couldn’t keep it in my head when I woke. But in the dreams, or the visions, I knew someone was waiting for me. A lover, or so it seemed. I had my first orgasm at about fourteen during one of those dreams. I’d wake from those dreams, aroused or satisfied. Or quaking with terror. Because sometimes it wasn’t a lover-or not a human one-waiting for me. I never saw its face either, not even when it burned me alive.” She looked up at him now. “So I learned all I could, and I learned how to keep my mind and body centered with yoga, meditation, herbs, trances-any and everything to stave off the beast in the dreams. It works most of the time. Or did.”

“Harder to keep that center here in the Hollow?”

“Yes.”

He sat, waved a finger at the spread. “So, what does the future hold?”

“This? Just a little personal Q and A. As to the rest…” She scooped the cards together, shuffled again. “Let’s find out.”

She set them down, said, “Cut,” and when he did she fanned the deck facedown on the table. “Let’s try a simple pick-a-card. You first.”

Willing to play, he slid one out of the fan, and at her nod, turned it over. On the card, the couple was twined together, with her dark hair wound around their naked bodies.

“The Lovers,” Cybil announced. “Shows where your mind’s lodged.”

“They’re your cards, sugar.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She chose one for herself. “The Wheel of Fortune-more in your line, if we’re speaking literally. Symbolizing change, chance, for good or for ill. Take another.”

He turned over the Magician.

“Major Arcana, three for three.” The faintest of frowns marred her brows. “It’s actually one of my favorite cards, not only the art, but it stands for imagination, creativity, magic, of course. And in this case, we could say it stands for Giles Dent, your ancestor.” She drew out another card, slowly turned it over. “And mine. The Devil. Greed, destruction, obsession, tyranny. Go again.”

He drew the High Priestess. And without waiting, Cybil chose the Hanged Man.

“Our maternal ancestors, despite the male figure in mine. Understanding and wisdom in yours, martyrdom in mine. And still all Major Arcanas, all absolutely apt. Again.”

He slid out and turned the Tower, and she Death.

“Change, potential disaster, but with the other cards you’ve chosen, the possibility of change for the positive, the potential to rebuild. Mine, obviously an end, and not so sunny when viewed with my other picks. Though it rarely stands for literal death, it does symbolize an absolute end.”

She lifted her glass. “I need a refill.”

He rose before she did, took the glass. “I’ll get it. I saw how you made it.”

It would give her time to settle down, Gage thought as he stepped inside. However fascinating she found the process, the results of this particular experiment had shaken her. He knew something about Tarot himself-there was no area of the occult he hadn’t poked into for answers over the years. And if he’d been betting on the pulls, he wouldn’t have put money on two people drawing eight Major Arcana in a row out of a deck.

He fixed her drink, switched for his next round from coffee to water. When he went outside again, she stood at the rail looking out toward the woods.

“I reshuffled, recut. And I drew eight cards at random. Only two were Major Arcana, but oddly enough they were the Devil and Death again.” When she turned he noted she’d settled herself. “Interesting, isn’t it? You and I together pull the most powerful and pointed cards. Because we were meant to, or because we, without direct purpose, foresaw where those cards were in the fan, and instinctively chose them.”

“Why don’t we try another tool? Have you got your crystal ball in that duffel bag of yours?”

“No, and it happens to be Prada. Are you willing to try to look forward, to link our ability and see what happens?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Accepting and exploiting, hopefully, the connection. I’m better able to focus during or after meditation, but-”