THE READING

1. THE CLIENT

You will not thank me when I tell you that your destiny is not silver-scribed in points of gleaming starlight, but instead etched scarlet in the cold voids beyond.

Inside one such abyss, the Dark Tarots were fashioned from the ubiquitous grime of dark matter. Soaked in the feral blood of ancient gods and their grim malevolence. Veined rectangles, razor edged. Infernal cartography of the hidden paths that in your case, no doubt, will reveal a disquieting future.

So now you have selected five cards.

The Black Anvil - An executioner's block.

The Electric Noose - An assassin's toy.

Ten Wicked Things - A demon's commandments.

The Crimson Spider - An accursed constellation.

And at last, a good card.

Death - A grudging mercy.

This combination is as dangerous as it is macabre. Now if it is pain that you seek, then a grim success surely awaits. Truth decrees that no salvation can be found in suffering, only more suffering. The cards that you have chosen, like the gun in your belt, are not subtle destructions, but brutal extermination.

I see the sleek and sinister strands that wait to ensnare you and I see you, mortal-pale and alone. However, it is not the worst quintet I have ever seen. Certain designs are mercifully absent. Even those chosen are not death-drenched nor plague-ravaged. An encouraging sign, I concede, though much like a single tumbling spark in a hurricane.

Still, no Boneaxe to split you asunder before a step is taken. No Crooked Fingers to pinch and twist your mind into unreasoning spirals. The Wells of Torment will not sing you a crushing lullaby. Even the Red Serpent is missing, which once might have spat its venom at you through the crevices of Time.

Now then, our time is exhausted, You must go. My Seeing Smoke dissolves. Real air rushes in. My reading must not linger or its vestiges may corrode. Move on. Quickly now. There will be no charge for my remarks. It is the last kindness you will know.

He did indeed move along sharply. Out of the musty room. Away from the old house, the empty street and apparently a final benevolence. An evening mist thinned and thickened as he pushed on whilst only vague stars hinted at a rich night sky scarred by a crescent moon. He thought of the Crimson Spider and shivered. Then he moved on, keen to avoid surveillance or pursuit. A shrill scream from somewhere in the deepening fog stirred him to further haste.

A few streetlights flickered as he passed while even the drains seemed to hiss plumed warnings into the cool air. No other people were visible. Traffic was a distant hum. Darkness presided. The quiet was broken by his heartbeat which was a wild tattoo conducting blue lightning behind his eyes. Unwillingly, he thought of anvil blocks and an electric noose though of the Ten Wicked Things, he could only conceive of four. He was grateful for his lack of imagination though his nerves jangled at even these poor images. Keep going, he thought. Whichever way was away.

The man hurried towards the lights and sounds of city life up ahead. More in flight from hideous things, he admitted, but civilisation, though overrated, had the appeal of the real. He dug deep into his pockets for money only to find his chosen Tarots nestling there, loathsome and warm to the touch. He shivered and left them where they were.

Their designs, however, were etched upon his eyes. The horror, a bad taste. Curled fingers felt corrupted following a further tentative touch. Something in the back of his sinuses smelled like burning while a strange song ground his eardrums with abrasive notes. No sense was spared. He unconsciously brandished his gun and monstrous things subsided.