Page 33 of Cuervo's Carnival
Both our mouths agape at the scene in front of us.
Piles of ash surround a weathered wagon. Soot covers everything. Even the air reeks of fire, but it’s evident from the scene in front of us that this happened long ago.
“What the fuck happened here?” Cillian asks as we walk past a pile of ash.
My gut churns, because whatever happened here, as tragic as it appears, is not what is scaring me. What frightens me more than the scene in front of us is the way that our wicked girl looks at home amongst the wreckage.
15
Lola
Now seated,studying the veiled woman who sits before me, I can’t seem to formulate the words to speak. I want to ask her how she knows my name, but just from how my body responded when I first saw the wagon—frozen in place—is how it is acting now.
So, instead, I sit across from her in shivering silence and watch her twist her wrist upward, snapping her fingers. She does this twice before settling her long fingertips to her mouth to whistle. “Come out,” she calls.
I watch as the curtain she stepped out from just moments before now moves. My heart sinks when the first thing I see is the elongated plume of a raven swooping in front of me before perching itself on her shoulder.
The realization slaps me in the face that the raven led me here. I should be relieved that I was right, that I am not going crazy, but something about how the woman looks at me—even through her veil—feels off.
“Now that you found me, I assume you would like a reading.”
Hesitating, I eye the raven, who hasn’t blinked since it settled itself on the woman’s shoulder.
“You have tarot cards?” I ask.
She lets out a drawn-out chuckle. “Something like that,” she says, fixing her gaze past me. “Looks like we have company.” She nods in the direction of the door.
I twist in my chair, hearing the heavy breaths of Pax and Cillian running toward the wagon.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” the woman says in a loud, demanding tone as if she is trying to redirect my attention away from them. “We don’t have much time,” she adds.
I turn back around, facing her as she nudges the raven with her cheek. “Go fetch,” she commands it. “Quickly.”
With my gaze ahead on the raven, who is retrieving whatever she asked it to get, I can see from the corner of my peripheral vision the guys approaching the wagon. It shakes and sways with their collective footsteps as they enter. Through their heaved breaths, I notice they share the same look of hesitancy on both their faces.
“Sit,” I say. “She is going to do a reading for us.” I motion for them to join where I am sitting.
Even though Cillian hates tarot readings and Paxton doesn’t believe in them, they usually humor them for me. Expecting them to oblige, they pause, looking at each other as if they need one another’s approval on how to proceed.
“Pax, Cil, c’mon, don’t be rude,” I say through a forced smile, bulging my eyes at them.
Sadness rakes over their expressions as they glance at each other once more before walking over to the table.
I face forward in the chair and smile at the woman sitting across from me, stroking her raven, who has joined her again.
“It’s okay, Lola; people fear what they cannot understand,” she says.
The floorboards wince at the combined weight of their stride as they slowly walk to where I am seated. The wagon is small. There can’t be more than a few feet between the Dutch-style door at the entrance to the round table I wait for them at, but their footsteps feel like they take an eternity to reach me.
Waiting for them to join me, I stare ahead at the woman, who I assume is Madame Eronel, from the sign outside. Her gaze has not faltered from mine. Even with the delicate black veil that drapes over her face, the gleam of her amber eyes feels like it is searing through the fabric as she sits in observant silence.
Finally, the scent of their woodsy musk reaches my nostrils as Pax and Cillian near the table. Expecting them to sit, I go to shift forward in my chair, but before I can complete the movement, their hands stop me.
Why aren’t they sitting down?I think to myself, as each of them grabs one of my shoulders, pressing my back firmly against the wooden lattice of the high-back chair.
Their touch feels like a death grip on my skin, teetering between protective and petrified. I tilt my head to the right and see Cillian’s black polish. His hand feels clammy against my cold skin. Tiny beads of sweat gather between where his palm rests on my skin and my exposed shoulder, though his perspiration feels like icicles on my flesh.
My gaze travels past where he grips me and down to my arm. Even with the sea of vibrant tattoos that cover it, my prickled skin becomes more pronounced as the cold takes over, consuming my body in painful goosebumps.
