Cold, dusty daylight shines through old glass, illuminating a forbidden transaction while a black SUV speeds away to hide until called.
A man and woman face each other, silent for a moment before he makes his usual opener: "You look good."
Awkward paranoia dictates their movements as armies of scents battle for dominance of the cluttered new-age stoner storefront. Patchouli, burning esfand, and the smell of second-hand books hold Old Spice and flop sweat at bay, but only just. Their conversation is the same as always: Opsec small talk on one side, sighs and rolled eyes on the other.
A small brass mesh Faraday cage sits on a faded beige Formica countertop, wedged between a vintage mechanical cash register and a cardboard display promoting functional mushroom "vaccination protocol" edibles. The AI retouched visage of a disgraced celebrity doctor in bland blue scrubs grins manically above day-glo orange text: "Removes all trace of woke mRNA, or your money back! Now FDA approved!"
Nodding, the man pulls out an iPhone and deposits it in the metallic box. A knowing look passes between them briefly; he shrugs, and she raises an eyebrow. It was the same gesture he gave her, she recalls, when she caught him trying to post gold bullion from Baghdad back to his mother, stateside, after the fall of Saddam. Their shared love of hoarding forbidden objects stopped her from reporting him then, just as it locks them into keeping each other's secrets now, so many years later.
Striding towards the back room, he flicks an imitation tiger-eye bead curtain aside and grins back over his shoulder at her. As she follows, she can see that his expensive suit can't hide the stoop of age or that he moves a little slower. But his rampantly credulous egotism, unlike his physique, seems immune to the passage of time.
He sits at the table, waits as she fills her incense burner with more esfand, and applies a jet lighter until it starts to crackle. As the harmala seeds pop, she wafts the smoke around her head before sitting opposite him.
Both of them know that nothing more needs to be said. She slides the cards across to him. He knows the drill; closes his eyes and holds the deck for a moment, shuffles, cuts it and passes it back to her. The cards make the faintest sound as she lays out a Celtic Cross, his favorite tarot spread.
Flick.
The washed-out madness of the Thoth-Crowley tarot, dull against a deep navy blue Javanese batik tablecloth, stares up at them from the first card.
Flick, flick, flick, crack, flick. The sound of the cards is broken only once by a solitary seed popping in the incense burner. She covers the primary card and rapidly lays out the cross before drawing four cards for the side column. She stares at the spread for a moment. Usually, she would take longer, but the meaning seems obvious enough, and she has no desire to deal with his impatience.
"So, here is what we have: Completion is crossed by Truce, symbolizing your achievement of some project, but compromise or peace forms a barrier to this. The recent past is dominated by Deception, but the root of the situation is redemption through sacrifice, as represented by the Hanged Man. In the near future Swiftness indicates you may need to take decisive action. At the top, The Sun could mean potential glory and acclaim, but you need to be careful - the same light that can illuminate and sustain can also blind and burn."
She gestures at the column of cards on her right, not wanting to leave a pause he can jump into. "Here, your recent experience in this is of frustration." He nods enthusiastically, and she continues. "You've been influenced by acquiring riches and, as usual, hope for even more Wealth. Finally, The Two of Wands, Dominion, indicates the most likely outcome is that you'll act with boldness or courage."
Looking up from the cards, she locks eyes with him and asks, "Does this answer your question?"
He nods and moves to retrieve his phone, holding the cracked screen up to his pale face to unlock it as he walks. The shop door bangs shut behind him, dulling but unable to block out his clipped upper-Midwestern tenor. "Eric, come get me."
The tarot reader stares at the cards as she wonders: What was he asking about this time? Probably 'Will Bitcoin fall if I hit on my hot cousin?' or whatever inane bullshit he's on this week. Either way, that's this month's rent.
Standing on a sidewalk edged by dying grass, the man booms into his phone: "This is Pale Rider. Authenticate sierra six three niner niner. Execute Gehenna protocol, X-ray package."
His voice, slightly muffled by the intervening doors, walls, and light-worker bric-à-brac, reaches into the back of the shop.
She mentally tuts at his use of an unsanctioned device for official business. And 'Pale Rider?' Just embarrassing. Still, it sounds serious. Sounds like … Her prickle of unease blooms, first into fear, then mad panic. Her twitching hands scrabble the cards back into a neat pile, cut the deck and lay out a quick and dirty five-card spread.
Flick, flick, flick.
Failure in the present is flanked by Oppression in the past on the left and The Sun in the future on the right. Below, the root cause is The Moon screaming delusion, and above the potential is the Ten of Swords: Ruin. She stares at the Sun card, seeing, now, a rippling fiery orb in the sky spewing rays of light arrayed like a cosmic blender, so bright they shine through the zodiac like glass, while child-like angels of white-hot metal dance in celebration, seconds before humanity's verdant walled garden is transformed into a new kingdom of flame.
Fuck.
From outside, a single word punctures her focus.
"Confirm"
For an aeon-long second, her heart stops, then violently kicks into action with a thud that feels like it's bouncing off the inside of her sternum.
"What did you do?" she whispers. Louder now, "You idiot, what did you do?" She bolts for the front of the store, but before she can reach him, a slamming car door and screech of tires tells her he's gone.
The jumbled cards greet her as she wafts fragrant smoke around herself again and sits. She cannot voice the words, even to herself, to acknowledge the pointlessness of the gesture. Closing her eyes, the smell takes her back to a kitchen 40 years ago, where her mother's mother explains how to ward off the evil eye by burning special seeds. In her memory, a clock chimes, and her grandmother says, "Your mother will be here soon. Time to go." There is a sudden twisting sensation, and the recollection becomes something else; a vision, sharp-edged and vivid, heavy with immanence. The old woman's gaze is piercing, but her voice is kind. "Don't be sad, I'll see you soon."
A grating buzz from the phone in her pocket startles her awake to the smell of stale ash, but she feels no surprise as she checks the message.
BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
The tarot reader sighs and flips one last card.