We headed back in through the front door, the small chime announcing our arrival, and again, Annie met us. Her eyes were wide. “You went out through a different door?”

I shrugged and tried to answer around the stitch in my side. I pointed at my cheeks and the sweat dripping down. “You see my face? You see the sweat and the redness?”

There was no answering smile on her face, no female understanding in that moment. Maybe she floated up and down the stairs. Maybe she never had to do them.

Annie pointed at the stool with a gesture that would have made Vanna White jealous. “Sit, we will pull your card.”

Sarge gave a gentle shove to the small of my back when I hesitated, which made my shirt stick to my skin. I grimaced and pulled it loose. “I’m going. Don’t be so pushy.”

I lowered myself onto the stool that was on one side of a small square table made of wooden planks. The smell of saltwater and old rot rose off it, and I made myself put both hands flat on the surface. There was nothing on the table except a small incense cup, not yet lit.

Annie sat across from me in a far more comfortable chair, then lit the incense with a single match. The smell of sage floated around us on a literal curl of smoke. She reached for a deck of cards and handed them directly to me. “You done this before, darling?”

I took the deck in my right hand and shuffled the cards slowly. “Not for a long time.”

The last person to read my cards had been my gran, just before I left Savannah. She’d told me that Himself was going to be the death of me, not in the literal sense, necessarily, but in every other way. She’d been right, the cards had been right. I’d let so much of myself die in that marriage for the sake of keeping the peace, for trying for a child that was not meant to be.

Yet another reason I’d run home to Savannah.

I sighed and closed my eyes as I shuffled, waiting for that one card to reach out to me. That’s what Gran had always said, that one card would just feel different and that was the one you needed.

My hand brushed over a card that stuck to the tip of my index finger. I slid it out, face down, and pushed it across the table to her.

“That was impressive,” she said softly.

I shrugged. “Like I said, not my first time.”

“That’s what she said,” Sarge mumbled. I shot him a look and realized Annie had done the same thing.

He clamped his mouth shut around his sucker, and those big shoulders shrunk an inch or two. If he’d had a tail in this form, I suspect it would have been tucked between his legs. The more I interacted with him, the surer I was that he was not some ancient wolf in a young man’s body.

He was just too much of an idiot to be anything but a young man.

I don’t think it was my glare that had chastened him, though—it was Annie’s.

I put the rest of the deck face down on the table and waited for her to give me the card and tell me what it meant for me.

She slowly turned it over, and I found myself staring at a dragon’s head. Though that wasn’t quite right, the dragon’s head was in fact a skull. The colors were blues and greens, and the card was obviously hand-painted. An original if I ever saw one. The number thirteen was etched into the top corner. I reached out and slid a finger over it. “You did this? It’s beautiful.”

“The card, yes.” Her tone tugged my eyes to her face, which was quite pale.

I looked back at the card, really looked at it, and then I grimaced. “Damn it, not again.”

The Death card looked back at me. People usually freaked out when they got it, but it rarely meant that someone was going to actually die. It usually meant something in life was going to change. In my opinion, that was a big enough deal on its own.

“Again?” She leaned forward. “How often do you pull the Death card?”

I leaned in, too, and pulled a grimace, hiding it from Sarge with one hand. “More often than I care to share.”

You would think her already pale face couldn’t get any paler, but you’d be wrong. “This card is not just any death card, honey. It is . . . death is coming for you in a way that I can’t understand. It is going to be all around you, and you are somehow the balance between life and death. Not a good place to be for someone so new to the shadow world.” She slid the card across to me. “Take it with you. To remind you to be careful.”

I picked up the card and stood. “Thanks.”

She crossed herself, then lit a stick of sage on fire and smudged the air around me as I stood waiting for her to be done. Sarge leaned forward. “What card did you get?”

I already had the dragon death card tucked into my pocket. “You didn’t see it? How could you not see it?” And wouldn’t his wolf ears have heard every word we said?

“She puts a block on anyone trying to peek.” He grinned. “What did you get?”

“Never mind.” I pushed past him and headed down the stairs. Once more out in the hustle of the pre-tourist season, we made our way over to his bike. Just like he’d promised, my bag was still there.

I thought about the card in my pocket from Bob-John, and the weapons dealer that I was pretty sure Sarge wouldn’t take me to. And I thought about going to see Hattie, my gran’s best friend. That tugged at me more than anything else. That old lady was like a second grandmother to me.

But I couldn’t do either of those things unless I ditched Sarge.

Which meant I needed a surefire way to get him to leave me on my own. Himself had always been totally freaked out by anything related to “woman’s time.” I was banking that Sarge would feel the same way. Especially if he was as young as he looked.

I made a face. “Look, I have to pick up some pads and tampons. That time of the month is coming, and I’m totally starting to feel the cramps, like right here.” I pointed at my lower abdomen. “Do you mind leaving me here? I can walk back to Corb’s place. And the bag isn’t heavy.”

The bike started before I was finished speaking, and Sarge was backing away, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Yeah, no problem. Just be at Corb’s by five-thirty.”

The engine grumbled as he revved it and did a tight turn into the slow-moving traffic before I could even wave goodbye. Leaving me to find trouble all on my own.

Just as I liked it.

9

First, I headed for Hattie’s place. Her home was between the riverfront and Corb’s loft. I was there in under five minutes, and as I stood at her front gate, I wondered how she’d made it this long without being stuffed into an old folks’ home. Only a couple of years younger than Gran, Hattie would be entering the triple age digits soon, and she still lived alone. Her home hadn’t been in great shape the last time I’d seen it, and twenty-plus years hadn’t much improved it.

Suddenly, I was glad I hadn’t come here first to stay with her. I wasn’t sure I would have lasted the night.

The pale blue paint peeled off most of the siding, chunks of it scattering the ground here and there, attached to splinters of wood. How she and the house had survived the last few years of flooding and hurricanes that came off the Atlantic was beyond me. Unlike Gran’s three-story brick house, Hattie’s was small, one story, and had only a few windows. Two of which were boarded up.

I went up and knocked on the door. “Hattie, it’s me, Breena.”

There was a shuffle and a creak, and the door slowly opened to reveal my gran’s BFF.

Hattie Estella Creston-Marteau was not much taller than my gran had been, barely coming up to my chin. She had a perfect puff of white hair that distinctly reminded me of a Q-tip. I smiled and resisted the urge to pat her on the top of the head. I’d done it once and she’d ignored me for a month.

Not a good thing when she was one of the best bakers in town. “Breena?”

“Hey, I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop in for a visit.”

Her smile cut through the years and she laughed as she tugged me inside. “Oh, my girl! What are you doing here? Are you visiting long? Or finally come to pay respects to Celia?”

I followed her into the house and tried not to wrinkle my nose in horror. The messiness didn’t faze me—the place had always been messy—but the smell was making my eyes water. The sharp tang of saltwater and something fishy that was brutally strong. Like the smell of burning oil, it clung to the inside of my nose. “Hattie, what is that?”

“Oh, I’m doing some canning. Fish.” She pointed at the kitchen and indeed I could hear the bubbling of water.

I grimaced, but followed her to her “sunroom,” which was really just a space off the side of the house where she’d put one of those cheap tents up as a roof. Another person waited for us there. My stomach clenched and I had to fight not to grimace through my words.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had company. I can come back.”

“No, darling girl, you stay. Missy here was just leaving anyhoo.” Hattie made a shooing motion to Missy. Not quite as aged as Hattie, Missy was the third in Gran’s trio of friends.

I put a hand to my butt cheek involuntarily. The fierce old lady had smacked me more than once with the sharp walking stick she carried around but didn’t actually need—always when Gran wasn’t looking, never hard enough to leave any evidence.

My eyes narrowed as I forced a smile to my tight mouth. “Missy. How lovely to see you on this side of the grave. I’m surprised.” That someone hadn’t killed her yet.

Missy returned the look in spades. Her hair hadn’t gone a solid silver, like Gran’s, or a perfect white, like Hattie’s. No, Missy’s hair was streaked, and the jet-black strands that made up most of it were still as dark as ever. Her eyes were a light brown that I’d always had trouble reading. “Funny,” she drawled, “I was thinking the same thing. Living in the big city must be mighty dangerous. Surprised a mite like you could make it out alive.”

“Now, girls, be kind. Celia would want you to be kind,” Hattie whispered.