The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [167]
A year later, when his uncle finally found what had become of his dead wife’s clothes, he threw Martin out on the street. It was the best favor anyone had ever done for Martin in his life.
It’s clear you’re suffering from depression, low self-worth, and a lack of identity, the slack-eyed counselor at the youth center had told him, staring dully at his tight jeans, tube top, and feather boa. That’s why you’re creating a new persona for yourself.
But the counselor was wrong. Sister Marjoram wasn’t the persona. Martin J. Morris was. For sixteen years he hadn’t had the slightest clue who he was, had gazed at the skinny boy in the mirror with the uneasy eyes of a stranger. Then, that day, he had finally found what he hadn’t even known he was looking for in a pair of high heels and a Chanel handbag. He had found himself.
And she wasn’t Martin anymore. She was something different, something marvelous, and—for all the falseness, for all the feathers and sequins, the depilatory cremes, collagen injections, and silicone—something that was utterly true.
She was Sister Marjoram, the Spice of Life.
And, at the moment, she was more than a little confused.
“What is going on here, girl?”
Marji knew she was psychic, just like she knew she looked sensational in lavender chenille while it made Chi-Chi Buffet look like Miss Piggy. A dozen times more in her life she had seen things in the mirror, like the day she saw her aunt die, or the day she saw herself opening Marji’s House of Mystery, and each of the visions had come true. But today her talent seemed to have fled her. There were so many clear images, but nothing quite fit together, like a broken mirror she couldn’t fix.
She lifted her finger from the card of the Devil. That evil was real and dangerous, but it was distant, surrounded by cards that bespoke traveling, the past, and dreams. She moved her finger to a card in the outer circle. The Knight of Swords, reversed. A powerful man, but his power had been stolen. Only who was it? Next to the card was the Magician. That was him—the delicious bald boy. Travis.
She sighed. “You would have done a few personal favors for him, election or no, wouldn’t you, girl?”
A heat rose in her, then cooled to chill dampness. It wasn’t just desire. It was darker, stranger, and so much more compelling. She had known it the second she had seen him: that she loved him and could never have him.
“You can’t always get what you want, Marji, you know that. That’s what wine and credit cards are for.”
But if she couldn’t have him, who would?
The Knight of Swords. It had to be—the position made it clear. And hadn’t they said there was a man they were trying to rescue? But there, on the other side of the Magician, was another court card, the Queen of Swords. So who was it who loved him, then? The Knight or the Queen? Then she knew.
“They both do, girl. Lord above, they both do.”
But if the prisoner was the Knight, who was the Queen?
An image flashed through her mind: golden eyes, gazing at another deeply when it seemed no one else had been looking. No one but Marji.
She nodded. Mystery solved. Marji clucked her tongue. “You’re going to be one busy boy, Mr. Travis.”
She smiled, and the expression was one of sorrow as well as gladness. It hurt to let something so precious slip through her fingers. And it healed to know there were others who needed it more than she did.
“It’s your own fault for being so damn together, Marji. But thanks for the kiss, honey. I’ll lock it in my heart for always.”
Now she was getting weepy. Not a good idea when you wore so much mascara. Marji forced her tears back and picked up the deck of cards. She was due for a reading herself, and maybe it would help take her mind off things. She shuffled until she felt the spark that let her know it was right, then turned the first card.
A grinning skull stared up at her from the black hood of a reaper’s robe.
Marji went rigid.
It’s just a symbol, girl. Change, the end of a cycle, that’s all it means.
That’s what the books