A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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She laid out three cards, side by side. For a moment she studied them, then studied Connie. “Temperance. You are a good human being. You’ve made those around you happy, and you have chosen your friends wisely.”
“That’s me,” Connie said happily.
Her husband sniffed.
“Joe!”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “You’re the best human being.”
Madame Zena looked at the cards, then past Joe and Connie to Jillian.
“Madame Zena?” Joe queried, tapping the table.
Madame Zena pointed to the second card. “The Nine of Swords. There is discord in your life.”
“But there isn’t!” Connie protested.
“Maybe it’s in the future,” Joe suggested gravely.
Madame Zena shook her head. “The future is here…The World. It symbolizes…completion, rewards.”
“So everything comes out okay?” Connie said hopefully.
Madame Zena looked at her. “You must make things come out okay, because the reverse meaning here suggests that success is yet to be won, that you may be lacking in vision. You must take care to see, to see everything, beyond the physical eye, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Connie said. But the tone of her voice said “no.”
“So the cards don’t like me?” she asked in distress.
“The cards are to be used for good. They warn you. Nothing in life is free, nothing comes without a price. Except for the occasional miracle. The cards warn you that you must be firm, steadfast, loyal. You must always control your own future.”
Madame Zena wasn’t going to say more.
“Okay, me now,” Joe said.
Madame Zena looked over his head at Jillian once again. She looked troubled. “Shuffle the cards,” she told Joe.
He did, and the reader laid them out. Three cards. Past. Present. Future.
The exact same lineup as his wife.
“Hey, that’s not possible,” Joe protested.
“Shuffle them again.”
He did. They fell the same way. Madame Zena shrugged. “You know what they mean.”
“They mean you do card tricks as well as readings?” Joe suggested.
“No, young man, I do not do card tricks. You’re a good man, you’ve made good choices.”
“The best of men,” Connie said loyally, slipping her arm through her husband’s.
“You’re passing through a rough time. Only your own courage and determination will show you the way to go. They will bring you through to triumph or success.” She stared at Jillian again. “I don’t want to read your cards.”
“What!” Jillian said, astonished, and dismayed by the little chill that swept through her.
“I’m sorry, I’m tired.”
“Madame Zena, she’s been in line for nearly an hour,” Tip protested.
Joe and Connie had risen already, and Tip was ushering Jillian forward. She sat, and Madame Zena stared at her, then handed her the cards. Jillian felt as if a rush of electricity jumped into her flesh. “We are all part of our own destinies, you know,” Madame Zena said. “The soul can be very old, and the soul can learn. A good soul remains so. Sometimes there are second chances.” Madame Zena’s strange hazel eyes were hard on Jillian. “In life and in death. Energy does not die. God is great. Hand me the cards.”
Instead of the three cards, Madame Zena laid out more, creating a cross on the table before her. She had Jillian turn them over, then was silent for a long time.
“You’ve had tremendous upheaval, tragedy.”
“Of course,” Joe said. “Her husband died.”
Madame Zena asked, “Violently?”
“Cancer,” Connie supplied softly.
Madame Zena shook her head. “No, something worse, far worse. There was a lack of faith, a terrible betrayal…there was a fire.”
“Nope, no fire,” Jillian said positively.
“Yes, there was a fire,” Madame Zena insisted. “Betrayal. And the night. There was one who came and enticed and laughed and…betrayed. And there you see the Moon. Rising in Pisces…You are in danger. You have enemies.”
“Well, she’s a big shot, rich executive. Of course she has enemies,” Joe said.
“Really?” Tip asked, looking Jillian up and down all over again. “Cool,” he said. “And I just thought you were one sexy redhead.”
“Thanks,” Jillian murmured.
“Now you’ve gone and told half the world who she is,” Connie murmured.
“Enemies,” Madame Zena murmured. “Enemies.”
“I still don’t know who she is,” Tip told Joe. He gave Jillian a charming smile, and she tried to respond, but by then Madame Zena was beginning to get to her.
“Beware…”
Madame Zena’s voice was suddenly so low and husky that it seemed to reach out and touch her with fingers of ice, running along her spine, her nape.
“Beware…”
Jillian leaned forward, forcing her lips to move. “Of what?”
“Christmas…Christmastide…”
“Oh my God, this is going too far,” Joe said impatiently. “Beware of Christmas? Of what? A psychopathic Santa? Come on, Jillian…”
“Beware, take warning.”
“Jillian, come on, get up,” Joe urged, but she couldn’t seem to move.
“Witch, witch, witch, witch…” Madame Zena said.
“Which? Which what?” Jillian murmured.
“W-i-t-c-h,” Madame Zena whispered.
Dear God, but she sounded so weird and looked so spooky. Scary. Maybe it was a holiday act.
Madame Zena leaned back, gripping the table. They all stared at her blankly as she fell silent, her eyes closed. When she opened them, they had rolled up into her head until only the whites showed. “Witch,” she murmured. “Witch.” The cry grew louder. “Witch.” Louder still, and different, as if several voices were speaking through the woman. Her voice rose so high that Jillian, staring at her, horrified, was afraid that the cries would echo above the sound of the band.
“Madame Zena, stop it!” she protested.
“Witch!”
“It’s a costume, just a costume,” Jillian said.
“Come on, enough is enough,” Joe told her. He drew back the chair, gripped her elbow and pulled her to her feet.
“Too much,” Tip agreed.
“We need some air,” Connie said.
“I’m all right,” Jillian said, but they were already headed for the door.
As they neared it, it opened and a man entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a long leather coat against the autumn chill. Jillian barely noted him at first, except as someone who was blocking the door.
Then the light touched him.
He had dark hair, almost pitch in color, cropped at the