Jack’s story hung in the air like cigarette smoke, impossible to wave away. I scattered my tarot deck across the bed, the cards making a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, but I needed precision now more than ever. The King of Swords was waiting for me somewhere in that deck, and with him, perhaps, some glimmer of truth about Mark.
The walls of my apartment seemed to lean inward, as if eavesdropping on my private ritual. The yellow lamplight cast long shadows across the worn floorboards, shadows that stretched like fingers toward the corners where darkness pooled. Outside, rain tapped against the window with skeletal fingers, a rhythm that matched my quickening pulse. I’d heard disturbing stories before—my line of work guaranteed that—but Jack’s tale had wormed its way beneath my skin.
My living space had never felt smaller. Books stacked like miniature citadels, candles dripping their waxy tears onto mismatched saucers, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams like the remains of tiny gallows. A home, yes, but also a workspace where the veil between worlds thinned to gossamer. Tonight, that veil felt particularly fragile.
“Come on,” I whispered to the cards, my voice a thread of sound in the quiet room. “Talk to me.”
I shuffled the deck with practiced movements, the worn edges soft against my fingertips. These cards and I had history; they’d been with me through revelations and disappointments, through nights of clarity and mornings of confusion. The backs were faded blue, scarred with time and handling. I cut the deck once, twice, three times, letting my intuition guide the motions.
The first card I turned: The King of Swords.
His face looked up at me with cold authority, the sword in his hand gleaming even in the dim light. A figure of intellect, of truth-seeking, of cutting through deception. I frowned and shuffled again, more aggressively this time.
Second draw: The King of Swords again.
My breath caught. Coincidence was rare in my world. I gathered the cards, shuffled thoroughly, my fingers working quickly, almost angrily. The cardboard warmed beneath my touch, familiar and strange all at once.
Third draw: The King of Swords.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I splayed the entire deck across the table, turning each card face up with quick, irritated flicks. Cards scattered, some sliding onto the floor. The Moon, The Tower, The Hanged Man—familiar faces all—but my eyes caught on the King of Swords, staring up with judgmental expression.
I ran my hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face where it had fallen in limp strands. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, marking time as it slipped away, carrying Mark further from reach with each passing second.
“What do you know of Mark?” I demanded, addressing the empty air. The cards remained mute, their imagery suddenly childish, meaningless. “It would be helpful if my spiritual family would answer my questions, but they always decide to remain silent when it’s most important.”
My voice echoed off the walls, coming back to me smaller, emptier. The spirits that usually crowded around me, whispering secrets and warnings, had gone quiet. Their absence felt deliberate, a pointed silence that prickled my skin.
“Fine,” I said, sweeping the cards into a messy pile. “I’ll figure it out myself. I always do.”
The air shifted then, a subtle change in pressure that made my ears pop. A cold spot bloomed beside me, the temperature dropping so rapidly that my next breath came out as a cloud of vapor.
“Talking to yourself again, Rahel?”
I didn’t turn. I knew that voice, its particular timbre that wasn’t quite human, the way it seemed to enter my mind directly rather than passing through my ears.
“Mister B.,” I acknowledged, my tone deliberately neutral. “Decided to join the conversation at last?”
He moved into my peripheral vision, his form more suggestion than substance. I could feel his presence, the weight of his attention.
“You seem frustrated,” he observed. A chill traced my spine, his proximity marked by a drop in temperature.
“Brilliant deduction.” I gathered the tarot cards with quick, efficient movements, stacking them neatly. „I talked to a man named Jack at the bus stop earlier. Told me about some poker player who vanished six months ago. Mark Stevens.”
“And now you’re pulling cards.” It wasn’t a question. Mister B. never asked questions he already knew the answers to.
“The King of Swords keeps showing up.” I tapped the deck against the table, aligning the edges. “Three times in a row. But nothing else. No context, no direction, just this…” I flipped the top card. The King of Swords stared back, unmoved by my frustration.
“Perhaps,” Mister B. said, his voice like the rustle of autumn leaves, “the message isn’t in the card, but in your reaction to it.”
I snorted. “That’s helpful.”
“It could be.” The shadow that was Mister B. shifted, a darkness moving within darkness. “Some things, Rahel, you have to find out on your own.”
I waited for more, for the twist, for the cryptic advice to transform into something useful. But he remained silent.
“That’s it?” I finally asked. “Some fortune cookie wisdom and then nothing?”
“The road you have to travel to get the information you want,” he continued, ignoring my sarcasm, “is an important part of your journey.”
I slapped the deck down. “I don’t need a journey. I need answers. Mark Stevens disappeared after winning big at a high-stakes poker game. The police investigation went nowhere. Jack thinks there’s more to it, and…” I hesitated, unwilling to admit how deeply Jack’s story had disturbed me.
“And you felt something when Jack told you,” Mister B. finished for me. “A tugging in your gut. The same feeling you get before a storm breaks.”
I nodded reluctantly. “Something bad happened to Mark. Something that left a stain.”
“Then follow that feeling. The cards can only tell you what you already know, Rahel. They’re mirrors, not windows.”
I considered his words, turning them over like smooth stones in my mind. “The King of Swords,” I said slowly. “Truth. Logic. Intellect. Maybe…” I trailed off, a pattern emerging in my thoughts.
“Maybe?” Mister B. prompted.
“Maybe I need to approach this methodically. No spirits, no cards. Just old-fashioned detective work.” The idea felt right, settling into place with a satisfying click. “Start with where Mark was last seen. Talk to people who knew him.”
The air warmed slightly as Mister B. drifted back, giving me space. “Now you’re thinking like the King of Swords.”
I rubbed my eyes, suddenly tired. “I’ll start tomorrow. Lucky's Bar. That’s where Jack said Mark played his last game.”
“And so the journey begins,” Mister B. said, his voice already fading.
“It’s not a journey,” I insisted to the emptying air. “It’s an investigation.”
But Mister B. was gone, the room returning to its normal temperature. I was alone with my cards and my thoughts, and the lingering unease that Jack’s story had planted in me. I gathered the tarot deck and wrapped it in its silk cloth, tucking it into a drawer.
The King of Swords. A man of intellect and authority. A truth-seeker.
Tomorrow I would become him, cutting through mysteries with the sharp edge of inquiry. If the spirits wouldn’t help me, I’d help myself.
I just hoped I was prepared for whatever truths I might uncover.
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