In an overly dramatic way, and with a poor French accent, she says, “Welcome to Madame Beaulieu’s. How can I help you?”
She’s gypsy-like with a colorful dress, a beaded shawl over her shoulders, and rings on every one of her fingers. Her hair is a dark ash-blonde, but it’s clearly graying. It’s somewhere between wavy and frizzy, and she wears it to her shoulders. A strand of dark faceted beads lays around the circumference of her head, in the center of which dangles a set of three beads down her forehead, stopping right between her eyebrows.
Her attention flicks between Carrick and me, her smile wide.
“I hear you can foresee the future,” Carrick finally says, and I jerk slightly upon hearing this.
I study the woman again—Madame Beaulieu—and she’s clearly a fraud, setting up some tacky fortune-teller shop in a strip mall.
“But of course,” she replies with a low bow and sweep of her hand toward the beaded curtain she’d just come through. “If you’ll follow me.”
She disappears through the fall of beads, which clack against each other in her wake. Reluctantly, I follow as I’m closer. Yet, Carrick grabs my upper arm to halt me, putting me behind him.
He shoots me a look that clearly says, “Be wary,” and follows the weird woman through. I proceed after him into the darkness.
As soon as we’re through the curtain, we find ourselves in a short hall, and down on the left is another open doorway with a soft glow emanating. I follow Carrick there and when we enter, we find a smaller room decorated much like the lobby. Swaths of silk hanging from corners, floor lamps providing the only light, and a round table covered in purple, shimmery cloth. There are only two chairs and in the center of the table is a large crystal ball that sits on a bronzed pedestal.
I glance at Carrick, one eyebrow cocked in skepticism.
“Now, who wants their fortune told?” she asks, looking between the two of us.
Carrick gives me a slight push to my back, and I move toward the chair closest to me. Madame Beaulieu moves to the other side, picking up her skirts to settle into her chair.
I sit on the edge, nervously brushing locks of hair back behind my shoulders and placing my hands in my lap. My spine feels like it’s been locked into place. Carrick moves over to a wall and crosses his arms over his chest, watching like a hawk.
The fortune-teller stares at me over the ball. “My fee is two hundred dollars.”
I throw a thumb Carrick’s way. “He’s paying.”
Madame Beaulieu looks to him expectantly, to which Carrick growls. “You’ll get paid when she gets her fortune.”
“Of course.” She smiles solicitously, then repeats it again as if she truly understands how this is going to work. “Of course.”
Turning to me, she holds her hands out, palms up.
“Your hands,” she commands.
I put mine against hers, palm down. I’ve been getting no dark vibe or buzzy feeling from her, but I go ahead and stare at her hard, wondering if she’s fae or daemon with an ability to conceal her nature from me.
I get absolutely nothing.
The woman grips hard to my hands, bending to stare intently at the ball before us. I see nothing but my face in the reflection, all warped by the thick, round glass.
Madame starts a slight sway back and forth, chanting something unintelligible. She frowns, peers harder into the ball, and then gasps. After more chanting, her head falls back, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She starts shaking and I’m so freaked I try to pull my hands away, but she grips even tighter.
And just as I think the woman might be having a seizure or dying, her head snaps upright—black dangling beads on her forehead swaying—and her eyes lock onto mine. In that overly exaggerated tone of mystic wonder and that badly done French accent, Madame says, “My dear… I’ve seen your future, and it is bright, indeed. I see you on a new career path—possibly in the arts, but maybe in law enforcement. I got flashes of a man. Tall, dark, and good looking with children running around him. There’s a beautiful house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific and I can feel your happiness, which will grow infinite over the years. To be well on this path, you must—”
“Enough,” Carrick roars, and both Madame and I jump, hands flying apart. “Enough of this fucking horse shit. We came for a prophecy, not some made-up story.”
Madame pulls herself up in her chair, spine stiff and appearing terribly affronted. “I assure you, sir, my skills have never been questioned.”
“I’m questioning them,” he says menacingly as he advances on the table. “My brother, Lucien, said—”
“Lucien,” Madame exclaims, a bright smile taking over her face again. “Why didn’t you say so?”