Page 1 of Veil of Dust

Prologue – Vespera

I sit alone at the usual table. The crack running through the center splits the wood like it was dropped once and never fixed right. The surface is rough, the varnish worn off. Stains soak through the grain—wine, blood, maybe coffee or grease from someone’s hands. I never cover it up. It doesn’t bother me.

The tarot deck sits in front of me, laid out in a curve. The cards catch a little of the flickering overhead light. My rings reflect dull flashes when I shift, the little markings on them catching in the dark. There’s a warmth under my skin that shows up sometimes—like a stirring I can’t quite name. Aunt Sylvie used to call it “the stir.” The cards don’t usually react unless they’re ready. Tonight, though, they feel unsettled. Like something’s pushing from underneath.

Sweat gathers behind my knees and along my spine. The candles are burning down, wax spilling and hardening into random shapes. The incense curls out from a metal dish that’s gone dark with use. At first, the smell is okay—sweet, even. Then it shifts. Licorice, floral notes, something faintly sour beneath it. Sylvie used the same blend. I didn’t change it.

The jukebox wheezes out jazz from the corner: Leon’s track, “Drown in Blue.” The sax drags across the notes like it’s tired of playing them. I’ve heard this one so many times it’s worn into my memory. But tonight it grates. Every off-key dip scratches at my nerves.

I move my hand toward the deck.

Outside, the Quarter is pretending to sleep. No footsteps. No voices. Just the occasional creak of a window shifting in itsframe. The streetlight across the alley flickers, dims, then flares again like it can’t make up its mind. The river’s humming under it all. Heavy. It’s always loud at night, even when you think it’s quiet. This city waits for silence to tell you what you don’t want to hear.

I learned to protect myself long before I opened these doors—years of krav maga classes under the French Quarter lights, sparring in alleyways when kindness wasn’t an option.

I run my fingertips across the top row of cards. A jolt hits—tiny, like touching a doorknob after walking on carpet.

First draw.

The card sticks a little before coming loose. The edges are worn down. I flip it over.

The Tower.

Lightning strikes through a building, and bricks fall, sending smoke everywhere. A crown is knocked off the top. It’s a card about things breaking, fast and without warning.

I stop breathing for a second.

My pulse jumps.

Second draw.

This one comes out easier, like it wants to be seen.

The Devil.

A man stands in the dark, partly hidden. Chains hang off him. He’s smiling, not with his mouth, but the kind of smile that settles into your stomach wrong. You don’t get stuck because of him. You stay because you’re scared to leave.

I feel sweat gathering on my palms. I rub them against my jeans.

Third draw.

This card almost slides out on its own.

The Lovers.

Two people, close together. A blade goes through both of them, then blood. And still—they’re holding on.

My throat tightens. It’s not sadness; it’s recognition. These aren’t just symbols.

They’re real.

The image flashes up without warning.

The alley. Wet stone, not from rain. Leon’s body twisted on the ground, his shirt soaked. Blood running toward the drain like it had somewhere to be. I didn’t move. Not because I didn’t know how to help, but because I already knew it wouldn’t matter. The cards showed me the same ones days ago. I assumed they meant something else. I tried to be clever about it.

I wasn’t.

My eyes stay locked on the Lovers card. The blade still looks sharp, fresh.

---