Page 3 of Veil of Dust

It burns a little going down and spreads warmth across my chest.

Doesn’t really help.

I walk to the window and pop the latch. The storm isn’t here yet, but it’s close. The sky looks swollen and greenish. I can smell it: ozone, dirt, and that sour smell that shows up just before everything breaks loose.

I plant both hands on the windowsill and stare out.

Nothing’s moving.

But I know better.

The city’s not asleep.

It’s watching, just like the cards did.

Just like the smoke did.

Just like he did.

The wind slams through the door like it’s got something to say: thick, humid, angry. It rushes in hard enough to rattle the walls. One of the candles flickers, then goes out with a hiss, like even it knows it shouldn’t stay lit.

Then, he walks in.

I don’t know his name yet, but the cards do.

My stomach tightens.

The deck under my hand feels alive, like it has its own pulse.

He moves like he owns the space. Tall. Still. The kind of still that shifts everything around him. His coat’s dark and heavy, wet at the shoulders. It’s not raining yet, but the storm’s right behind him.

He stops just inside the doorway. The wind eases off, like it’s waiting to see what he’ll do.

His eyes sweep the room: calm, cold, measuring. Then, they find me—and stay there.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a practiced kind of smile, the kind you use when you want something.

My bar doesn’t belong to anyone. Not regulars. Not strangers. But something about the space feels different now…smaller. Off. Like it’s reacting to him before I can.

“Nice place,” he says. His voice is smooth, confident. Like he knows I’ll listen before I decide to. “We need to talk.”

I stand still.

My hand tightens around the tarot pouch.

It’s still warm.

The reading hasn’t faded.

Who are you?

No. That’s not the question.

I already know what he is. Not his name. Not his background. Just what he means.

The Devil.

Not the one from the deck.

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