Ceremony in Death (In Death #5)(10)

Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soy-dogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.

Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.

The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.

She would have hated to live there.

“We’re early,” she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. “Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They’re open.” On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. “You game?”

“You want your palm read?”

“What the hell.” She grabbed his hand. “It’ll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they’ll cut us a deal and do yours for half price.”

“No.”

“You never know unless you ask.”

“I’m not having mine read.”

“Coward,” she muttered and tugged him through the door.

“I prefer the word careful.”

She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was a light fragrance of spice and flowers that meshed perfectly with the airy music.

Small white tables and chairs were arranged at a nice distance from the display counter where bowls and plates of colorful food were presented behind sparkling glass. Two customers sat together over bowls of clear soup. Both of them sported flowing white robes, jeweled sandals, and shaved heads.

Behind the counter was a man with silver rings on every finger. He wore a wide-sleeved shirt in quiet blue. His blonde hair was neatly braided and twined with silver cord. He smiled in welcome.

“Blessed be. Do you wish food for the body or for the soul?”

“I thought you were supposed to know.” Eve grinned at him. “How about a reading?”

“Palm, Tarot, runes, or aura?”

“Palm.” Enjoying herself, Eve stuck her hand out.

“Cassandra is our palmist. If you’d take a comfortable seat, she’ll be happy to help you. Sister,” he added as she started to turn, “your auras are very strong, vibrant. You are well-matched.” With this, he picked up a wooden stick with a rounded edge and ran it gently over the rim of a white frosted bowl.

Even as the vibration sang, a woman stepped through the beaded curtain separating a back room. She wore a silver tunic with a silver bracelet coiled above her elbow. Eve noted that she was very young, barely twenty, and like the man, her hair was blonde and coiled into a braid.

“Welcome.” Her voice held a hint of Ireland. “Please be comfortable. Would you both like a reading?”

“No, just me.” Eve took a seat at a far table. “What’s it run?”

“The reading is free. We request a donation, only.” She sat gracefully, smiled at Roarke. “Your generosity will be appreciated. Madam, the hand you were born with.”

“I came with both of them.”

“The left, please.” She cupped her fingers under Eve’s offered hand, barely touching at first. “Strength and courage. Your fate was not set. A trauma, a break in the lifeline. Very young. You were only a child. Such pain, such sadness.” She lifted her gaze, clear gray. “You were, and are, without blame.”

She tightened her grip when Eve instinctively drew back. “It’s not necessary to remember all, until you’re ready. Sorrow and self-doubt, passions blocked. A solitary woman who chose to focus on one goal. A great need for justice. Disciplined, self-motivated… troubled. Your heart was broken, more than broken. Mauled. So you guarded what was left. It’s a capable hand. One to trust.”

She took Eve’s right hand firmly, but barely looked at it. Those clear gray eyes stayed on Eve’s face. “You carry much of what was inside you. It will not be quiet, it will not rest. But you’ve found your place. Authority suits you, as does the responsibility that marches with it. You’re stubborn, often single-focused, but your heart is greatly healed. You love.”

She flicked a glance at Roarke again, and her mouth softened when she looked back at Eve. “It surprises you, the depth of this. It unnerves you, and you are not easily unnerved.” Her thumb skimmed over the top of Eve’s palm. “Your heart runs deep. It is… choosy. It is careful, but when it’s given, it’s complete. You carry identification. A badge.” She smiled slowly. “Yes, you made the right choice. Perhaps the only one you could have made. You’ve killed. More than once. There was no alternative for you, yet this weighs heavy on your mind and heart. In this, you find it difficult to separate the intellect from the emotion. You’ll kill again.”

The gray eyes went glassy, and the light grip tightened. “It’s dark. The forces are dark here. Evil. Lives already lost, and others yet to lose. Pain and fear. Body and soul. You must protect yourself and those you love.”