Read Online Hunt the Moon : Cassandra Palmer #5 by Karen Chance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Chance
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itself.”
“A good cycle?”
“If it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t see it,” I muttered.
That got me a cocked eyebrow.
“I don’t see the good stuff,” I explained briefly. “Anyway, the cards can be read a number of different ways. But normally the Moon reversed points to a dark time, like the dark side of the moon, you know?”
“How dark?”
“That depends. From a personal standpoint, it often indicates a time of deep feelings, confusion, long-buried emotions coming to the surface—”
“And from a larger perspective? A national perspective?”
“People with dark purposes, order moving into chaos, wars, revolutions, riots.”
“Fairly dark, then,” he said drily.
“Usually,” I admitted, before adding the standard disclaimer. “But tarot is an indicator, not an absolute. Nothing about the future is decided until it happens. We create it every day by the choices we make, good or bad.”
Pritkin’s lips twisted cynically. “But so does everyone else. And not all of them are striving for the same things, are they?”
“No,” I said, thinking of the war. I picked up my Coke and took a sip before remembering that warm Coke tastes like battery acid. I set it down again.
“There’s a calendar on the fridge,” I commented, after a while.
Pritkin didn’t say anything.
“I don’t know how they got it to stay up there. I mean, it’s stainless. Nothing sticks to that stuff.”
He drank beer.
“But it’s there. And I see it every day. Right after I get up, I go get a Coke or whatever, and it’s—” I licked my lips.
“The coronation.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Sort of. In fact, it was a lot of things: problems learning about my power, the refusal of the Senate or the Circle to take me seriously, the lack of any useful visions about the war and now the fact that someone was trying to kill me. Again.
But the coronation would do. It had become a symbol for everything, the whole damn mess coming to a head, the fast-approaching day when I, Cassie Palmer, would be presented as the seer of seers to the supernatural world. Which would probably take one look and laugh their collective asses off.
Not that I blamed them. Two months ago—a little less, actually—I’d been a secretary in a travel agency. I’d answered phones. I’d filed stuff. I’d picked up the boss’s freaking dry cleaning.
On my days off, I worked as a tarot reader, because a couple of bucks an hour over minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills. Only that hadn’t paid them all that well, either, because people didn’t like my readings. Nobody really wanted to know the future; they wanted reassurance, hope, a reason to get up in the morning. At the time, I hadn’t understood that; I’d thought forewarned was forearmed.
Now I understood why I hadn’t had too many repeat customers. Now I’d have liked a little reassurance myself, even if it was a lie. And I really, really didn’t want to see tomorrow.
Ironic that it was my job now.
“It’s a formality,” Pritkin said firmly, watching my face. “You’ve been Pythia since your predecessor’s passing.”
“Technically. But I haven’t really had to do anything yet, have I?”
He frowned. “You haven’t had to do anything?”
“Well, you know. Nothing important.”
“You killed a god!”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I dueled him or something. When you know damn well we flushed him down a metaphysical toilet.”
Pritkin shrugged. “Dead is dead.”
He tended to be practical about these things.
Of course, so did I when the creature in question planned a literal scorched-earth policy, starting with me. But that wasn’t the point. “I just meant that no one’s expected me to do anything as Pythia,” I explained. “But the coronation is coming up, and you know as soon as it’s over . . . and I can’t even age a damn apple!”
I started to get up, but that hand tightened on my foot. I wanted to pace, needed to let off
“A good cycle?”
“If it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t see it,” I muttered.
That got me a cocked eyebrow.
“I don’t see the good stuff,” I explained briefly. “Anyway, the cards can be read a number of different ways. But normally the Moon reversed points to a dark time, like the dark side of the moon, you know?”
“How dark?”
“That depends. From a personal standpoint, it often indicates a time of deep feelings, confusion, long-buried emotions coming to the surface—”
“And from a larger perspective? A national perspective?”
“People with dark purposes, order moving into chaos, wars, revolutions, riots.”
“Fairly dark, then,” he said drily.
“Usually,” I admitted, before adding the standard disclaimer. “But tarot is an indicator, not an absolute. Nothing about the future is decided until it happens. We create it every day by the choices we make, good or bad.”
Pritkin’s lips twisted cynically. “But so does everyone else. And not all of them are striving for the same things, are they?”
“No,” I said, thinking of the war. I picked up my Coke and took a sip before remembering that warm Coke tastes like battery acid. I set it down again.
“There’s a calendar on the fridge,” I commented, after a while.
Pritkin didn’t say anything.
“I don’t know how they got it to stay up there. I mean, it’s stainless. Nothing sticks to that stuff.”
He drank beer.
“But it’s there. And I see it every day. Right after I get up, I go get a Coke or whatever, and it’s—” I licked my lips.
“The coronation.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Sort of. In fact, it was a lot of things: problems learning about my power, the refusal of the Senate or the Circle to take me seriously, the lack of any useful visions about the war and now the fact that someone was trying to kill me. Again.
But the coronation would do. It had become a symbol for everything, the whole damn mess coming to a head, the fast-approaching day when I, Cassie Palmer, would be presented as the seer of seers to the supernatural world. Which would probably take one look and laugh their collective asses off.
Not that I blamed them. Two months ago—a little less, actually—I’d been a secretary in a travel agency. I’d answered phones. I’d filed stuff. I’d picked up the boss’s freaking dry cleaning.
On my days off, I worked as a tarot reader, because a couple of bucks an hour over minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills. Only that hadn’t paid them all that well, either, because people didn’t like my readings. Nobody really wanted to know the future; they wanted reassurance, hope, a reason to get up in the morning. At the time, I hadn’t understood that; I’d thought forewarned was forearmed.
Now I understood why I hadn’t had too many repeat customers. Now I’d have liked a little reassurance myself, even if it was a lie. And I really, really didn’t want to see tomorrow.
Ironic that it was my job now.
“It’s a formality,” Pritkin said firmly, watching my face. “You’ve been Pythia since your predecessor’s passing.”
“Technically. But I haven’t really had to do anything yet, have I?”
He frowned. “You haven’t had to do anything?”
“Well, you know. Nothing important.”
“You killed a god!”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I dueled him or something. When you know damn well we flushed him down a metaphysical toilet.”
Pritkin shrugged. “Dead is dead.”
He tended to be practical about these things.
Of course, so did I when the creature in question planned a literal scorched-earth policy, starting with me. But that wasn’t the point. “I just meant that no one’s expected me to do anything as Pythia,” I explained. “But the coronation is coming up, and you know as soon as it’s over . . . and I can’t even age a damn apple!”
I started to get up, but that hand tightened on my foot. I wanted to pace, needed to let off
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