I-I-X

First card is the Devil, pulling on your heels.

Second card is an angel, who holds you by a rope.

Third card is the rope.

Rosa spears my first card on her foreclaw. This is my worst-case scenario, the fate to most be feared. She turns it over. A naked man, a naked woman, entwined in inseparable embrace. The Lovers.

Rosa seems to shrug. Hard to tell with a cat, of course, but I’m as nonplussed as she is. The Lovers is one of the Major Arcana, heavy-duty juju but one of the most benign cards in the deck. Only amateurs and movie producers think that the Tarot is some sort of inscrutable oracle, speaking mysteries and riddles – The Lovers means just what you’d think it would. Which is why I’m a bit disturbed to see it representing my worst-possible fate in a situation that involves transdimensional gangsters, lost gods, and dear brother Adrian. If things go bad, I can expect a jolly sight worse than a broken heart or a dose of clap. The appearance of The Lovers can mean only one thing: play this right, Spex old boy, or you’re fucked.

Well then. On to Mister Card Number Two. What’s the best I can look forward to? I’m keeping my fingers crossed for something dull, a five of staves or a three of cups. At this point I’d accept a six or seven of pentacles – I don’t need to take any profit or pleasure from this evening’s festivities, just let me get out in one piece.

Rosa’s claw comes down. Flip.

Cats can’t smile. Neither, at this moment, can I. The only grin in Rosa’s office belongs to a gentleman with a pale horse and a scythe, and he’s grinning straight at Yours Truly. A second Major Arcanum has crept into my fate. My best-case scenario is no more complicated than its worrisome predecessor: Death means death. If I’m lucky – really, really lucky – someone is going to die tonight.

It’s rare for me to be sweating at this point in the reading. The third card is just advice – it’s the difference between the first two fates, what I can do to avoid the first in favor of the second, and it’s generally pretty obvious. Many horrifying fates can be avoided simply by not being a fathead. On this occasion, however, I want specifics. I want to … what’s it that the poet says? Tum-te-tum, although the best is bad, sod off and do the best you can under the circumstances. The best is looking pretty sticky right now, so I’ve got precious little room for error.

“Alright, Rosa old girl,” I say. “Let me have it.”

The hackles are standing up on Rosa's back. Not a good sign, when a woman who’s survived more deaths than I’ve had hot dinners is looking edgy. Nevertheless, she’s a professional. She hooks a claw under my last card and pops it into the air. It lands face-up, but turned in the wrong direction. The text is upside-down with respect to where I’m standing, which makes the chap on the card look right-side-up. He’s smiling at me – not a friendly grin, like Mr. Death’s, but the inscrutable pleasantness of a fellow who’s either bought you a pony or poisoned your tea.

The Hanged Man.

The martyr, the traitor. Sacrifice, surrender. Victory through defeat, success through failure, strength through helplessness. A smug little bastard dangling by his ankle, mocking me. My third Major Arcanum in a three card spread – and the big secret, the big clue to help me avoid big trouble, is telling me that I can only win by losing.

I am doomed. I am confused. And I am going to be eating dinner with my brother tonight.

“Rosa?” I say. “Do you remember when you tried to string me out on that Old Black Magic? When you gave me that sweet first taste, and I had to shoot heroin for a month to come down? When I swore I’d hunt you down and kill you properly if you ever gave it to me again?” I sigh. “Gimme.”