Page 98 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits
Once I’ve seen the groundhog and have finished breakfast, I return to the house to find Mina still asleep. No surprise there. I leave her a note and go back upstairs.
FORTY-NINE
mina
I sighwhen I read Brian’s note. I mean, I know a groundhog can’t actually predict the weather, but for a forest creature to tell us to abandon all hope of an early spring… it’s just too much for me right now.
There’s no sign of Brian, so I assume he’s living his life above ground right now. Usually if he’s punishing someone in the dungeon, I can hear the screams. It’s probably best that I don’t think too hard about why that doesn’t upset me as much as it probably should. I do try to protect the girls, but if they can’t gain some of their own self-preservation instincts, there’s only so much emotional energy I have available to care about that.
They all basically get an orientation on theBrian situationwhen they arrive now—partly to avoid anotherShannon situation. But even with the safety precautions, not everyone can be saved.
Maybe I’ve grown colder, and it isn’t just the weather. Brian makes it so easy to not care. I stand completely outside the social order with him now, and the temptation to go fully wild is there every day. I don’t know if the wild will ever take me as it has taken Brian, but it’s an easy fall when you know the one personwho matters to you will never judge you for anything the rest of society would.
I’m a free range kitty in more ways than one. There’s freedom in that, but also danger. How far until I don’t recognize myself at all?
I still haven’t managed to pull myself out of bed. Instead I lean over the side and slide out a sleek black box from underneath. Then I panic for a moment, thinking I’m stuck this way. But I grab the headboard bars with one hand and hoist myself back to the safety of snuggly warmth.
Sometimes I worry Brian will come in here while I’m doing this—not the acrobatics, the thing in the box. I don’t know why I keep it a secret. He won’t judge me for doing evil things, but he might judge me for divination—his groundhog fixation notwithstanding. He just seems too rational for something like this. I don’t think he’d really understand.
I lift the intricately carved black lid and pull out the tarot cards wrapped in gray silk. I bought the silk and the box. The cards are the trophy I lifted when we killed the owner of the costume store on Christmas Eve. I was relieved to find none of the cards were missing or left behind. I’d worried about that the whole way back to the house.
When I scooped them up that night as the back room went up in flames, I somehow thankfully managed to get them all.
Most of them were undamaged and clean, but a few had blood spatter from Benjamin. I cleaned them up as well as I could, but there isn’t a lot you can do to get blood off of tarot cards. I hope it doesn’t affect my readings. At least with the black backgrounds it’s not that noticeable, and the few damaged cards don’t impact the overall beauty of the deck.
If Brian knew I took these cards and they have blood on them, he’d probably be proud of the high-quality trophy I managed to acquire—as long as they were only a trophy. But I’vebeen learning to read them. I’m not sure if I’m a believer in all this, but the reading from Christmas Eve still hangs over me, a dark rain cloud full of dread and doom.
The Lovers. The Devil. The Tower.
The lovers are us—me and Brian. Obviously. The Devil could be either or both of our darker sides. Temptation. Vices. You name it. I’m not sure I can assume it’s Brian. He isn’t the only devil here anymore. The card that troubles me most is The Tower. I’ve stared at that card a thousand times, willing it to tell me more. It’s all so vague. But it’s something big, and it’s something bad.
Chaos. Destruction.
Again, if I even believe in all this woo.
Is it metaphorical? Literal? There’s no way to know. I don’t have enough experience to spot the patterns.
I shuffle the deck. I’ve been doing a one card draw every day since Christmas and recording it in a small notebook which I also keep inside the box with a pencil. I don’t want to risk a pen leaking out onto the cards. Blood is enough.
I cut the deck, and my breath catches when I flip over the death card.
Again.
I know the death card doesn’t always mean death, and not just because Benjamin Barker was frantically screaming as much just before Brian jammed a ritual knife in his throat. Every source I’ve consulted says the same. It’s a card of transformation and usually has to do with a big change. But I think it would be foolish not to acknowledge the elephant in the room: Death is a big change.
My hand shakes as I pull out the notebook and pencil to record today’s card. Then I go through the list and count the number of times I’ve drawn the death card since Christmas.
Thirteen times. I take a deep breath as I let this sink in. I’ve drawn the thirteenth card… thirteen times. Maybe I do believe in woo. After all, what are the odds of someone drawing one card out of seventy-eight options, thirteen times out of forty draws?
I’d put the odds somewhere between unicorn and Santa Claus.
I stare again at the card as if it might float off the bed and start talking to me. Half the skull is stained with Benjamin’s blood. Is he haunting me from beyond the grave? Does this mean something? Or is it all coincidence? I just can’t shake the feeling that the card is a warning.
I hear footsteps approaching, and I rush to put the cards back, but before I can get them all the door swings open. I lose my grip on them and the cards spill out of my hands, scattering across the bed.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were still down here,” Gabe says. He averts his eyes.
I sleep naked.
