Yes, but only after a certain stipulation had been met. Would Diya laugh if I told her what he’d always planned?
She exhaled. “Something will pull him back into the game. He’ll converge with the rest of you.” Diya knew these things; our ailing mother had trained her to be my chronicler, handing down our line’s Arcana chronicles into Diya’s capable hands.
But how would Joules get back to me from across the Atlantic? Especially if some catastrophe loomed?
Diya said, “I just wonder if you made enough of a lasting impression to forge an unbreakable alliance.”
So did I. . . .
_______________
Two weeks ago
I was on my way home from the dojo when a bus wheezed to a stop in front of my neighborhood’s Catholic cathedral. A banner rippling above the church doors read: INTERNATIONAL CHORUS COMPETITION. A group of about thirty teenage boys in magenta gowns began filing off the bus, chattering and laughing as they made their way into the church.
Choirboys? I snorted with derision.
Until my gaze lit upon one kid among them. He had reddish-brown hair and dark eyes, and he was thin. Compared to the others, he looked poor. His ill-fitting gown had been mended repeatedly, his red collar was faded, and he was in need of a haircut. His shoes were polished but worn out, and his high-riding pant cuffs clearly were not meant to be a style statement.
So why did I find this unremarkable kid compelling—
An image flickered over him: lightning striking a stone castle tower and people falling from the turret. I was seeing . . . a tableau. My eyes went wide. He was an Arcana!
And not just any random card. He was the Tower.
One of the mightiest of all the Major Arcana was a scrawny choirboy!
I shouldn’t be surprised by this encounter. As Diya had told me again and again, there was no such thing as “random” in the game. We were all thrown together.
Wait till she heard that I’d already found the Tower! This news would certainly cheer her up. Pensive about whatever catastrophe would soon befall us, she hated being separated from our older mother, and she despised New York.
The Tower caught sight of me and did a double take. Maybe he was seeing a faint hint of my own tableau. Maybe he was the same as all the other guys checking out my outfit: tight boy-short pants, a sports bra, and an open hoodie. The Empress wasn’t the only one with mesmerizing looks.
And I had more guile than all the others combined.
He looked to be about sixteen, my age. I wondered if he knew anything about the Arcana. Players usually didn’t. I could lock this choirboy down in an alliance before the game even began! He’d be putty.
I leaned against a light post. Twirling the end of my ponytail, I cast him a flirtatious smile.
He glanced over one shoulder, then the other. Frowning, he hiked a thumb at his chest.
I pointed at him and mouthed: Yes, you.
His lips parted.
I crooked my finger at him, and he started for me immediately—until a burly priest grabbed his arm to usher the boy inside. The Tower craned his head back to keep me in sight.
As if I’d let you get away, kid.
Once I heard singing, I entered the church. Despite my skimpy outfit, I sauntered down the aisle to a front pew. Every gaze in that choir fixed on me, including the Tower’s.
I took a seat and shucked off my backpack. The boys around him noticed my attention and elbowed him.
Up on a stage, with that stained-glass backdrop, he looked so . . . virtuous.
Once he and I took out Death, I would use my particular ability on the Tower. After a good boy like him turned killer, he’d have no defense against my Weight of Sins.
I pulled a notebook from my pack and scribbled some words, as dark and bold as I could. Catching his gaze, I held up the notebook and turned the pages.
You
Me
Coffee shop across street
4 today
Face gone redder than his choirboy collar had ever been, he nodded.
_______________
At twenty-five till four, he entered the shop.
I’d gotten here at three.
His eyes darted until he spotted me, sitting in the back. His cheeks grew red again, and he whirled around, suddenly enthralled with the display of coffee mugs.
He was wearing a threadbare button-down and jeans. I’d bet he’d agonized over his clothes for the first time in his life.
I waited, but he was too shy to approach me. I wondered if he’d ever even kissed a girl. I called, “Hey, choirboy.”
He turned slowly, then headed toward my table. When he stood before me, he swallowed thickly.
I kicked a chair out for him. “What’s your name?”
He sat. “I’m P-Patrick Joules,” he said with a thick accent.
“I’m Calanthe. Where are you from?”
“Oirland.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” he answered. With his gaze dipping to my plunging V-neck shirt, he added, “You must be eighteen or nineteen.”
I teasingly asked, “Are my boobs staring at your eyes again?”
His head snapped up, his expression mortified. If blushing could kill . . .
I grinned. “All parts of me think you have really nice eyes.” He actually did. “And I’m sixteen, for the record.”
He canted his head, his blush relenting a bit. He cleared his throat and said, “Wh-whereabouts are you from?”
“I was born in India, but I grew up all over the place. I’ve been going to high school here for two years.”
When I’d turned thirteen, my sister had made me apply to exchange programs in a dozen different countries, but they’d all been full.
Miraculously, a spot had opened up here. Which had led us to believe the game would be played out in this country. Bingo. Already players were converging. “What are you in town for, Tower?”