Chapter 141

Emily

I didn’t really believe in fortune tellers — not until tonight. I have always heard about them in fairytales, mainly from my mother. They terrified me as a child with the cloud of fog and mist that always seemed to follow them around.

Madame Wanda smells like old incense and rose water. The darkness of the room muffled the outside world and the candlelight made everything look like it belonged to another time. I stood in the middle of the room, heart hammering too fast on the inside of my chest. The weight of her stare presses on me like I am hiding something from her and yet she can read the truth on my face as plain as day.

“You’re afraid,” she said, hands hovering over the golden tarot cards that sit on the table. Her voice is thick with an accent I can’t really seem to place. Maybe European, maybe invented. “Take a deep breath. Your energy is... fractured.”

I hesitated, glancing back at the door that my husband stepped through. Logan was just outside, probably leaning against the door with a scowl written across his face.

Just like me, Logan never was a believer in magic and the mystic arts. It has always been something that we agreed on, that there is not enough evidence to back up the magicians’ claims. And yet, here we are, seeking the help from a fortuneteller.

“The deck has been shuffled,” Madame Wanda tells me with a small smile on her face. Her grayed teeth make me feel weird, unsettled. “All you must do now is choose.”

I moved my hand over the cards, feeling a tingling sensation in my palm. When I tried to pull my hand away, an invisible force brought it right back over the deck. Something about this feels heavy — like I am not just playing along.

I reach out and pluck a card from the middle. Wanda takes it from me, turning it over slowly like it might burn her fingers. Maybe it is burning her fingers. Anything is possible.

“The Moon,” she whispers, quietly humming to herself.

“What does that mean?” I ask, unable to contain my question.

She looks at me like she was peeling back my skin with her eyes and staring straight into the pit of me. I squirm under her gaze and retreat into my seat. She turns the card in her hands, showing the moon design to me.

“There is a wolf inside you,” she says softly, “but she is asleep. Not dead. Not gone. Just... trapped. Asleep.”

My breath hitched. She wasn’t just talking about some metaphor. She knew.

“How do you—?” I started, but she held up a hand.

“The cards speak. I only listen.”

Wanda leans in closer. The candlelight flickered, catching in her many rings and necklaces, the shadows dancing on her lined face.

“She sleeps because something broke her. A trauma. A wound that was buried too deep to heal. You believe it was Derek’s death.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you are wrong.”

I stiffened.

“Derek was—he was my friend. My cousin,” I breathe the words out.

She gave me a look full of pity. It’s an unsettling sight, one that sends chills down my spine. I clear my throat to try and relieve some of the tension inside of my body but it doubles in size.

“And yet, his death was not the thing that silenced the wolf. It was your father.”

Madame Wanda’s words silence me. My heart stops, frozen in time. The air is ripped from my lungs, burning from the lack of oxygen and air.

“What?” My voice cracks. “That’s... no. My father did not silence my wolf.”

“The truth is with him,” she cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “He holds the key. And only when he admits what he did will your wolf be free again.”

My head is spinning. I can’t look away from her, unable to move. Memories I hadn’t touched in years started to stir — half-formed images, shadows of that moment I had long buried under grief and confusion.

“What did he do?” I whispered.

Wanda doesn’t answer. Instead, she gestures back to the deck. The cards shimmer under the golden candlelight.

“Pick another card,” she says.

I don’t want to. Something in me recoils at the thought but my hand moves anyway, drawn by something I couldn’t name. I pull a card and lay it on the table. Wanda’s expression shifted. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening at the sight. She turns the card over.

It’s black.

Not just in color — black in a way that felt wrong. Like an absence. The image on it was twisted, unreadable, but I felt something cold twist in my gut the moment I saw it. The close I look at the card, the more alive it feels.

It is as if the abyss is finally staring back at me.

“An omen.” Her voice drops to a whisper.

The candlelight flickered wildly. And then — darkness.

The lights go out all at once. It’s as if someone sucked the power out of the room. The flames didn’t extinguish but they flicker so violently they distort our shadows across the walls.

“Madame Wanda?” my voice quivers as I look around the room.

There is no answer. She is sitting perfectly still, hands folded, staring past me like I wasn’t there.

“Wanda?” I try again.

Silence.

I can hear my own breathing, fast and shallow, and the thudding of my pulse in my ears. I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping across the wooden floor.

“Logan!” I cry out but nothing came out. My lips moved — I could feel them move — but no sound escaped. Panic explodes in my chest. I turn to Wanda, a chill spreading across my body. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

Madam Wanda blinks slowly, then she reaches out and takes my hands in hers. Her grip was ice cold.

“Do not be afraid,” she says, but her voice sounded distant — like it was coming from somewhere else, not from her mouth. Her eyes roll back in her head. I try to yank my hands back but Wanda’s grip on them keeps me attached to her.

“Stop!” I cry out, the word barely audible, like it was being swallowed by the dark.

I back away from the table after freeing my hands, my heart pounding in my throat.

The air has turned heavy, thick with something electric and wrong. I turn toward the door but couldn’t see it anymore — just swirling shadows and the sound of something breathing that wasn’t me.

“Logan!” I desperately cry out again but my voice remains silent.

I look back at Wanda but she isn’t Wanda anymore. Her face had shifted, features blurred as if it was smeared by unseen hands, and her skin glowed faintly with a bluish hue. The candlelight couldn’t reach her features.

“You carry more than grief, child,” she said, her voice now layered with something ancient. “You carry a secret.”

“I don’t— I don’t know what you mean,” my throat clenches, fists balling at my sides.

“You will,” the voice says, “you must survive the awakening first.”

Then everything went still. The candles steadied. The air lightened. I could breathe again.

Madame Wanda blinked, her face returning to normal. She looked exhausted, as if something had drained her completely. She slumped back in her chair, eyes wide.

“What did you see?” I asked, my voice finally working again.

“You have to find your father,” she whispers, her fear prominent in her voice. “He knows. He’s always known.”

“What does he know?” I ask, hanging onto every single word that falls from her mouth.

But she was done talking. She turned her face away, trembling. And I knew — whatever had just happened — I was no longer the same.