Page 124 of Tricked By Jack
“There,” I decide, nodding toward a performance circle where a woman with silver-painted skin is swallowing fire, her throat working visibly as flames disappear into her mouth only to reappear when she exhales through her nose.
Jack guides me through the press of bodies. Unlike the night of our wedding, we aren’t part of the show—we’re part of the audience. But I feel the weight of eyes following us anyway, drawn to something they sense but can’t name.
The scar on my cheek no longer feels like a mark of weakness. Tonight, it’s a badge of survival, proof that I’ve stared into darkness and emerged changed but unbroken. And most importantly, together.
We stop at the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the heat from the performer’s flames. Jack stands behind me, his chest against my back, arms wrapped around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, stubble scraping pleasantly against my skin.
Around us, masked spectators gasp and murmur as the fire dancer takes a burning torch and presses it against her arm, leaving no mark but a shimmer of silver paint.
“That has to be an illusion,” Jack whispers against my ear. “I think I read something about mirror dust in the paint reflecting the flame, making it look like she’s untouched.”
I lean back into him, savoring his warmth. “Why are you spoiling the magic, Mr. Mortis?”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my spine. “Just appreciating the craft.” His teeth graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down my neck. “I prefer real scars to fake ones, Little Bride.”
His fingers trace the line on my cheek, the touch reverent rather than pitying. I turn my head, catching his wrist, pressing my lips to his pulse point where blood thrums steady and strong.
The crowd surges and shifts, attention captured by the performer’s finale—a burst of flame that momentarily blinds, leaving ghostly afterimages dancing across my vision.
When the spots clear, Jack is watching me with heat in his eyes. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Let’s see what else this place has to offer on its last night.”
We drift through the grounds, pausing to watch a mock execution, people being chased across the grounds, and hear the screams from somewhere farther along the path.
Jack’s arm tightens around me, his other hand brushing hair from my neck to press his mouth against my throat. I feel the scrape of teeth, the warm press of his tongue, and I laugh into the night air, head falling back to grant him better access.
The freedom is intoxicating—to be touched like this in public, to feel desire without fear, to know the worst has already happened and we survived it together.
“I think,” I say, my voice husky with want, “we should find that fortune teller again.”
Jack raises an eyebrow, curiosity lighting his features. “Really?”
I shrug. “I want to know what she sees for us now.”
We make our way toward where the fortune teller had been stationed before, but the tent is gone, replaced by a booth selling grotesque candy sculptures that bleed when bitten into.
“She moved,” a passing server tells us, noticing our confusion. “Near Slaughter Stage B. The small black tent with the silver symbols.”
We find it tucked between two larger attractions, almost hidden in shadow. The entrance is a slash of darkness in black fabric, guarded by nothing but a thin strand of silver bells that chime softly in the night breeze. Jack pushes the fabric aside, allowing me to enter first.
Inside, the air is thick with incense—not the cloying sweetness of cheap sticks, but something deeper, earthier, like freshly turned soil and crushed herbs. The fortune teller sits behind a small table draped in midnight-blue velvet.
Her face is different from what I remember—older, lined with deep grooves around eyes that seem too pale to be natural. But her hands are the same, fingers long and elegant as they spread cards across the velvet.
“The Bride returns,” she says, voice like autumn leaves crushed underfoot. “But not a Bride anymore. Something elsenow.” Her gaze shifts to Jack. “Both of you have changed.”
“We’d like a reading,” I say, taking a seat on the cushion across from her. Jack settles beside me, his thigh pressed against mine, a warm anchor in the tent’s cool darkness.
As she begins shuffling the cards she throws her head back and cackles. “Yes, yes, you were right.”
“Excuse me?” Jack asks, sounding perplexed.
The woman side-eyes him. “I was answering the cards.” Then she frowns and looks between both our hands. “You’ve killed today,” she says matter-of-factly, not looking up from her task. I don’t deny it. Neither does Jack. The knowledge sits between us, acknowledged and accepted.
She lays three cards on the velvet, face down. When she turns the first, it shows a tower struck by lightning, figures falling from its heights.
“Destruction,” she murmurs. “But not yours. You are the storm, not the structure.” She turns the second card—two figures bound by chains, standing at a crossroads. “Choice made. Paths joined. There is no untangling of what has been woven.”
The third card shows a figure walking into darkness, lantern held high. “The journey continues. Not into light—into endless night. But together.” She looks up, her eyes finding mine with unsettling precision. “This is no soft love, no gentle heart. This is obsession. Possession. Survival entwined with destruction.”
