coming to believe, have the second sight that gypsies spoke of quietly and revered?
“How did he die?” she asked, at length, returning her friend’s stare with equanimity. She had not survived the last nine years on her own in Europe and Africa by giving any cards away.
“He was slain by St. Michael, the archangel.”
“At your request?”
“Using his instruments on earth.”
“Annabella, you’re scaring me.”
“God’s warriors do not always appear to be so.”
Megan sat back in her chair and shook her head slightly. Sky had disappeared for a while as well, but he had soon returned to his office at the pizzeria, keeping his beautiful eyes on his whores and their customers. He had asked for another two thousand euros, for expenses, but he seemed unchanged, his usual breezy and menacing self.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but once they are chosen, they are apart. They have one foot in another world.”
Megan picked up her cup and took a sip, feeling the fire in her throat as she swallowed Annabella’s concoction, hot and soothing, like the gypsy herself. Her hand was steady as she replaced the cup on the table, her heartbeat normal.
* * *
Megan was still in her reverie as her train neared the Gare de Montparnasse. Once they are chosen, Annabella had said, they are apart. It would be one thing to have a conscience, bad enough, but to be chosen? To be apart? She shuddered at this thought. Sky had been chosen, not her. She did not mind not liking herself. What was there to like? It was liking herself, or rather attempting to behave in such a way as to create this feeling, that troubled her. That would mean an end to