Queen of the Dark Things Read Online Free Page A

inch of real estate covered in iconography. It smelled of smoke and mirrors and cheap theatrics. Just beyond the door, just as you entered, stood a lit glass case stocked with candles, crosses, crystals, and stones, a cash register sitting on top with a credit card machine plugged into the side. This wasn’t the home of a psychic, Carol thought. This was a gift shop for the gullible. She clenched her fist nervously, and was turning to leave, when a woman’s voice called from behind a curtain.
    â€œBe right with you,” she said.
    Carol stopped. She’d come this far. So she waited a moment longer.
    â€œHow can we help you?” asked a young woman before she’d even finished rounding the crushed red velvet curtain. She was pretty, and her dark, thick hair draped over the olive skin of her bare shoulder.
    â€œI’m here to speak to . . .” Carol trailed off, searching for the words. “The psychic.”
    â€œMother Ojeda. My grandmother,” the girl said, nodding. “About your future?”
    Carol shook her head gravely. “No. About a problem I’m having now.”
    The girl nodded, understanding. “Of a worldly nature or . . . a spiritual one?”
    â€œThe . . . the second.”
    The girl’s eyes squinted a bit. “One moment, please.” She turned around, vanishing again into the back of the house.
    Carol waited, her hands tucked together in front of her, fidgeting nervously with the buckle of her belt. She tapped her foot and chewed the inside of her lip. For a moment she thought about slipping out the door as quietly as possible. Then the girl reappeared.
    â€œRight this way, Mrs. . . .”
    â€œVoss. Mrs. Voss.”
    The girl walked back behind the curtain, this time towing Carol behind her. The back of the house was a little less cramped, a dining room converted into a gaudy séance chamber. There was a large oak table covered in heavy cloth topped with a much thinner silk overlay. Atop it were a number of candles, all burning. Several carefully placed spotlights cast grim shadows on the walls, highlighting an empty chair next to the room’s entrance, a spot on the table where a tarot deck rested, and a chair immediately opposite the first. Sitting in that chair directly across the table was Mother Ojeda, an old Hispanic woman, her thick black hair braided, disappearing behind her into a woven shawl that rested on her shoulders.
    She stared at the table, not looking up as Carol entered.
    â€œGrandmother, this is Mrs. Voss,” the young girl announced.
    Mother Ojeda nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Celesta,” she said, her accent thick, dripping with old Mexico. “Have a seat, Mrs. Voss.”
    Carol sat down in the empty chair.
    â€œMy granddaughter tells me you have a problem.”
    â€œYes. I do.”
    Mother Ojeda picked up the tarot deck, shuffling it in clumps. “What kind of problem do you have?” She laid down a card, shaking her head. “Hmmm.”
    â€œSomething is . . . haunting my . . . my home.”
    â€œA spirit? Hmmm . . .” She laid down another card, then frowned, looking up strangely at Carol. “Have you seen this spirit, or merely felt it?”
    Carol hesitated, her eyes darting around nervously, her hands sweating. “I’ve seen her,” she said. “And heard her.”
    â€œHeard her? Moving things you mean?”
    â€œNo. Screaming. Wailing. Crying.” She paused. “Speaking.”
    Mother Ojeda laid down another card, looking mildly confused about the card facing up at her. “What did she say?”
    â€œNothing in English. I couldn’t understand it.”
    Mother Ojeda was quite serious now. All of her theatricality and pretense had vanished, her accent fading with it. “What does this woman look like?”
    â€œShe’s tall, very thin. Skeletal. Her arms look longer than they