No Justice for the Damned (Tales from the Tarot)

Prologue

I dream of a danse macabre, a circle of witches romping under the full moon. The pyre around which they twirl and gyrate is the color of autumn, all red and yellow and orange, glowing like a beacon in the darkness, illuminating their shifting garments, their raised hands and joyful faces. Men and women alike, they’re not of this world, not of this time. Like the flickering of memories, shadows of the past.

A world I’ve never known and yet I see it clearly, in all its fascinating glory.

I watch a man approach the blaze, a long cloak thrown over his shoulders, hood over his head. His face shifts in the shadows, I can’t make out any of his features except his smile. A long curl of the lip that seems to stretch the width of his face, highlighted by the licking flames. I’m intrigued by his arrogance, by the strut of that slim yet muscular figure. Legs enclosed in dark leather, the fabric hugs his thighs as he reaches inside the folds of his cloak and pulls out a small velvet satchel.

His fingers are long, lithe, gorgeous, nails tipped to sharpened points. I don’t know why, but I can’t take my eyes off those hands. They dip inside his newly retrieved satchel and then splay wide as he tosses a handful of what looks like shimmering confetti into the fire. The flames explode in response, reacting to what he’s added. Reacting to him . The crowd of witches around him begins to dance and writhe with a renewed vigor, working themselves to a frenzy.

And then the man turns to me. He looks right at me, cocks his head, though that damned cloak still disguises the face beneath. I can tell by those lips, though, that he’s beautiful. He smirks arrogantly at me and holds out a hand. He speaks no words, only reaches out, beckoning.

Dance with me, he seems to say. Come dance and be free.

But I can’t. I’m not free. Even in the fabric of this dreamscape, among figments of my imagination, I’m too rigid, too stiff. I’m not even sure I know how to dance. I don’t recall ever doing it before.

That grin quirks up on one side, playful, teasing. Testing. His lips form my name though I can’t hear his voice over the thundering of my heart.

Killian.

His fingers wiggle though his hand hasn’t moved. It remains steady, undeterred, as he holds it out to me still. An invitation that won’t disappear until I acquiesce.

Gingerly, I put my hand in his. And before I can protest, he whirls me into motion, pulling me close to the fire. A part of me fears those flames, but another relishes the heat and the feel of that hand in mine.

All at once, I’m surrounded by bodies that ebb and flow and gyrate and play and I catch my breath as they brush against me, tugging at my clothing, at my hair.

Dance.

I want to tell them I don’t know how. But the smirking man doesn’t allow me time to state my fears, to give in to my doubts. He begins to skip, hand still in mine, twirling and holding our arms outstretched toward the sky. He guides me, and for once in my life, I allow myself to let go. To lose myself to the movement, to the rhythmic beating of drums and voices that howl to the moon like wolves.

This is freedom. This is joy. And I laugh. I actually laugh.

I thought I’d forgotten how.

Beautiful. That voice purrs in my ear and I react to its smooth drawl, the way it almost caresses the shell of my ear. I shiver all over, my cock thickening. I’ve always loved praise, but the way this man speaks makes me hungry with lust.

He reaches into the folds of his cloak again, then holds out a handful of sparkling stardust to me. It glitters like gold as I open my palm and allow it to gather. He gestures for me to throw the powder into the flames and I don’t hesitate.

I want to see what color it blooms into. I want to see it scatter and dissipate.

I release it into the flames.

And I wake up.

Typical.