Swirling, swirling, going under... He had always loathed the cobble-clad ghost-town to which he had to journey to visit her, but Ross found himself missing the foggy nowhere as he arrived at Corsola’s latest “office”. It wasn’t collapsing like the old location, but it was even shadier, a run-down bar that, upon entrance, was filled with characters of varying degrees of conspiratory disgustingness. And they, dirty and cruel, were clearly none too pleased to have a visitor so clean-cut and well-dressed. What was worse, he choked on the notion that despite appearances, he really did belong here. He simply wore his malice beneath layers of expensive dark fabrics and cunning fake smiles.
Swallowing his instinctual fear of such brutish-looking nobodies, Ross approached the bar. He did not sit, but he leaned cautiously along its edge, waiting for its keeper to turn around to face him. There was a tense moment of relative silence beneath the gruff bar chatter, but eventually, the man behind the bar turned. He was equally greasy as his compatriots, with dull black hair and an untrustworthy mustache. One eye was masked by a black patch, but the other expressed a clear demand: Get Out. “I am here to see Corsola,” Ross stated, his tone level. He would not be intimidated by the filth of this sort of establishment.
Surprise registered on the bar keep’s face, and he gestured to a door just beyond the bar. “Thank you,” said Ross as he adjusted his cravat, intending to offend with his pretentious manners. He passed through the bar in relative confidence now; his connection to Corsola had certainly been overheard, and while he hardly knew he woman outside their meetings of this nature, it was clear that she held some sort of power over these men. They would not touch a perceived friend or, perhaps even more dangerous, a client.
“Corsola,” he said by way of greeting as he entered the room. It was pitch black, but he had a feeling she was there somewhere in the darkness. This suspicion was confirmed when a faint glow suddenly surrounded the room, not touching the corners between ceiling or floor and walls, as if a bubble meant only for the two of them.
As ever, Corsola sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, a gummy smile tainted by… something, but he could not discern exactly what. Her motives were always so mysterious, she, a human enigma, perhaps not real at all. He firmly believed, however, that everyone had their motives, even those (he assumed) humans like Corsola, who never changed, remaining untouched by time, like a flesh-and-blood ghost. “Hello, Ross Manger.”
She gestured to the crystal ball between them, and with great care, he lowered himself to the floor. He could not manage to tuck his legs as he had barely done previously, as she still did, but instead gave the closest approximation to sitting as was possible for him. He stared at the crystal ball, afraid to look at her and see the way she stared right through him. Her bony, long-nailed fingers stretched to meet the ball. “Ask.”
“Will I die this year?” The crystal ball raged, its swirling fog far quicker than he remembered in previous years of meeting. The colors changed, too, cycling through the rainbow before finally settling on a midnight black. The bubble of light dimmed slightly and encroached upon them. Ross knew the answer before she spoke.
“Yes.”
One word. It was one word that rocked him to his core. He felt sick to his stomach and more afraid than he had felt in his entire life combined. Corsola’s hands, however, had not left the crystal ball, so he rapid-fired his desperate inquiries.
“When?”
“I cannot say.”
“How?”
“I do not know.”
“Natural causes?”
“No.”
“Murder?”
At this, Corsola stalled. She stared directly into him this time, her piercing eyes, the iciest blue known to man, so pale and sharp that they almost felt like bone, rushing into his brown gaze. “By another’s hand,” she said, her voice shaken. It was not an answer to his question.
“Whose hand?” he demanded, leaning closer, and the hell with his protesting knees. “Who would do this?”
Again, she was still. Her bone eyes retreated beneath almost as pale eyelids, splattered only with fading golden eyeshadow and unrelenting blue veins. But they only remained that way a moment before they snapped open. Her voice was grave and low. “Your blood will be spilled by blood of your own.”