Night Terrors (Sarah Beauhall Book 4) by J. A. Pitts

Author:J. A. Pitts [Pitts, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Tags: Norse Mythology, Swords, SCA, libraries, knitting, dreams, magic, blacksmithing, Urban Fantasy, Fantasy
Publisher: WordFire Press
Published: 2016-04-08T04:00:00+00:00

Thirty-four

Mrs. Gottschalk woke with a shout as a spike of pain pierced her head. A pride of cats scattered screeching and yowling into the furthest reaches of the house. A platter of sandwiches and tea set crashed to the floor at her feet.

“Attend to me,” she bellowed, grasping her head in both hands.

Two young women scampered in from an adjoining room, and one of the cats returned, slinking around the edge of the doorway.

“Clean this mess,” the old woman croaked, her head throbbing like an overripe melon.

“You,” she pointed to the closest woman who knelt, gathering sandwiches and broken crockery. “My medicine, bring it to me.”

The girl ducked a quick bow and scampered across the room, dumping the collected detritus onto a side table.

“Get a broom, stupid girl,” Gottschalt spat, as the second girl knelt to finish picking up large broken pieces of pottery. “Is there no one here with an ounce of sense?”

“What is it, Madame?” came a male reply.

Gottschalk looked up, saw the boy, Hague, with a cup in one hand and a napkin in the other. “What is it that ails you, Madame?”

“Bring me my tarot deck,” she barked, regretting the volume. “And kick that slug who is fetching my medicine. My head is like to split open.”

Hague turned, set his cup and napkin to the side and stepped past the girl who was digging through a cupboard and handed down a large bottle that sloshed nicely. The girl carried it over to Madame Gottschalk and handed her the bottle, pulling her hand back quickly, looking as if she may catch whatever was afflicting Madame.

The old woman pulled the cork from the mouth of the bottle and bent it to her lips, drinking down three quick sips. The vile cat and the boy stayed in the room as she sat back and closed her eye, letting the poppy solution dull the pain.

“Something has happened,” she said, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. “Similar to the last time. Bring my cards, boy, and lay them before me. Let us see what has shattered the peace of the day.”

He pulled a folding tray from the corner by the large television and set it up before her. The cards whisked pleasantly as he shuffled them.

“Careful not to bend the edges,” she whispered, feeling the poppy trickle through her mind like icy fingers soothing a burn.

“Lay them out for me,” she continued, her breathing beginning to settle.

“Show me what the cards have to say.”

Let it not be our doom, she thought as the boy placed the first card down on the tray.

The smith. She grimaced and closed her eyes, not daring to see the next turn.

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