Chapter 189: 189 The Fortune-Tellers

Settings

Font Size

A

A

16px

Font Family

Background Color

189: The Fortune-Tellers 189: The Fortune-Tellers Myrtle Classens stood in the conservatory of her mansion, surrounded by herbs, crystals, and the accumulated wisdom of seventy-three years as a fortune teller.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see her extensive gardens stretching toward the forest—a property she’d purchased decades ago with money from readings that had proven uncannily accurate.

Her phone rang at precisely 3 PM, as it did every day.

“Rose, darling,” Myrtle answered, settling into her favorite velvet chair.

“Right on time as always.”

“The cards told me you’d be expecting my call,” Rose replied with a laugh.

Rose Whitmore lived on a farm thirty miles away, where she raised chickens, grew herbs, and read fortunes for locals who valued her gift.

The two women had been best friends for over forty years, ever since they’d met at a supernatural symposium in Montreal.

“The cards tell you everything except how to stop your rooster from crowing at dawn,” Myrtle teased.

“How are the chickens?”

“Productive.

Noisy.

Demanding.

Like most of my clients.” Rose’s voice carried warmth and humor.

“But I didn’t call to discuss poultry.

I called because I pulled a card this morning that practically screamed your granddaughter’s name.

The Tower, reversed.

Mishka’s been through the crisis, hasn’t she?

The danger has passed?”

Myrtle smiled, running her fingers over her own deck of cards spread on the table beside her.

She’d pulled the exact same card that morning.

“It has.

Angus called me last night from the electronics company.

He said Mishka is safe, the threat has been neutralized, and she’s staying in that gated community—Eldergrove—with her werewolf fiancé.”

“The famous fashion designer,” Rose said knowingly.

“I saw him in a magazine last month.

Very handsome.

Strong aura in the photographs, even printed.

But Myrtle, your chart for Mishka showed danger around wolves for years.

Are you certain this one is safe?”

“The danger was never from her wolf,” Myrtle corrected, shuffling her cards absently.

“It was from a wolf’s obsession with him.

A woman named Jean who couldn’t accept that Bruce didn’t want her.

But that’s resolved now.

Jean is imprisoned, her network dismantled, and Mishka is free to build her life.”

“Thank the gods,” Rose breathed.

“I’ve been worried.

Ever since you told me about Mishka being collared—Myrtle, I had nightmares.

That beautiful voice of hers, silenced by that monster’s device.”

“She’s recovering,” Myrtle said, though her own cards had shown the lasting damage.

“Her Siren voice will never be quite what it was, but Mishka is strong.

She’s more than her supernatural abilities.

She has her engineering background, her music career, her father’s company to eventually lead.

She’ll adapt.”

“Of course she will.

She’s your granddaughter.” Rose paused.

“Are you ever going to tell her that you knew?

That your cards showed the danger months before it happened?”

Myrtle was quiet for a moment, staring at the spread before her.

She had known.

Had seen the collar, the torture, the near-death in Mishka’s cards.

Had seen Bruce, the engagement, the battle for Eldergrove’s survival.

But she’d also seen something else—that warning Mishka would have made her cautious, would have changed her path, and that path needed to be walked exactly as it was.

“No,” Myrtle said finally.

“Fortune telling isn’t about preventing every hardship.

It’s about understanding the journey.

Mishka needed to face Jean, needed to be broken and rebuild herself, needed to prove she was more than her Siren voice.

If I’d warned her, she might have avoided the danger, but she also wouldn’t have become who she is now.”

“You’re certain about that?” Rose’s voice carried gentle challenge.

“I pulled the cards every day while she was in danger,” Myrtle admitted.

“Asking if I should intervene, should warn her, should tell Angus to pull her out of Eldergrove.

Every single time, the answer was the same: Let her walk her path.

Trust her strength.”

“And she proved that trust was deserved.”

“She did.” Myrtle felt pride swell in her chest.

“Rose, you should see what the cards show for her now.

The future spread is beautiful—marriage, music, leadership.

She’s going to do incredible things for supernatural integration.

That gated community, Eldergrove, it’s going to become something special under her influence.”

“What about the werewolf?

Bruce?” Rose asked.

“Do the cards show he’s worthy of her?”

Myrtle laughed.

“The cards show he’s terrified of her sometimes, which is exactly as it should be.

Mishka is brilliant, accomplished, independently wealthy, and has options most women never dream of.

Bruce knows he’s lucky she chose him.

That’s the foundation of a good marriage—mutual respect and a healthy dose of awareness that she could leave anytime and be just fine.”

“But she won’t leave,” Rose observed.

“No.

Because he’s worthy of her choice.

He proved that by walking into Jean’s trap to save thousands of lives.

By pretending to love the woman who’d tormented him for decades.

By doing the hard thing even when it terrified him.” Myrtle pulled a card from her deck—the Lovers.

“They’re meant to be together.

Not because fate demands it, but because they choose each other every day.”

“Speaking of choosing,” Rose said, her tone shifting to something more serious, “have you decided when you’re going back to India?

Your ashram friends have been calling my landline asking about you.”

“Probably because I told the meditation instructor that his technique was fundamentally flawed and his aura looked like a muddy puddle,” Myrtle said without remorse.

“I’m not going back to India anytime soon.

Maybe next year.

For now, I’m staying here.

Close to Mishka, in case she needs me.”

“Does she know you’re back from India?”

“She knows I’m back in Canada.

She doesn’t know I bought this mansion specifically because it’s only ninety minutes from Eldergrove.” Myrtle looked around her conservatory with satisfaction.

“I can keep an eye on things without hovering.

Angus visits weekly to discuss the company.

Mishka calls monthly to update me on her music career.

And I read the cards daily to make sure my family stays safe.”

“What do today’s cards show?” Rose asked.

Myrtle looked at the spread she’d laid out that morning.

“Celebration.

Joy.

New beginnings.

Mishka and Bruce are planning their real wedding now that Jean’s nightmare version has been prevented.

Emma Henderson—the young Resonant who helped save everyone—is thriving.

The integration movement is stronger than ever.

And Eldergrove…” She traced a finger over the Ten of Cups.

“Eldergrove is becoming exactly what its founder intended.

A true sanctuary.”

“Any dark cards?

Any warnings?”

“There are always challenges ahead,” Myrtle said honestly.

“The Seven of Swords suggests ongoing political struggles.

Integration will face opposition for years to come.

But the major crisis has passed.

Jean’s empire is dismantled, the Old World Conclave is in disarray, and the communities have proven they can stand together against existential threats.”

“What about that young witch who died?

Mrs.

Callahan?” Rose had heard all about the elderly woman who’d maintained Eldergrove’s wards for fifty years.

“Do your cards show her at peace?”

Myrtle pulled a card specifically for that question—the Star.

“She’s at peace.

And her legacy continues.

Emma Henderson and another young Resonant named Adrianna are maintaining the wards together now.

Stronger than Mrs.

Callahan could have managed alone.

She died knowing her sacrifice meant something.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” Rose teased.

“I’m seventy-three.

I’m allowed to be sentimental.” Myrtle picked up her teacup, sipping the blend she’d crafted specifically for clarity in readings.

“Besides, watching my granddaughter nearly die and then triumph over impossible odds tends to make one appreciate family more.”

“Have you told her you’re proud of her?”

“I sent her a card,” Myrtle said.

“A proper greeting card, not a tarot card.

It said ‘Congratulations on not dying and defeating evil.

Love, Grandma.'”

Rose burst out laughing.

“Myrtle Classens, you are impossible.”

“I’m honest.

There’s a difference.” Myrtle smiled.

“Though I did include a check for her wedding fund.

A substantial one.

And I may have mentioned that the cards show her wedding day will be perfect—sunny skies, gentle breeze, and no surprise attacks from jealous werewolves.”

“That last part seems oddly specific.”

“It pays to check these things.” Myrtle shuffled her deck again, the familiar motion soothing.

“What about you, Rose?

What do your cards show for your future?”

“More chickens, apparently,” Rose said dryly.

“The Ace of Pentacles keeps appearing, which I interpret as my laying hens reaching peak production.

Though there’s also the Knight of Cups, which might mean a romantic interest.”

“At our age?” Myrtle was delighted.

“Do tell.”

“There’s a new farmer at the market.

Widower, grows organic vegetables, has the most beautiful aura I’ve seen in years.

We’ve been chatting.

He asked if I’d like to visit his greenhouse sometime.”

“Rose Whitmore, you scandalous woman.

A greenhouse rendezvous.”

“It’s tomatoes, Myrtle.

Just tomatoes.” But Rose’s voice carried a smile.

“Though the cards do suggest something might develop.

We’ll see.”

They talked for another hour, as they did every day—discussing cards, clients, the state of the world, and the small joys of their lives.

Rose shared stories about her farm, the local teenagers who came for readings about their love lives, the way the sunset looked over her fields last evening.

Myrtle talked about her mansion, her gardens, the meditation practice she’d developed in India (even if she’d driven the instructors crazy), and her plans to perhaps write a book about fortune telling for the modern age.

“Will you dedicate it to Mishka?” Rose asked.

“To Mishka, and to all the women who are more than what society expects them to be,” Myrtle said.

“Supernatural beings who are also engineers, singers who are also leaders, Sirens who prove their worth isn’t just in their voice but in their character.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“That’s my granddaughter.

She’s always been beautiful—in her strength, her resilience, her refusal to be defined by others’ limitations.” Myrtle pulled one final card.

The World.

Completion, fulfillment, achievement.

“She’s going to change how people see integration, Rose.

Not just as a political movement, but as a way of life.

A way of being.”

“And you’ll be here watching, pulling cards, making sure she stays safe.”

“Always,” Myrtle confirmed.

“That’s what grandmothers do.

We watch, we worry, we trust, and we celebrate.

And occasionally, we send inappropriate greeting cards.”

Rose laughed again.

“I should go.

My chickens need feeding, and I have a client coming at four for a reading about their career.”

“And I have herbs to harvest before sunset.

But same time tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.

May your cards bring clarity, Myrtle.”

“And may your hens bring eggs, Rose.”

After they hung up, Myrtle sat in her conservatory for a long moment, looking at the cards spread before her.

She pulled one more, asking a question she asked every day: Is my family safe today?

The Sun appeared—radiant, joyful, uncomplicated.

Yes.

Today, her family was safe.

Mishka was healing, planning her wedding, building her life.

Angus was managing the electronics company with the wisdom of experience.

Bruce was designing fashion and protecting the woman he loved.

And Myrtle?

Myrtle was here, in her mansion surrounded by her gardens and her cards and her cats (three of them, adopted from the local shelter).

She was exactly where she needed to be—close enough to help if called, far enough to let her granddaughter live her own life.

She gathered her cards, wrapping them in silk as she always did, and stood.

The garden awaited.

The herbs needed harvesting.

Her evening meditation practice called to her.

But first, she pulled out her phone and sent one more text to Mishka: ‘The cards show your wedding will be perfect.

Also, bring Bruce to visit sometime.

I want to make sure he knows how to treat a Siren properly.

You too are full of shocks and sutprised.

-Grandma’

The response came quickly: *Grandma, you’re impossible.

See you soon.

Will visit next month.

And yes, Bruce knows.

I trained him well.

-M*

Myrtle smiled.

Yes, Mishka had indeed trained him well.

The girl—no, the woman—had always been formidable.

The collar, the torture, the battle for Eldergrove had only refined that strength, tempered it into something unbreakable.

As the sun set over her gardens, Myrtle Classens, fortune teller and grandmother, keeper of cards and keeper of wisdom, felt at peace.

The cards had shown danger, and Mishka had survived it.

The cards now showed joy, and Mishka would claim it.

And Myrtle would be here, pulling cards every morning, calling Rose every afternoon, watching over her family with the gentle vigilance of someone who’d learned that the best fortune telling wasn’t about predicting every detail—it was about trusting that the people you loved were strong enough to walk their own paths.

Even when those paths led through darkness, they always emerged into light.

Mishka’s path had proven that truth.

And Myrtle’s cards promised that the best was yet to come.