Chapter One Elara

Chapter One

Elara

There’s something to be said for the “opposites attract” theory. It certainly holds true in my life. Every important person I’ve ever known has had a personality the complete opposite of mine. I’m like a magnet, repelling the similar and attracting the different.

Which is why instead of celebrating her birthday my way—splurging on dinner at the Modern and taking in a Broadway show—my best friend, Stella, has chosen a themed night of “wine and witchcraft” at her place.

Much like my mother who abandoned me and my grandmother who raised me, Stella is a free spirit—a modern-day hippie. She believes in the power of crystals and the idea that fate steers us toward our destiny. She reads her daily horoscope, takes fortune cookie advice seriously, and regularly burns sage to cleanse her apartment of evil energy.

I’m the pragmatic sort; I only believe in what I can see with my own eyes, and I’m confident that I’m the one carving out my path in life, nothing else. But I envy Stella’s innate ability to just go with the flow and trust in what she thinks are signs from the universe. In my thirty-two years, I’ve never quite mastered the art of being carefree.

That’s why I love Stella. She’s the peanut butter to my jelly. She balances me out, and I like to think I do the same for her. Plus, she reminds me a lot of my Granny Bea, and although my grandmother’s free-spirited tendencies caused me a lot of headaches and anxiety growing up, she was my home. And now that she’s gone too, Stella is all I have left. I’d be lost without her.

Holding up the bottle of Malbec, she waggles her thick brows at me. “Can I tempt you with another glass, El?”

“You know the answer to that,” I say, shaking my head. “No more than two—”

“Or then you spew,” she finishes for me with a playful roll of her warm brown eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know the rule.”

That rule has been my mantra since freshman year of college when I had three rum and Cokes and spent the rest of the night heaving up my spaghetti dinner. Marinara sauce burns like hell coming back up, and undigested pasta looks disturbingly like worms. The experience was horrible enough to convince my brain I can only handle two drinks, max.

“One of these days, I’m going to get you to break it. But until that day comes, we can do these instead.” Stella reaches into her hobo bag and withdraws a small, gleaming silver tin, placing it carefully on the polished lacquered oak coffee table between us. Staring up from the lid’s label is a pink cartoon bear dancing in front of a green five-pointed leaf.

“Gummies? I don’t know, Stell. I think I’m good with just the wine,” I say, eyeing the tin warily.

“Oh come on .” Her curls bounce as she dramatically tilts her head and draws out the last word. “I know you don’t like feeling out of control, but that doesn’t happen with these like it does with alcohol. You’ll feel relaxed and giggly, that’s all. Please? It’s my birthday, and I wanna do edibles and tarot readings with my bestie. Is that too much to ask?”

Stella pins me with puppy-dog eyes and a practiced pout that’s felled many a man and, if I’m being honest, me. The woman is a menace. Laughing, I give in, as I always do with her. “Okay, fine. Let’s get giggly and predict our futures.”

“Yes!” She raises both arms in the air in celebration, her stack of turquoise bracelets sliding down her narrow forearm.

I pick up one of the gummies from the tin—a tiny bear molded from translucent amber gelatin. Its little ears and rounded belly are almost too cute for something that was outlawed up until a few years ago. I squeeze it between my fingers. For a moment, I hesitate, misgivings swirling in my mind about relinquishing control. But with a resolute sigh, I banish the doubts and pop it into my mouth.

“Ooh, I almost forgot.” Stella strikes a match and lights three black taper candles before digging through her bag again. “I found a new tarot deck today. I swear I felt it pulling me in when I saw it in the shop. Check it out.”

She hands me the new deck. Or rather her new deck, because it’s apparent that it’s actually quite old. The artwork on the worn box is captivating—ornate golden filigrees framing an illustration of a full moon. Its silvery beams of light silhouette a forest of trees, knotted and twisting toward the sky. Their branches form intricate patterns, and if I knew more about tarot, I’m sure I’d pick up on the symbols hidden in the boughs.

I tilt the box, and the cards slip out like they’ve been waiting for freedom. I riffle through the deck, the cards emitting a subtle, musky scent of aged paper and sandalwood as I move them from one hand to the other with the push of my thumb. They’re slightly curved from countless readings, their edges feathered and soft. Each one wears its years with small nicks, faint scratches, and faded earth tones depicting figures draped in flowing robes, mythical creatures, and ancient ruins.

“I can see why you were drawn to this deck,” I say, tracing the long braid of a woman who sits regally on a throne nestled in a lush, blooming meadow, ripe pomegranates hanging above her. “The cards are beautiful.”

“I know.” Her smile is a flash of white against her tawny skin. “I’m excited to see what they tell us. Want to go first?”

She holds her hand out, but I shake my head, red hair dusting my bare shoulders. “You’re the birthday girl. You get to hear about your future before I hear about mine.”

Stella practically bounces off the puffy cushion embroidered with mandalas and adorned with tassels and straight onto the hardwood. “Yay! Okay, now you need to shuffle—”

I arch my brow. “Stell, how many times have I done this with you?”

Yes, I know how to pull tarot cards for a reading, though that happens to be where my expertise ends. And no, that doesn’t mean I believe whatever the tarot says. I went through too many years of schooling to have my psychology practice questioned by a deck of cards. But my best friend wholeheartedly believes, so I play along.

“Right, sorry. I’m going to go break the seal quick. brB.”

After she scurries off to the bathroom, I finish my second and final glass of wine, then start shuffling. The air thickens, charging with the electric energy of a summer storm about to break. The hairs on my arms stand on end, but a scan of the room doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary. It’s probably just the wine. Or the gummy taking effect.

Preparing for another shuffle, I split the deck again. A single card slips out, almost jumping from the deck, and lands face up on the coffee table. It’s the Nine of Swords, but the design style is completely different from the warm, earthy tones of the other cards.

A deep purple backdrop highlights a solitary figure cloaked in darkness and illuminated by nine swords so vibrantly silver I have to squint to see their glistening points. The sky is a bruise of purples and blues, and wisps of shadow seem to reach out from the card’s edges.

A low hum fills the room, resonating in my chest, and the candles flicker, their flames stretching and contorting as if caught in a gale. The air heats with an otherworldly energy, a palpable force that makes my skin prickle. It’s as if the shadows lift from the art, weave around me, and pull me toward the card. It’s an irresistible force that tugs at my very core.

I pick up the card, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s warm beneath my fingers, glowing, humming in time with the beat of my heart.

Wind gusts through closed windows, rustling the linen curtains and making me shiver. The bursts of air intensify, throwing loose papers across the room and wrapping around me in a whirlwind.

The world tilts hard, and sparks of light dance at the edges of my vision, filling the space with a shimmering haze. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the vertigo. Even with them closed, the sensation of my body tumbling and spinning is overwhelming, and it’s all I can do to keep the contents of my stomach down. Sounds blur into a cacophony of whispers and distant echoes. And then I hit the floor. Hard.

“Ow, damn it.” Apparently, closing my eyes didn’t stop me from falling over. At least the world has stopped spinning. “Stella?” Holding a hand to my aching head, I open my eyes and gasp. “What the…”

Stretching out before me is a breathtaking landscape bathed in the soft glow of dusk. Rolling green hills ripple across the horizon, dotted with small stone cottages complete with thatched roofs and wisps of smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. Narrow dirt paths weave between them, lined with clusters of wildflowers that add splashes of color to the lush green.

“Okay, Elara, remain calm. This is merely a response to mixing wine and edibles.”

As a psychologist who keeps up with the advancements in using psychedelics in therapy, I’m aware that high doses of THC can cause hallucinations. But I only had one measly gummy! Then again, so did Stella, and she has a much higher tolerance, which means the milligrams were likely higher than a typical dose for novices.

“Freaking great. Stella, can you hear me? I’m seeing things over here,” I say as I slowly get to my feet and brush the hallucinated dust from my heather-gray leggings. I take a few test steps, wondering if I’ll run into her furniture or a wall. I don’t hear the sharp creaks from the old wood floors as she moves around or the sounds of the wind chimes tinkling on her balcony or the low hum of her refrigerator.

Maybe I’m not really moving or talking. Maybe I’m just lying on her floor, passed out while I cavort around in whatever alternate universe my brain’s created.

“Great,” I sigh. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

As if on cue, the distant sound of horses’ hooves clopping on the dirt road reaches my ears. A moment later, they crest the hill—a pair of sturdy horses pulling an honest-to-God covered wagon behind them. Not the kind that traveled the Oregon Trail, with its bulky frame and plain canvas stretched over wooden bows. No, this wagon is entirely different.

It’s grim-looking and straight out of a medieval tale with heavy, dark timber and sides reinforced with iron bands that glint dully in the waning light. Small, barred windows are set high along the wooden walls. Chains and manacles hang from hooks along the sides, rattling and clanking as the whole contraption creaks forward on massive wooden wheels.

And sitting on the bench, holding the reins, is a portly man wearing too-tight clothes from the Renaissance era. His outfit is as disheveled as it is outdated. A once-white linen shirt, now stained and yellowed with sweat and age, peeks out from beneath a tattered leather jacket that barely contains his barrel-like middle. His pants are a dull brown, patched at the knees and clinging to his stout legs. Mud-spattered boots rise to midcalf, the leather cracked and soles uneven.

This hallucination is odd, to say the least, but since I’m stuck with it until the effects of the gummy wear off—which could be up to eight hours on the high end—there’s nothing to do but see how it plays out.

“Whoa there,” he says, pulling on the reins when he reaches me. “What are you doing out here all by yerself, m’lady?”

He scratches his scruffy beard, crumbs flaking onto his chest as he gives me an unwelcome lascivious appraisal. His beady eyes trail down my body and up again, lingering on my breasts. I suddenly feel naked, despite my yoga pants and light blue spaghetti-strap tank top that I wish had better coverage than the thin shelf bra.

Pulling my long auburn waves in front of my shoulders for extra concealment, I affect a casual tone. “Just out for a stroll is all. Have a good night.” I hastily turn and walk in the direction he came from, eager to put distance between us and wanting no part of whatever he represents in this bizarre vision.

But as I pass the wagon, I realize it’s more than wood and metal. It’s a giant wooden cage. A cage full of women.

What the fuck, brain?

I step forward to get a closer look. There’s a massive iron padlock on the heavy door, its surface rough with rust and age. Five women peer out from between the thick iron bars that crisscross the door. Their eyes are wide with fear, and their ashen faces tear-streaked.

They’re dressed in the same Renaissance style as the driver—coarse linen dresses, dulled and dirty, laced tightly at the bodice and flowing down to their ankles. Their wrists are shackled with heavy iron cuffs connected by short chains. The metal clangs as one woman reaches for the bars, clutching them so tightly her knuckles turn white. I lock eyes with her, and my hands start to shake. Her tear-filled gaze is a silent plea for help.

Rage ignites within my chest, a searing ember that quickly spreads like wildfire. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and my nails dig into my palms. Hallucination or not, I can’t stand by and do nothing.

I step closer to the door. The cold metal padlock bites into my fingers as I tug at it. “I’m going to get you out of here,” I promise, my voice firm despite the blaze of emotions burning through my veins.

“Please, be careful,” one of the women whispers as they exchange uncertain glances.

A shadow falls over me, and I spin around. The driver’s standing uncomfortably close, his beady eyes narrowing. The stench of stale ale and sweat rolls over me, making my stomach churn.

“Open this up right now and let them go,” I demand, squaring my shoulders, ready to read this dirty bastard the riot act. “There will be no trafficking of women in my hallucinations.”

For a moment, he seems taken aback. He raises his scraggly brow, his gaze flicking over my athleisure.

“Well, come on,” I press, taking a step forward. “I’m in charge here, and I say they go free.”

A slow, greasy smile spreads across his fleshy face, and he dips his head in a mock bow. “O’course, m’lady. My apologies. I’ll release them straightaway.”

A newfound confidence sweeps through me. I might be temporarily trapped in a fabricated world of my own making, but at least I can control what happens.

We switch places, and I watch intently as he pulls a large, tarnished key from a ring at his belt. The key slides into the padlock with a grating sound. The heavy lock releases, and the door creaks open.

“You’re free now,” I begin to say, reaching out to the women.

But before I can utter another word, cold metal snaps around my wrist. Shock ripples through me as I glance down at the tightly clamped iron manacle. I try to jerk away, but he anticipates my movement. His meaty hand shoots out, grabbing my free arm, and with a violent yank, he forces my wrists together. Before I can wrench myself free, he secures the second manacle around my other wrist.

The man grips the metal with one hand, pulling me toward him. I open my mouth to yell when he presses the sharp tip of a knife to my throat. “Don’t make a fuss now, or yer blood’ll spill all over those strange clothes of yours,” he hisses, his breath hot and sour against my face. “Go on and join your friends, m’lady. I’m sure they’ll be happy for your company.”

I swallow hard, the movement pressing my skin against the dagger’s edge. Fear floods my veins, cold and overwhelming. Real or not, I have no desire to see my blood spilled. Slowly, I nod and step up into the wagon. The floorboards creak under my feet as the women shuffle aside to make room.

He slams the door shut behind me, the lock snapping back into place with a finality that echoes through the enclosed space. His mocking laughter fades as he returns to the front, and moments later, the wagon jolts into motion.

The air inside is thick with the scents of damp wood and unwashed bodies and lit only by slivers of fading light that filter in through the barred windows. I sink down onto a rough wooden bench. The splintered surface digs into my skin as the reality of my situation settles like a stone in my gut.

“I don’t have any control in here after all,” I whisper.

This isn’t some gummy-induced hallucination; it’s a full-blown nightmare.

But knowing I’m inside a nightmare doesn’t make it any less scary. It just makes me wish harder that I’d wake up.

As we bump along the uneven dirt road, I keep my eyes on the passing landscape instead of the women I’m sharing this cage with. If I look at them, I’ll start trying to psychoanalyze what they represent, when really they’re no different from NPCs—nonplaying characters—in video games. My subconscious put them here to serve whatever story it’s telling me, that’s all.

Hallucinations feel very real to the person experiencing them. I know this. I’ve studied this. Ex-combat vets, for instance, have flashbacks so vivid they feel like they’re right back in the middle of firefights or explosions, even if they’re just sitting in their living room.

But I never imagined I would be thrust into a vision as real as this. One where the details are so sharp and alive—the cool evening air brushing my cheeks, the rhythmic clatter of horses’ hooves, the creaking of the wagon wheels mingling with the soft weeping and murmured prayers of the women huddled beside me, the heaviness of the unrelenting iron cuffs beginning to chafe and bruise my wrists.

The remarkable authenticity forms a pit in the bottom of my stomach, whispers of a devil’s advocate gnawing at my thoughts.

What if this is somehow all real?

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elara,” I scoff. “You didn’t magickally fall into an evil Ren fair.”

“No talking!” the driver barks from the front, his gruff voice slicing through the tense silence. The others startle and instinctively shrink back, making themselves smaller as if afraid of drawing his attention.

Fire burns in me again, and I force myself to take a deep breath. This is just a hallucination—a disturbingly realistic one—but a figment of my overactive, THC-addled imagination nonetheless. All I have to do is wait it out.

My reassuring self-talk is cut short at the sight of the massive gate ahead of us. It gleams gold even in the waning light, its ornate metalwork catching the last rays of the sun. Stars enclosed within circles adorn the towering structure. Above the archway, a grand sign reads “Kingdom of Pentacles” in elegant script.

Pentacles? That’s one of the four suits of tarot.

Well, now I know this isn’t real. Obviously, my subconscious is pulling in tarot elements since that’s what I was looking at before I passed out.

As we approach, guards clad in polished armor open the gate and wave us through. Oil lamps light the way, casting warm pools of light along the cobblestones. Stone-front businesses line the streets like wraiths, their thatched roofs leaning toward each other as if in whispered conversation. Candlelight flickers through their windows, casting shifting shadows that watch us as we pass. Hay litters the street, muffling the sounds of wagon wheels and horse hooves.

We come to a stop beside a rickety wooden platform with chained manacles bolted to the weathered boards every few feet. My heart sinks as the grim reality sets in. We’re going to be sold.

A crowd begins to gather in front of the platform, murmurs rippling through the spectators as they try to get a better look. Women scrutinize us with shrewd eyes, assessing what tasks we might be suited for, while the men openly leer at our every curve and exposed inch of skin. Clearly they’re imagining a different sort of servicing.

My stomach drops when the bastard holding us prisoner strides to the back of the wagon and opens the barred door with a smirk as slippery as a serpent. “Out ye come, little tarts. It’s auction time.”