just about emptied out, but in the corner, beside a table piled high with books, a guy was holding court.
His head was shaved apart from one tuft at his forehead that was dyed green. His tanned, sculptured face was cocked to one side, listening to someone.
But hold on! She knew him. He was the guy who turned up last night, demanding to talk to her new stepdad. Bob had said they were friends, but Jonathan hadn’t treated this guy like a mate, he’d treated him like a patient who’d overstepped one of his carefully maintained professional boundaries.
She watched the Tarot reader handling the crowd with all the skill of a snake charmer. Last night he had been as agitated as the lake in a gale, but now he was calm and in control. He was sort of handsome, actually. There was something about him that reminded her of an exotic bird, a kind of deadly beauty.
Several women in the usual Pagan garb flocked around him, emitting nervous giggles every time he opened his mouth. It was like a scene from a school disco – just with added juju. But it didn’t look like any of them were with him. So where was Maya? Poppy sauntered over to the table and picked up one of the books. The front cover bore a Tarot card – the one with the world on it – and it was entitled Tarot: A Road to Self-Discovery by Kane Riverside.
‘I feel like I’ve learnt so much!’ one of the women was saying. ‘Like I’m learning to read the cards all over again.’
‘I’m glad the workshop inspired you,’ Kane said. His voice surprised Poppy. It was soft, posher than she remembered, and totally clashed with his green-haired, tattooed persona.
At that moment, his gaze drifted over the heads of the women to Poppy. His expression didn’t change, but the muscles in his neck visibly tensed. He stared at her, his wide eyes almost the same green as his hair, strange and unnatural. She knew she should look away, but he held her gaze like he had some kind of Superman tractor beam.
Poppy felt herself blushing. God, he was going to think she was one of his adoring concubines. She dropped his book back on the table and turned away – trying to find something else to focus on.
After a few more minutes of fan babble, she heard Kane excuse himself and a second later felt a presence beside her.
‘Did you want to buy a book?’ he asked.
Poppy bit her lip, felt in her pocket for the thirty quid Bob had given her and held it out to him. ‘I was hoping that you’d do a reading for me.’
His gaze travelled down to her chest. She was about to be morally outraged when she realised that he was just reading the logo on her sweatshirt. GOD IS DEAD. Bugger! She probably should have changed into something that was a bit less in his face.
He smirked and started towards the marquee entrance.
‘Put your money away,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘But…?’
‘Come on. It’s a long time since I did a reading for a signed-up sceptic.’
She followed him, almost having to run to keep up with his long strides. He led her away from the bustle of the tents, waving and acknowledging various people en route. They entered a small clearing on the edge of the lake where long twigs had been bent to form the skeleton of a sweat lodge.
For years, Poppy had been fascinated with all things Native American and had begged Bob’s friend, a Lakota medicine woman called Mo Little Wolf, to let her join the adults in the purification rite. Not this year though.
Kane stopped a little way from the lodge and sat cross-legged on the grass.
‘Take a pew, Sceptic,’ he said.
Poppy kneeled a couple of feet away from him and watched as he produced a silk-wrapped bundle out of his jeans pocket. The sun was trying to break out from behind the clouds, but the heavy grey battleships were doing a good job of holding the line.
‘I’m not a sceptic,’ she said.
He unwrapped the cards and spread out the square of brilliant green silk over the ground, making the grass look yellow and
His head was shaved apart from one tuft at his forehead that was dyed green. His tanned, sculptured face was cocked to one side, listening to someone.
But hold on! She knew him. He was the guy who turned up last night, demanding to talk to her new stepdad. Bob had said they were friends, but Jonathan hadn’t treated this guy like a mate, he’d treated him like a patient who’d overstepped one of his carefully maintained professional boundaries.
She watched the Tarot reader handling the crowd with all the skill of a snake charmer. Last night he had been as agitated as the lake in a gale, but now he was calm and in control. He was sort of handsome, actually. There was something about him that reminded her of an exotic bird, a kind of deadly beauty.
Several women in the usual Pagan garb flocked around him, emitting nervous giggles every time he opened his mouth. It was like a scene from a school disco – just with added juju. But it didn’t look like any of them were with him. So where was Maya? Poppy sauntered over to the table and picked up one of the books. The front cover bore a Tarot card – the one with the world on it – and it was entitled Tarot: A Road to Self-Discovery by Kane Riverside.
‘I feel like I’ve learnt so much!’ one of the women was saying. ‘Like I’m learning to read the cards all over again.’
‘I’m glad the workshop inspired you,’ Kane said. His voice surprised Poppy. It was soft, posher than she remembered, and totally clashed with his green-haired, tattooed persona.
At that moment, his gaze drifted over the heads of the women to Poppy. His expression didn’t change, but the muscles in his neck visibly tensed. He stared at her, his wide eyes almost the same green as his hair, strange and unnatural. She knew she should look away, but he held her gaze like he had some kind of Superman tractor beam.
Poppy felt herself blushing. God, he was going to think she was one of his adoring concubines. She dropped his book back on the table and turned away – trying to find something else to focus on.
After a few more minutes of fan babble, she heard Kane excuse himself and a second later felt a presence beside her.
‘Did you want to buy a book?’ he asked.
Poppy bit her lip, felt in her pocket for the thirty quid Bob had given her and held it out to him. ‘I was hoping that you’d do a reading for me.’
His gaze travelled down to her chest. She was about to be morally outraged when she realised that he was just reading the logo on her sweatshirt. GOD IS DEAD. Bugger! She probably should have changed into something that was a bit less in his face.
He smirked and started towards the marquee entrance.
‘Put your money away,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘But…?’
‘Come on. It’s a long time since I did a reading for a signed-up sceptic.’
She followed him, almost having to run to keep up with his long strides. He led her away from the bustle of the tents, waving and acknowledging various people en route. They entered a small clearing on the edge of the lake where long twigs had been bent to form the skeleton of a sweat lodge.
For years, Poppy had been fascinated with all things Native American and had begged Bob’s friend, a Lakota medicine woman called Mo Little Wolf, to let her join the adults in the purification rite. Not this year though.
Kane stopped a little way from the lodge and sat cross-legged on the grass.
‘Take a pew, Sceptic,’ he said.
Poppy kneeled a couple of feet away from him and watched as he produced a silk-wrapped bundle out of his jeans pocket. The sun was trying to break out from behind the clouds, but the heavy grey battleships were doing a good job of holding the line.
‘I’m not a sceptic,’ she said.
He unwrapped the cards and spread out the square of brilliant green silk over the ground, making the grass look yellow and
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