Deep blue velvety sky wrapped around the crisp white ground. Like shining needlepoints, the stars shown, for once unhindered by clouds. Undeniably, it was the perfect night. The cold felt sharp but in an awakening, clarifying way.

Annette couldn’t see it, however. She huddled closer to James as they walked to the car. Shivering, James smiled slightly. After an evening in stuffy restaurant, introducing his girlfriend to his parents, being outdoors felt invigorating.

The evening had gone well enough, he supposed. His valiant attempt to appear engaged received soaring reviews. Stiff yet smiling, his parents interrogated the woman they saw as the potential Mrs. James Bennett. To the contrary, James did not intend to settle down. Annette was indeed a nice girl. He liked her company as well as her very attractive body. Yet like most young men (he had only just turned twenty-two) he contained an adamant fear of being tied down. He disliked the idea of someone owning him or belonging to someone. He wanted to be free, to be excited, and to wake up every morning to the unknown. Stability was his only mild, sometimes disgusting, consolation for this raging desire.

He grew up in a solid family. From the day, his father graduated from college to the present, the man labored hard and pointlessly as a tax lawyer. His mother, a former ballet dancer, took up the grand occupation of a homemaker for her only son. His childhood was of the American dream, the best books, and toys, anything he could ever want. Naturally, he was good at sports and academics. Socially, he preferred his own company to his classmates. He knew he was a bit of a disappointment. His parents wanted the All-American boy, quarterback, homecoming king, friend to legions. He just didn’t desire any of those things.

Annette was that dream. He knew that she would please his worn parents who already craved grand children. Besides, she soothed him a bit, made him take on challenges he otherwise would have blown off. She was good for him as others said.

But he could not shake that feeling. That feeling he had had since he was little, that restless want to reach out, to grow, to touch that unattainable sky, and to escape all of this. It screamed for him to free himself from those expectations, those stainless steel spider-webs encompassing him, constricting him. He knew he had more than this. He had … destiny? He never mentioned it, for fear of being blown off as crazy. He probably was insane... but at least he had the intelligence to hide it.

“You parked the car so far away because?” Annette moaned, pushing up closer to his warmth. He smirked slightly, “I wanted to prevent any fast getaways on both our parts.”

“Really, your parents aren’t that bad. Your mom’s really cool. She’s got stories,” the words fell into his scarf along with a particularly wet sneeze. “I can’t believe she put up with that instructor.” Frankly, James hadn’t been listening. These stories were nothing new to him. He probably could tell them himself.

“If anyone slapped me with ballet shoes,” She began with a great emphatic indignation.

“You’d take your ruler to them. You are becoming a teacher, you know, you’re going to have to start becoming evil and uncaring.” He rather carelessly said. The fog, almost like smoke, wafting from his words fascinated him … maybe he should start smoking …

“Stop it with the sarcasm. I plan to nourish the minds of young children today,” Annette declared. Her entire body structure seemed to gain a new height to it. That dream, she could taste, filled her with meaning, purpose. With an almost envious look in his eye, he watched her.

“And I plan to take their parents for everything they’ve got.”

“You don’t have to be a bad lawyer,” she said, a plaintive tone in her voice. This discussion had been discussed several times before. In the tradition of their professions, James beat Annette.

“On another note, do you remember where I parked the car?” He asked her. She gently knocked him on his side. For ten minutes, he had led her astray. Vaguely, he remembered parking the useful import somewhere under a lamppost. This bit of memory did not help much, though, due to the rows of tall streetlights.

“Hey, wait a minute I see it,” Annette called out then stopped, “or maybe not. There’s a girl sitting on it.” As they drew closer, the car came into view and so did the young woman seated on top of it.

Her appearance in no way accounted for her location. In fact, her big black boots and gothic dress (so heavy, so clashing with her delicate looks) hindered any sort of explanation. They approached the car and met awkward silence. The young woman sat there, calmly, not looking at them. Her eyes, a strange shade of bright blue/gray stared at the sky.

“Hello, excuse me, why are you sitting on my car?” He asked her. A straightforward strategy seemed best. She turned her head towards him and their eyes met. A word escaped his lips before he could think, “Cordelia?”

“Do you know her?” Annette said. Quietly, the young woman eyed Annette. Her brows knit quite adorably in thought before she plucked a card, seemingly out of the air. In excoriating detail, it depicted a bolt of lightning striking a sturdy tower. Flames, spiraling into the inky black sky, erupted at the opposing forces’ intersection. He almost could touch the stones of the building and feel the crack of static electricity. His eyes felt so hazy yet so clear. They weren’t entirely his. Someone or something else thrilled within him, something part of him, yet different from everything else.

“Yes.” A single word with more meaning than anything he’d said that night. Someone else used his lips or was it him (?) who said, “Cordelia, are you going to say anything?” She exhaled a smile, almost abashed.

“I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. What do you remember? Can I call you Darius?” She said smiling, conscientiously. With a surprising lack of grace, she plopped down next to him. Annette stood to the side, her mouth a vacuum for the night air.

“No … call me James …, could you remind me of what’s happened?” He asked, straining his mind. Suddenly, the notion of forgetting something of the utmost importance played havoc with his already confused brain. He needed to remember those lost scraps of data.

“Don’t stress. Something fucked up the works with your reincarnation. Despite how I died,” she added sheepishly, “I remember everything.”

“Don’t swear,” Annette spluttered out, her reserve dissipating. The whole situation danced completely out of her realm of understanding and control. This strange girl with strange talk kept on distracting them and James continued to humor her. “I don’t know who you are. Could you introduce yourself?”

“Oh,” Cordelia let out a disconcerted, airy syllable, then continued, “I’m Cordelia … an old … companion of James, here.” With completely purified annoyance, Annette, spewing steam from her pupils, burst, “What’s going on?”

“Corde, why did you talk so openly in front of her?” James exhaled the words. Annette couldn’t understand. He barely understood. And the only fully enlightened person kept being interrupted and off track.

“This the only time I could. In about an hour, a couple of Chalices will catch up with me and I need help. You’re the only one near enough and powerful enough.” James nodded, biting the unfamiliar and unexplained irritation at the fact, she considered other people.

“Look,” she addressed, “I’m sorry to spoil your date.” He liked that bitterness. Like a warm yet hard wind, familiar and friendly jealousies and possessiveness returned to him. It was nice to know she shared the sentiment. “I can just leave town.”

“Cordelia, are we really going to continue this passive-aggressive act? After about 300 years, it gets old.” James drawled, hands in his pockets, “Anne, I’m sorry. This must all sound crazy. I just need to talk to her. I’ll explain everything to you late. You can take my car home.” He crossed his fingers tighter with every word. Wrenching every drop of hope out of his mind, he studied Annette carefully.

Annette opened her heavily glossed mouth and irritation rang with every syllable, “Okay, fine.” The “f” of the word, “fine” was overly exaggerated then snapped closed by the end in true diva style. James gave her an appreciative look; he had not known she had it in her. With stone cold fingers, Annette wasted no time in prying the keys from his hands. In five minutes, she drove away, the car making furious jerks.

Cordelia and James did not watch its progress down the snow-dusted street. They already strolled towards a well-light café. Sharing a comfortable understanding, neither spoke a word. It was clear to both of them once they sat down at a table in the toasty little lounge, she would spill all … or at least all she was going to share.

Their soft footsteps stained the new fallen snow and only softly nudged the scene’s silence. Once they finally reached the café, the noise was disconcerting. However, the heat sung to his cold limbs and he rushed in.

After surveying the area, noting the plump leather couches mixed in with assorted tables and comfortable armchairs, he pointed to a particularly plush set of chairs in the far corner. Cordelia, strangely silent, her hands in her pockets, her eyes fixed on his back, followed him to it.

The two of them sat across from each other. She gently collapsed into a fluffy purple chair. He, as straight-backed as the chair behind him, dropped unto a weary yellow one. Like the chairs, they were mismatched, a teen Goth and a college golden boy.

“Okay,” she began, visibly collecting herself, “Um where’d you want me start?” Everything shifted and wobbled as if they stood in a quagmire during an earthquake. They didn’t know where they stood so they didn’t know how to go forward.

“From the beginning,” He reiterated. The golden brown of his eyes reflected a white-hot excited edge. Maybe it was just the light but she did not appear as … positive, her fingers twitched.

“In the beginning, most likely in the dark ages, there were leagues of sorcerers.” She started shakily, not necessarily eager to please but more unsure of what reaction she would get. Her eyes, the color dark New England waters, watched him, catching his face’s every movement. Eyes narrowing, he watched her watch him. He could tell she wanted the truth to be believable, reasonable and not in the least ways incriminating. Therefore she would bend it. With every word the fell from her pale lips, he reminded himself of that.

“Each one had a unique power or powers and a sigil. With every year, they gained power. We gained power and lived,” she stopped, a light wistful smile on her face, “in splendor.” Her words were fast, but precise and her visage reflected each one. She wasn’t just telling the story, he realized, she was reliving it and repeating it, “But we got corrupted or something … its all dim now … or maybe we just got to powerful we couldn’t float up to the sky and were bound to the earth …” The pensive edge dulled and she continued more contemporarily, “Anyways, we keep going through bodies, most of us don’t live very long. Our sigils were adapted into cards and given meanings by gypsies. They are somewhat true but they gypsies commercialized it all. You’re the tower. I’m the star, though that makes it sound like I’m some cheesy washed up actress.” Her eyes shifted to the left, a half eye roll. He staid silent, his hands clasped in front of him. Using all the listening skills he learned in his life, he absorbed every word with avid eyes.

“The gypsies interpret the card as good, as inspiration, but the truth is it’s about fate and inevitability, injustice of situations. So I can tell the future … usually only in ‘flashes or feelings.’” Apparently, this was a delicate subject. She gripped her wrists nervously.

“We always meet and not always with good outcomes. Once, we killed each other … I think the Sun convinced you that I predicted and ensured a lady friend of yours death. Then about three hundred years ago, we became partners of sorts.”

“Remember there are two variations within the sorcerers, the major Arcana, or trump cards and the minor Arcana. The major are more powerful but fewer. The minor Arcanum is spread out into …. I can’t think of the right word … gangs, chalices, swords, pentacles, and wands. They’re constantly feuding. It takes about five minor Arcane to equal one major, like us, so they’re constantly trying to use major Arcana, especially ones with passive powers like mine. They will kill people with aggressive powers, like yours to prevent the other side from getting them. And so instead of you always fighting, and me always running, we joined together, set a record. Forty years is a long time for an Arcana member to live and here we go again. Did I get it all?” He smiled. She wanted to see if he bought it. She had told him the truth. His own dim and distant memories of past grievances and triumphs wafted back to him, confirming it. However, she left so much out; he could feel it, itching like thorns brushing against his fingers.

“No,” He blatantly declared and her face in correlation fell, “But its enough for now.” He remembered the euphoria of magic, the invincibility, and that delicious thrill licking his insides. He remembered her, when she wasn’t her yet, when she was a tanned fisherman’s daughter. She spoke boldly, not like the other women he had met, hands on her hips and eyes on his. She proposed a deal, an alliance for mutual protection. He’d taken her hand as they stood outside the dingy town they’d run too. Just beyond city limits, but he could still taste the city’s filth. He turned away from it, towards the sea and said yes.

The Hierophat then called Dudley Marsh and several minor Arcana cronies wanted to experiment with her powers and try to steal his. Originally, it’d been a deal of convenience, not out affection, right? Then it grew to become? He pushed the strict taunt barriers of his memory. They weren’t hard, exactly, but so tight he bounced back. He couldn’t remember. Maybe they were lovers … Maybe friends … He couldn’t imagine being her him being enemies or neutral to each other, but when thrust into a new world and an old world at the same time, you never knew.

“Where do you live? What’s your new identity,” He interrogated. Every rebirth meant new names and new families, to be forgotten later, things so important to the people around them turned to dust by cycle and time. Cordelia kept her name every time, no matter what she was Cordelia and he … he was Darius or was he now?

Cordelia didn’t answer. A waitress appeared, a lean college girl, holding a small notepad. Cordelia ordered a triple espresso, five sugar packets and inquired of their liquor license. A smirk glanced his features, he watched the flustered girl.

“No, we don’t serve alcohol,” The waitress said. An invisible vacuum seemed to suck in her face, scrunching it together. Her thoughts, unsaid but definitely heard, reverberated in the room, this is a coffee shop, damnit.

“Is there anyway you could add some syrup to it or extra caffeine?” she asked a hint of hope tainting her words. Her eyes glowed expectantly, already envisioning the frothy, sugary concoction. He could practically see the “coffee drink” dancing in her eyes.

“I can add vanilla, caramel, chocolate, mint or strawberry syrup but Miss does you really intend to consume that much calories and caffeine?” This waitress clearly was a college student in some form of health study most likely. Clearly, she meant for great things to happen because and for her, and saw this job as a stepping-stone and treated it as such.

“No I intend to eat more.” She retorted, her eyes overly bright. So the name of the game is distraction, he thought. She didn’t look like the type to harass a waitress purposefully or the type to care too much about what she ate, one way, or another. Already, she displayed a wish to avoid hard facts. “I’ll take extra caramel and lots of whipped cream.” He, with slight amusement, eyed the waitress a moment. The waitress, eager to get away from the strange Goth girl, sprinted to go get her order.

Appearing strangely satisfied, Cordelia weaved her fingers together on the tabletop. “I’m a horrible person for torturing her, aren’t I? I work as waitress too. You’d think I’d have some professional courtesy.”

“You would,” He murmured, “So I ask again, if you’ll stop avoiding: What is your new identity?” She flicked her waist-length dye-tainted hair a little, acting affronted, but really only continuing the game.

“Technically, my name is Gabrielle Croft but don’t call me that name.” Cordelia said, scowling slightly. “I am Cordelia.” He appraised her for a moment, hearing the hidden message behind her words. And you’re Darius.

His cell phone rang and vibrated from within his pocket. Watching her look of vague annoyance, he picked it up. The instant he opened his phone a voice carried over the line, sobbing desperately,

“James …. She’s dead.”