THE LAST DRAW

The bell over the shop door rang once, quiet and tired, just like it always did on these long, humid Baton Rouge nights.

Outside, the air was thick from the river. Cicadas buzzed under the streetlights. Inside, moonlight came through the big front windows and hit the crystals—amethyst, quartz, selenite—so the walls lit up with broken bits of light.

Jars sat on the windowsill—rainwater, storm water, moon water—each one labeled neat, each one set where the light could reach it.

Genevieve didn’t look up.

“We closed, chère,” she said, pressing a tarot card flat against the table. The card shimmered faintly etched with crescent moons, silver ink catching the light.

The door creaked open anyway.

“Oh, I won’t keep you long,” Paulette said, stepping inside as if the night had invited her in.

Genevieve’s fingers stilled.

She lifted her gaze slowly.

The woman stood there, too put-together for this late at night. Her back was straight, chin up. She brushed her sleeve like she felt something on it, then fixed one of her dark rings. Her eyes moved around the shop, taking everything in.

They paused on the jars.

“You keep it clean,” Paulette murmured. Her fingers hovered near one, then pulled back like she’d touched something too pure.

“My sisters would call this… delicate.”

A faint smile.

“They’ve always preferred their magic with more… substance.”

Something tightened in Genevieve’s chest.

Not just her.

Something behind her.

Faint, like voices buried deep in the ground—far away but still watching.

“You don’t listen too well,” Genevieve said.

“I hear you perfectly,” Paulette replied, easing into the chair with careful grace. She smoothed her skirt before sitting. “I simply don’t concern myself with being turned away.”

Genevieve leaned back slightly, studying her.

“Then say it.”

“A reading,” Paulette said, folding her hands neatly. Her rings clicked softly against the wood. “Three cards will do. I don’t require much.”

Genevieve glanced toward the window.

The moon was full and steady. Its light hit the crystals and reached her too.

She heard her grandmother’s voice in her head: Don’t read on a restless night unless you’re ready to see what’s looking back.

Genevieve exhaled slowly.

“I’ll read you three,” she said. “Then you gone.”

“Mm… we’ll see about that.”

Genevieve shuffled the cards. They were smooth and worn. Each card showed a phase of the moon, drawn in silver that caught the light.

“Ask your question.”

Paulette leaned forward slightly.

“What’s ahead for me?”

Genevieve split the deck.

“The past.”

First card down. Paulette didn’t look.

“The present.”

Second card. Still nothing. The air shifted. Subtle. But heavy. Like the air right before a storm. The candle flames stretched tall and thin. Genevieve’s chest tightened.

“You feel that?”

“Yes…” Paulette murmured, brushing her sleeve again. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

Genevieve flipped the final card. Darkness spread over the card, thin lines moving across and covering the silver moons. Not painted. Moving. Alive. The candle popped, and hot wax hit her skin. Genevieve stood.

“You ain’t come for no reading.”

Paulette rose with her, calm as ever. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t sense it the moment I walked in.”

The room dimmed. The edges of the shop blurred. Genevieve felt it—her magic. Cool and steady, tied to the moon. Being pulled. Her breath caught. “You trying to take it.”

“Don’t make it sound so crude,” Paulette said lightly, adjusting her ring.

“This isn’t theft. It’s preservation.”

She stepped forward.

“What you possess is… uncommon. My coven has been searching for something like you.”

A pause.

“I told them I would handle it.”

Genevieve’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t know what you touching,” she said—but there was a flicker of hesitation there.

Paulette smiled faintly.

“They warned me you might say that.”

Genevieve’s brow furrowed.

“They also warned me not to come alone.”

A beat. She adjusted her ring again. “But I don’t like sharing credit.”

The floor seemed to shimmer. The shop felt like it was slipping away. Half here. Half somewhere else. Voices started up under the silence. Not spirits. Echoes. Women’s voices—layered, distant.

Take only what’s needed.

Do not break the veil.

The whispers bent. Warped. Until they sounded just like her. Genevieve’s pulse quickened.

“You opening something you can’t close.”

“Then I suggest you close it,” Paulette said coolly. “Before this becomes… inconvenient.”

The pull sharpened. Genevieve felt her control slipping, then something moved behind Paulette. Genevieve froze.

“That ain’t yours.”

Paulette turned. The space split. Darkness moved in, bringing the smell of rot, wet earth, and old smoke. The veil tore wider. The world shifted into stillness. Soft. Endless. Moonlight wrapped around her. For a moment, Genevieve felt no fear.

“Baby.”

Genevieve turned. Henrietta stood there, wrapped in silver light, warm and steady.

“Grandma…” Genevieve whispered.

Henrietta cupped her face.

“You been holding back,” she said gently. “Playing small with big power.”

“I didn’t know if I was ready.”

Henrietta gave her a small smile.

“Ain’t about ready. It’s about who you choose to be.”

The space seemed to shake.

“You don’t fight her kind,” Henrietta said. “You bind it. Between worlds.”

Genevieve nodded.

“I got you,” Henrietta whispered. “Now stand in it.”

⸻

Back in the Shop

The room snapped back into place. The darkness lunged.

Paulette staggered. “What is that—?”

“What come through when you reach too far,” Genevieve said—steady now.

The shop shook. The crystals clinked together. Water in the jars moved.

“If that cross, it ain’t stopping here.”

“Close it,” Paulette snapped, composure cracking. “Now.”

Genevieve looked at her. Then dropped her hand. Power rushed through her, cool and bright, like liquid moonlight.

“I’m closing it.”

“Go on then,” Paulette urged, tension slipping through. “Handle it.”

The circle under their feet lit up. The opening fought. Pulled. Screamed. Genevieve held steady. Then— She shifted it. Just enough. The circle tightened around Paulette.

Her eyes widened. “Now just a moment—”

“Too late.”

The energy pulled in tight. The veil sealed. Silence fell. The shop returned. Whole. Still. Paulette staggered, brushing her sleeve—frantic now. Her hands flickered. Unstable.

“What exactly have you done?” she demanded.

“You wanted my magic,” Genevieve said. “Now you stuck where it passes through.”

Paulette moved to the door. It rippled. Wouldn’t open. Her reflection lagged, twisted out of shape.

“Do you have any idea what they’ll say if I return empty-handed?” she asked, voice tightening.

“I was supposed to bring them everything.”

Genevieve held her gaze.

“They didn’t send you.”

Silence. Paulette didn’t answer. Behind her, the veil thinned. The whispers returned. Not distant now. Clear. Cold. Measured.

You reached beyond your place.

You broke the boundary.

You claimed what was not given.

Paulette stilled. Her breath caught. The connection, not her power, but the thread that tied her to them, snapped quietly. Not violently. Not loud. Just… gone. Like a door closing somewhere else. She was still strong. Still dangerous. But no longer held. No longer backed. Alone. Her composure cracked—just slightly.

“You truly believe this settles anything?” she asked.

Genevieve stepped forward, flipping the final card.

“It doesn’t settle it,” she said softly.

The candle burned steadily. Moonlight filled the room.

“It just means I know the difference now…”

Her eyes held Paulette’s.

“…between power that’s shared…”

A breath.

“…and power that’s taken.”

The room settled. Balanced. Held. And somewhere beyond the veil—nothing answered her anymore.