I leaned against a light post. Twirling the end of my ponytail, I cast him a flirtatious smile.

He glanced over one shoulder, then the other. Frowning, he hiked a thumb at his chest.

I pointed at him and mouthed: Yes, you.

His lips parted.

I crooked my finger at him, and he started for me immediately—until a burly priest grabbed his arm to usher the boy inside. The Tower craned his head back to keep me in sight.

As if I’d let you get away, kid.

Once I heard singing, I entered the church. Despite my skimpy outfit, I sauntered down the aisle to a front pew. Every gaze in that choir fixed on me, including the Tower’s.

I took a seat and shucked off my backpack. The boys around him noticed my attention and elbowed him.

Up on a stage, with that stained-glass backdrop, he looked so . . . virtuous.

Once he and I took out Death, I would use my particular ability on the Tower. After a good boy like him turned killer, he’d have no defense against my Weight of Sins.

I pulled a notebook from my pack and scribbled some words, as dark and bold as I could. Catching his gaze, I held up the notebook and turned the pages.

You

Me

Coffee shop across street

4 today

Face gone redder than his choirboy collar had ever been, he nodded.

_______________

At twenty-five till four, he entered the shop.

I’d gotten here at three.

His eyes darted until he spotted me, sitting in the back. His cheeks grew red again, and he whirled around, suddenly enthralled with the display of coffee mugs.

He was wearing a threadbare button-down and jeans. I’d bet he’d agonized over his clothes for the first time in his life.

I waited, but he was too shy to approach me. I wondered if he’d ever even kissed a girl. I called, “Hey, choirboy.”

He turned slowly, then headed toward my table. When he stood before me, he swallowed thickly.

I kicked a chair out for him. “What’s your name?”

He sat. “I’m P-Patrick Joules,” he said with a thick accent.

“I’m Calanthe. Where are you from?”

“Oirland.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” he answered. With his gaze dipping to my plunging V-neck shirt, he added, “You must be eighteen or nineteen.”

I teasingly asked, “Are my boobs staring at your eyes again?”

His head snapped up, his expression mortified. If blushing could kill . . .

I grinned. “All parts of me think you have really nice eyes.” He actually did. “And I’m sixteen, for the record.”

He canted his head, his blush relenting a bit. He cleared his throat and said, “Wh-whereabouts are you from?”

“I was born in India, but I grew up all over the place. I’ve been going to high school here for two years.”

When I’d turned thirteen, my sister had made me apply to exchange programs in a dozen different countries, but they’d all been full.

Miraculously, a spot had opened up here. Which had led us to believe the game would be played out in this country. Bingo. Already players were converging. “What are you in town for, Tower?”

He frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“You don’t know about the game?” I studied his face.

“Game?” His confusion deepened. When I raised my eyebrows, he said, “I don’t know about any game.”

When I focused on a person, I could sense his or her sins; this boy wasn’t lying. “I’m just messing with you. Seriously, what are you in the States for?”

“I’m here for two weeks for a choir competition.”

I leaned forward and murmured, “I think you have a sexy voice.”

It broke when he asked, “C-can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

As I stared into his earnest eyes, I felt a flare of something like pity that I’d have to murder him.

But I was the Temperance Card. The Weight of Sins had never bothered me. “Only if you promise to ask me out before I finish it.”

_______________

Seven days ago

“What do you think, choirboy?” I asked Joules, standing in the eighty-sixth-floor observatory of the Empire State Building. Lights twinkled below and beyond. A storm was rolling in—just as forecasted; all according to plan. Except for a few mugging couples, we had the place to ourselves. “Pretty cool, huh?”

He and I had seen each other as much as possible for the last week—before and after his choir practice, and every night as well when he sneaked out of his dorm. I’d taken him to my favorite haunts, trying unsuccessfully to sleep with him. He hadn’t even attempted to kiss me!

“Ach, how much did it cost you for this?” he demanded. I could tell he was amped (maybe literally?) to see the city from this height, but he hadn’t stopped scowling since I’d handed over our tickets.

I huffed. “Does it matter?” He always insisted on picking up the bill, though he couldn’t afford it. By the way his stomach growled each afternoon, I suspected he was using his lunch money to pay for us.

Which kind of struck me as . . . romantic.

“It matters to me, Cally.” That was his nickname for me; apparently it was a law in Ireland that everyone had a pet name.

“This isn’t the eighteen hundreds. Girls take guys out sometimes.” Even if there were no game, I’d probably want to see him. I’d been surprised by how much I’d enjoyed spending time with him.