This story is set after my fic, "Ninth Gate: Corso's Choice", which explains why Corso is still alive after the end of the movie. I have plans for Dean Corso....heh heh heh.

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The Ninth Gate: Fortune Foretold

Outside, the shadows were lengthening in the Paris street as winter twilight approached. The woman sat at her favorite table at Cafe Armande, where she could catch the attention of les touristes as they made their way back to the facilities. Because of the constant traffic back and forth, it was not an otherwise popular table. The staff tolerated her presence there, nursing a single glass of cheap wine, because when her business was slow she was willing to fold napkins and do other little chores for them.

The cafe was a good place for a meal; it was not a place where people usually went to get drunk, which was why she noticed the man at the bar. Well, there was also the fact that he would be a good-looking man if he was healthy...but transparently, he was not. What a pity. His clothing was well-cut, and the silver hair threading his temples gave him a distinguished air.

From time to time, as he sipped his scotch, the sick man rubbed his forehead absently. He lit each cigarette from the stub of the last with unsteady hands. A veritable cloud of smoke surrounded him. By the bottom of his fourth scotch, nature was calling. He was making his way toward the lavatory when he stopped in his tracks, staring down at the cards on her table.

"You would like a reading, monsieur? Buy me dinner and I'll read for you," she offered. Her half-full wine glass sat on the table beside the deck of cards.

"Why not?" he said, sitting down across from her. "But not with them." He eyed the Hanged Man with disfavor. Ah, an American, by his accent, how surprising. In her experience, Americans were health-conscious in the extreme, and usually shunned smoking as if that sacrifice alone would help them live forever.

"I don't need the cards...they're just a prop, they add to my air of mystery." She gave him a conspiratorial wink. He seemed almost ready to bolt, and she wanted dinner badly. The fragrence of Bastian's lamb was making her stomach beg.

Marie appeared beside their table. "You're not annoying our guests again, are you?" she asked the seated woman with a hint of impatience.

"Not at all," the American assured her in serviceable French. "I'll be paying for the lady's dinner."

The psychic gave him a warm smile, and turned to the server. "I'll have the onion soup, the lamb, with baby carrots if you have them, some of those lovely little rolls, and ask Louisa to save a big napoleon for me...thank you, monsieur." She bestowed a bright smile on him as Marie turned away, looking disgruntled. "What's your name?"

"Dean Corso."

"A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Corso. Now, you would prefer that I not use the cards to read for you?" He nodded emphatically. "Then give me your hands." The mystic extended her own hands, palm up, on the table, and after a brief hesitation, he covered them with his own. They trembled slightly, not from fear, but whatever condition afflicted him.

"You are a scholar," she said at once. There was an impression of many fine books, rooms full of books...a quest for knowledge.... "Grief...you have lost someone close to you, a long-time colleague..." It was tied in to the books, somehow, but from the tightening of his lips, she knew she'd struck close to home.

For a moment, she was silent, absorbing the multitude of impressions that came to her...bewildering, as always...he was in pain, and that clouded things further. Someone walking away from him, and anguish in his heart...a naked woman, his sense of fear and urgency. Yes. And what -- ? Strange familiarity, someone...Someone...? Maddening, to almost know....

"You have traveled a very strange road, Monsieur Corso, and you haven't come to the end of it yet. I see three things in your future: you will be rejected by an old friend, you will make love to save your life, and you will find God...a god...the son of a god...?" Her voice trailed off, and she pulled her hands away, a troubled expression on her face. "All I see there is shadow...."

Her soup arrived. The American pushed his chair back from the table, and caught up with Marie. He pulled a wad of Euros out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand. She gaped at him as he said something in a low voice. "Monsieur -- !" she called after him, but he was bolting past the fortune-teller's table, probably toward the destination she'd diverted him from in the first place.

The restroom was claustrophobically tiny, the prophetess knew. She heard the door close behind him, and faint retching sounds. Dear, dear. Not that he was suffering because of anything he'd eaten here, but luckily, she was the only diner near enough to be aware of his illness. He was in there for quite a while, long enough for her to finish her soup and receive with pleasure the plate of tender agneau with its accompanying carrottes.

At last, she heard the door reopen and slow footsteps coming down the hall. When he stepped back into the cafe proper, she raised an eyebrow at him, and he forced a smile, not quite meeting her eyes. Ah, well, so he didn't much care for her prophecy. There was nothing new there.

Dean Corso left the cafe, and behind him, Cassandra enjoyed her dinner.

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