Throne by Phil Tucker

the phooka raised one fist, and then uncurled the fingers in a rippling motion. Maribel heard the distinct report of the lock to Ms. Silestra’s shop popping open. The phooka lowered its hand, and said nothing.
    Reaching out, she opened the door, and peered inside. The entry lounge was as she had last seen it, but in shadow now, the lamps turned off. All was neat, and a faint odor of incense still hung in the air. Moving forward, Maribel let the door swing closed behind her. It snicked shut. She moved to the window, opened the curtain, looked out across the street. The phooka was gone.
    Frowning, Maribel crossed the waiting room and moved to the hall that led down past the kitchen to the consultation room. Everything was silent, but somehow it didn’t have the feeling of abandonment that an empty house manifests. Maribel tapped her fingers on the door frame, and then stepped into the hallway. The first door was a linen closet, stuffed full of books, towels, blankets and snow globes. The second door opened to a set of stairs the color of espresso that had lightened to cream at the edges and led up. The faintest sound of music wafted down.
    “Ms. Silestra?” Maribel called, “Isobel?”
    “What?” called down a voice, startled. Maribel heard the thump of somebody standing up quickly on the ceiling above her head. “Maribel?”
    “Yes, it’s me, Maribel Martel,” she yelled back, surprised at being so quickly recognized. The sound of feet stepping quickly across the floor, and then Ms. Silestra was at the top of the stairs, staring down at her. She was dressed in a thick blue bathrobe, her hair spiky with water, her eyes hard and wide.
    “What are you doing in my house?”
    “The door was open. I called out, but you didn’t answer.”
    Ms. Silestra—Isobel—frowned down at her and then crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t seem convinced. “The door was open? If you say so. Are you alright?”
    “Yes, I mean, I don’t know. I’m sorry, this very forward of me. I should have called ahead, but—my thoughts are still jumbled up from yesterday. Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment? I don’t want you to do a reading for me, but just, well, talk.”
    Isobel stared down at her, jaw hard. Finally, something in her gaze softened, and she reached up to rub briskly at her wet hair, sending a fine, almost invisible spray of water into the air. “Fine, all right. I’ve been meaning to check up on you anyway. Could you get some tea going? Mine’s gone cold. I’ll be right down as soon as I dress.”
    “Thank you, Isobel,” said Maribel, and felt a rush of gratitude and warmth towards the woman. She realized then just how unnerved the phooka had made her, and how welcome tea and company would be. Isobel gave her a lopsided smile, and disappeared from view.
    Entering the kitchen, Maribel set the kettle to boil, fished out some tea bags, rinsed out a couple of mugs and found herself humming as she did so. Movement, action. She was doing something, going in some direction, no matter how mad or improbable or insane such movement might seem. She was working toward her goal. Sofia . She stood still, relishing the feeling, and then whipped around as something tall and gaunt and dark stepped past the door, long legs carrying it out of view just as quickly as it had appeared. Heart hammering, she stuck her head out the door, but there was nothing outside. The phooka , she told herself. Just the phooka. Relax . But she didn’t hum again.
     
    Isobel joined her in the entrance room, where Maribel had set the two mugs to steam by themselves on the coffee table. She was waiting for the psychic on one of the couches, her legs tucked up under her, one elbow on the arm of the couch, chin propped on her hand as she gazed out into the middle of the room and there lost her focus. Isobel descended the stairs on her heels, jarring her way bonelessly to the bottom till she spilled out into the room and stood, looking at