"I'm a clairvoyant, Mr Marcus." Cassandra gestured with one hand, taking in the whole room. Marcus
had already noted the bookshelves filled with arcane literature, and the idols and artifacts from a
dozen cultures that stood everywhere. "I don't count many religious people among my clients."
The pain in Marcus's cheek was mounting. A serious attack was about to come on. "I'm not religious,"
he snapped. "I'm desperate!"
Cassandra didn't reply. All her life, she'd been inordinately sensitive to other people's feelings.
"Empathy," her mother used to tell her. "It's a gift, girl. My own mother had it. You must use your
empathy to help people."
For a long time after her mother's death, Cassandra had done anything but help people. She didn't
want to feel the pain of others, didn't want to empathize with them, didn't want to be burdened with
the problems of total strangers. So she'd dropped out of her university art classes and set off to find
the world. Or, perhaps, to lose herself in it.
She went to Egypt, and to the Rose City of Petra carved out of the sandstone rocks of Jordan. She
spent a year in an Indian ashram, fasting and meditating. Only when the Chinese soldiers turned her
back as she tried to enter Tibet over the mountain passes did she realize her long journey was over.
She'd seen a lot in those years, but the most important thing she'd learned was, you can never run or
hide from yourself and what you are.
Now, twenty-five years old, Cassandra was back in Gotham City, back in the apartment she grew up
in, doing exactly what her mother had told her was her duty—helping other people.
Cassandra took a small black silk bag from a shelf behind her, loosened the drawstring, and slid out
the pack of worn tarot cards it held. Slowly, deliberately, she began to shuffle the well-thumbed
cards, at the same time striving to relax and let her mind go blank. Foretelling the future—or even
reading a person's character—never seemed to work properly when her ego was involved.