One night, Aidan is roaming the Castro. It is late. All of the stores, even the bars, have closed; all except one. It would be easy to miss it, even though the words The Mystic Eye, lettered in iridescent gold and violent purple, arch over a turquoise and black eye. It would be simple to walk right by, even though from behind dusty windows, crystal balls and tarot cards whisper promises and happy endings.
The door is unusually heavy. Opening it takes an act of will. Inside, the shop is small and empty of people. Two of the walls are covered by thick burgundy velvet curtains. The third holds a bookshelf; the middle shelf is jammed with colorful paperbacks on tarot, fortunetelling, star charts and all things occult. On the top shelf, unreachable except by ladder, sag a few oversized leathe
