Fortune (7 page)

She tipped her face up to her mother's and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”

“The biggest and the badest. Always.” Claire smiled softly. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didn't hurt. “I love you, too, Mom. More than anything.”

C
laire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.

How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skye's wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.

Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.

She shook her head, shuddering.
Monsters.
What Skye didn't know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skye's future. Her own.

And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.

But not far enough to stop her daughter's curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.

Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.

For Adam was very much alive.

And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadn't given up.

He wouldn't, Claire knew. Not ever.

Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailer's kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.

Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adam's blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughter's white pinafore.

And hearing her daughter's howls of fear.

When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memory—though Madeline hadn't understood that at first.

No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.

Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skye's condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.

There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasn't qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed that's what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.

Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughter's repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted so…normal. As if she didn't have a care in the world.

That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned “M.” Skye's subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.

Remember, Skye,
it seemed to say.
Remember.

And with the “M” had come Skye's questions. Her discontent with Claire's evasive answers. Her headaches.

Claire brought a hand to her throat.
Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?

The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.

The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.

She couldn't tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldn't, for Skye's own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.

Claire began to mop up the worst of the soup. Today, Skye had offered her an easy solution. Why hadn't she taken it? If she had told her she didn't know who her father was, that Skye was the product of a one-night stand, her daughter's questions would have stopped.

Why hadn't she taken that easy out. Why?

Claire sighed. Because she hated lying. She had told so many of them over the past seven years—to Skye, to school principals, to employers, co-workers. The fabrications made her feel sick, deep down inside. They made her feel small and cheap.

Today, something had stopped her from telling Skye that lie. For, even as she had told herself to take the out, she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. It would have been a big lie, one that would have been irreversible, with far-reaching consequences.

She supposed she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too.

But for now, her inability to commit to either the truth or a lie left her daughter with questions. And fantasies, some of them wild and romantic. She would have to tell her something soon. She would have to make up something safe. Something that would satisfy Skye's curiosity forever.

It broke Claire's heart. She hated being dishonest with her daughter, but she feared the truth more. The truth had a name. It had a face. It had evil intent.

Claire closed her eyes and pictured Adam as she had seen him that last day, flushed with fury, eyes bulging as he tried to squeeze the life from her. She pictured Griffen, remembering the way he had followed Grace around, the way he had stared possessively at his sister; she pictured him holding her baby down while he violated her.

The monstrous dark birds hovered over her.

Claire's eyes popped open and she realized she was panting, her heart pounding. They were after her; Aunt Dorothy had told her so. Even if she hadn't, Claire would have known by her dreams; her premonitions and visions.

She left the mess on the stove and began to pace. It had been Aunt Dorothy who had told her Adam was alive. Three months after she had run away with Grace, her premonitions had started. So, she had called Aunt Dot. Claire had told her nothing but that they were all right—not the names they had taken nor the direction they had gone. Dorothy had begged her to come back. She had told Claire of the depth of Pierce and Adam's fury and of their quest to find Grace. But she hadn't mentioned the missing gems. Not then or in any of their conversations since.

Claire had found that strange. She still did.

The gems.
Many times she and Skye had been desperate for money, but she had been afraid to try to sell the stones. She had no idea how or where such a transaction would take place, but more, she had feared that Pierce would be able to trace her through their sale.

Claire crossed to the dinette, to the storage compartments located under the bench seats. She lifted out a carton of cookware, then dug carefully through it until she found what she had hidden there. A six-inch-square, antique cherrywood box.

Claire looked over her shoulder, then unlocked it with the key she wore around her neck. Nestled inside was the pouch of gems. She'd had no reason to think it might be gone, but she breathed a sigh of relief anyway. They were her insurance policy, though against what she didn't know.

She opened the pouch, dipped her hands inside and moved her fingers through the cool, smooth stones. As she did, she was assailed with the strongest sense that the gems were important, that they would someday help her. That they would help Skye.

She curled her fingers around the stones, absorbing their heat, their vibrations. Images assailed her, of the dark and of cold. Of ice and of a bird of prey stalking, stalking…

Claire made a sound of fear and released the stones. They slipped away from her, the frightening images with them. She closed the pouch, tucked it back into the box, then locked the box.

Someday, she thought again, someday, somehow, those stones would save Skye's life.

C
hance tipped his face to the bright, cloudless sky, squinting against the sun. Sweat beaded his upper lip and rolled down the center of his already slick back. Not even 8:00 a.m. and already hellfire hot. Appropriate, as his first couple of days with Marvel's had been hell.

His first day, the troupe had traveled to Zachary, a town a hundred miles east of Lancaster County. As far as metropolitan pools went, the town of Zachary, Pennsylvania, was about the size of the average spit. Not quite the kind of opportunity Chance had been looking for, but just the type of town that appreciated a show like Marvel's.

No sooner had the drivers positioned the trucks and trailers on the lot than the skies had unleashed a flood. No matter, in anticipation of clear skies later and a heavy opening-night crowd, the troupe had gone to work. Rides needed to be positioned, tested and inspected, booths set up and tents raised.

Chance hadn't had much choice but to acclimate, and to acclimate fast. The rain had turned the low-lying patch of ground into a mud stew, thick, black and viscous. Some places the mud had been so deep, it had seeped over the top of Chance's work boots. After that, with every step he'd taken, the goo squished between his toes.

Once the worst of the downpour had let up, Chance had begun hauling and spreading bales of straw. He'd worked until his muscles quivered, and he bowed under the weight of the wet bales. But still, he'd kept on. He had promised Marvel that he would do the job of two, and he meant to keep his word.

The sky had finally cleared; the customers had come, the night with them. Then Chance's initiation into carnival life had really begun. As Marvel had warned, these boys were rough, coarse and brutal. Brutal in a way he had not been exposed to before. And they were loyal, blindingly loyal. To each other, to the show. And even to Marvel, though he ruled them with a baseball bat.

The others blamed Chance for their friends' expulsion, though Chance knew they didn't suspect the real part he had played in the two getting fired. He was a towner to them, an outsider. The one who had taken the place of their trusted buddies.

In the last two days, Chance had been harassed; he had been threatened. He brought a hand to his swollen and bruised right eye. He winced even as his lips twisted into a half smile. He supposed he should be grateful—the boy who had given him the shiner had also promised to slit his throat while he slept. Yet here he stood, throat intact.

Chance untied the bandanna from around his neck and dipped it into a barrel of cool water, one of many Marvel kept constantly filled for his employees to refresh themselves. Chance drenched the bandanna. He was going to have to earn the other guys' respect. Unfortunately, he knew of only one way to do it—beat the crap out of somebody tough. These boys weren't unlike L.A. street kids—violence was the one thing they understood and respected.

Chance brought the drenched fabric to the back of his neck and squeezed, sighing as the water sluiced over his shoulders and down his back. He could handle it, and anything else that was dished him. For, despite it all—the heat and mud, the exhausting work and the other boys' animosity—Marvel's was his way out.

And nobody was going to screw it up for him. Nobody.

“I saw what you did.”

Chance swung around. A scruffy-looking girl stood a couple of feet behind him, arms folded across her chest, head cocked to one side as she studied him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high, untidy ponytail; her eyes were an almost uncanny blue.

He arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I saw what you did,” she said again, obviously pleased with herself. “The other night, at the hot-dog stand. I heard what you said.”

“Yeah?” Pretending disinterest, he sent her a dismissive glance. “So what?”

“You were scamming Marta, weren't you? To get this job.”

Damn kid was too smart for her own good. Too smart for him to even think about trying to deny it.
He shrugged. “So? What if I was?”

“Aren't you worried I'll go to Mr. Marvel?”

“Why should I be? You're just a snot-nosed kid. Besides, what's the big deal about a bad dog?”

She huffed with annoyance, sounding very adult. “I am not a…
snot-nosed
kid. I'm twelve.”

“Twelve? Gee, that old?” Amused, he turned his back to her. He bent, splashed water over his face, then straightened and retied his bandanna.

“Okay, you're right. Mr. Marvel wouldn't care about
that.
It was a pretty cool scam. But the other one would really piss him off.”

The other one?
Chance swung to face her, narrowing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. Benny and Rick. The shooting gallery, your trick, their fight.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to tell her she was wrong. “Mr. Marvel would fire you if he knew about
that.
”

Chance swore under his breath, then met her eyes. “Interesting fairy tale, kid. But I don't have time for kiddie stories right now.” He moved past her. “See you around.”

She followed him, skipping ahead, then swinging to face him once more. “It's not a fairy tale, and you know it.”

“Is that right? And what makes you such a big authority on everything?”

“I make it my business to know everything that goes on at Marvel's.”

“And I'm sure your mother's real proud. Now, could you please get lost? I've got work to do.”

He started off again; again she stopped him. “When I saw you at the concession stand, I thought you were up to something, so I followed you. I saw the whole thing.”

“Yeah? Well, it's my word against yours, kid. And I don't know what you're talking about.”

She tilted her head back and laughed. “Don't look so worried. I hated those two guys. They were total pigs. I'm glad they're gone.” She leaned conspiratorially toward him. “Your secret's safe with me.”

Just what he wanted, to be in cahoots with a snot-nosed, busybody twelve-year-old girl.
Just great.

“Look, kid,” he said, “you want to buzz off? Like I said, I've got work to do.” He headed in the opposite direction; she followed him.

“My name's Skye.”

“Whatever.”

“My mother's Madame Claire.” At his blank look, she frowned. “You know, the fortune-teller.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not if you don't care about a curse being put on you.”

“I'm really worried.”

“She can do it. She made one kid's hair fall out.”

He laughed. “And I bet she turned another one into a frog.”

“Laugh now. You'll see.”

“You're terrifying me, really. See you around.”

He turned and started for the supply tent. She hurried after him, and he muttered an oath.
What was with this kid? What did he have to do to get rid of her?

“If I ask her to put a spell on you, she will.”

He made a sound of annoyance, stopped and swung to face her. “So, you're saying your mom's a witch?”

“No. She's a fortune-teller.”

“A Gypsy fortune-teller?”

“No.” The girl propped her hands on her hips and sucked in a quick, frustrated-sounding breath. “She's just a fortune-teller.”

Amused, he mimicked her, making an exaggerated sound of frustration and placing his hands on his hips. “Witches put curses on people. Fortune-tellers tell the future. Gypsies do both, at least in the movies. Of course, I don't believe in that stuff. In fact, I think it's all a bunch of crap, so why don't you get lost?”

She ignored him. “Where'd you get the black eye?”

“None of your business.” He started off again.

“I bet it was one of the other guys.” She screwed up her face as if deep in thought. “My guess is Max or Len.” She cut him a glance. “But, probably Len. He's a real badass.”

Chance supposed he would call Len that. He was the blade-happy bozo with dibs on his throat.

“They're all pissed at you,” she continued, “because you took Rick and Benny's place.”

“Yeah, well, that's tough shit. They'll get over it.”

She smiled. “Good thing they don't know what I know.” He glared at her, and she smiled again. “I didn't mean anything by that. I told you I wasn't going to tell, and I'm not.”

This was just getting better and better.
He stepped up his pace in an effort to shake her.

“I'll tell you what to do about those creeps,” she said, hurrying to keep up. “Just give 'em a good pop.” She nodded for emphasis. “They'll respect that.”

He scowled, annoyed that she, a goofy kid, was saying the same thing he had thought only moments ago. “What do you know? You're just a kid. And a girl, at that.”

“So what? Girls can know anything boys can.”

“Right,” he drawled.

“They can!” She lifted her chin, practically quivering with twelve-year-old indignation. “You know, I've been around. Besides, you don't see any black eyes on me, do you?”

He stopped so suddenly she collided with his back. Exasperated, he turned to face her. “Is there some reason you've decided to single me out for torture?”

She laughed. “I like you, Chance. You're funny.”

Funny to a twelve-year-old girl. Wow. Another great life accomplishment.
“I'm out of here, kid.” He started walking away.

“I'll go with you.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

She ignored him. “Really, Chance, you can't let those guys push you around.” She tucked a hank of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “I meet a lot of smart-asses in school. A lot of tough-guy types.”

“I'll just bet.”

“I'm the new kid a lot, and you know what that means.”

He stopped and faced her again. “You seem intent on telling me this.”

“I am.”

“So do it, little-miss-know-it-all. Then leave me alone.”

“You don't have to be so grouchy.” She cocked up her chin. “You have to be smarter and tougher. If they give you any crap, just give it back double. That's what I do.”

“And I'm sure you're very popular.”

“With the principal.” She shrugged. “It's cool.”

“I'll think about your advice. Okay?” Chance saw a couple of his bunk mates across the way, and he scowled, not wanting them to see him conversing with a kid. “Now, for the last time, will you please buzz off?”

This time, when he walked away, she didn't follow or call out. Relieved, he took one last glance over his shoulder, just to make sure. She stood alone, looking out of place in the midst of all the activity around her; she looked lonely.

For a moment he almost felt sorry for her, then he shook his head. If the kid was lonely, it was because she was a know-it-all pest. Let her mother, the witch-Gypsy-fortune-teller worry about her, she wasn't
his
problem. His lips curved up at the thought of actually being responsible for a kid like that. Forget sugar and spice, that girl was nothing but piss, vinegar and trouble with a capital T.

The farther away from her he stayed, the better.