by Tegan Maher
“Unfortunately, it looks like they damaged the equipment in the theft,” Martin announced with a frown on his face. “And with that damage, friends, the light show’s clue for the car scavenger hunt was lost.” The crowd groaned. “However, since I hid it, I just so happen to know where the car is, and”—he swept his arm toward a loud muscle car entering the square slowly—“we’re going to give away the car right here tonight!”
“What crap,” a college-age young man with boyish good looks complained. “Now, every drunken idiot is going to have a chance to win that car.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky, Zach,” his friend said.
“Stop complaining, Zachary,” an older woman snapped. “It’s unbecoming.”
“But I studied the whole stupid town for this scavenger hunt, Ma! And I found the damn bottle last night in just two hours!” he said, an angry glint in his eye. “I only came back from school to try to win that stupid thing since you won’t bother buying me a car! Now, what are they going to do, a lottery? It’s just crap.”
“If you all will just make your way over to the ticket booth,” Martin boomed to the crowd. “Just one dollar will buy you one raffle ticket and a chance to win a brand new car! All the money raised tonight will go to the greyhound adoption group that operates out of the track—”
“Aw, you got to be kidding!” Zach roared, throwing down his backpack and stomping his foot.
“—and there’s no limit on ticket purchases, so be generous!”
“Great, now I’m going to have to spend the $500 I won last night for digging up that old bottle,” the young man complained as his mother looked on disapprovingly.
“That’s a heck of a difference in prizes,” I remarked as Gunther and I watched people racing to the ticket booth, fists of bills in hand. “An old bottle buried in the dirt, and then a car?”
“Well, the bottle wasn’t the prize, the money was,” Gunther said.
“Oh, the bottle was a prize, alright,” an old woman’s voice said behind me. Turning, I saw Miss Bessie, the older woman that was supposed to have gone back home. Clearly, she finagled more time at the party from her caretaker, Claire. “For him.” The old woman pointed at Martin Salvi. “It was pretty brilliant if you think about it. Probably not even the real thing, though. Still, smart if you think about it.”
I thought about it and didn’t follow. “If you think about what?”
“If you want something, and you can’t find it, why not put the clues you have out into the world and see if someone else can?” Miss Bessie said as Claire, standing behind her, mouthed apologies. “A good way to get people motivated is to give ‘em money.” She glared at the red two-door as a police officer gunned the engine. “Or fancy cars.”
“Miss Bessie, it’s getting late, we should get you back—”
“I’m talking!” The old woman snapped at Claire before she’d gotten through her sentence. Turning she reached out and wrapped a hand around my arm. “You’re coming to stay with us, aren’t you, dear?”
“I’m so sorry,” Claire apologized as she tried to pry Miss Bessie’s hand off my arm.
The old women’s grip was like iron.
“It’s alright,” I told her, nodding. “I’m sure she doesn’t realize how strong her grasp is.”
“I realize more things than you do,” Miss Bessie said, and then threw her head back and cackled. “Oh, I can feel it. I can feel it. It’s there, it’s there!”
Sweat broke out on my body, and I had no idea why. Something about the woman’s words…
“Miss Bessie, you can’t paw the tourists this way,” Claire murmured, pulling the old woman back so her hands could no longer reach me. Gunther stared at the old woman, his eyes full of pity.
“She’s no tourist,” Miss Bessie whispered, her eyes clouding. The old woman swayed on her feet as if a bout of dizziness had just overcome her. “No tourist, that one. No, no. It’s almost time, Claire. I’m telling you. I can feel it. It’s there…”
“I’m very sorry, Miss,” Claire told me, gathering the old woman up in her arms. “Miss Bessie is old and not always in her right mind. She means no harm by what she says. She’s just…” Claire cast her eyes toward Miss Bessie. Her gaze was filled with affection. “Sometimes, she has bad days.”
“Not this one, Claire. Oh, Claire, not this one at all,” Miss Bessie whispered as she nodded off, standing on her feet.
“Can we help you get her back to where she needs to go?” Gunther asked, stepping forward.
“No, her grandson is over there.” The young woman jerked her chin toward the police gathering in a group. “He’ll help me if I need any, but I shouldn’t. I’m used to this. Again, my apologies if she bothered you.” Without waiting for a response, Gunther and I watched her lead the old woman away.
“They should leave her in that home,” a voice said behind me. “Why Gabe insists that relic be taken out on the town in her state, I just don’t know…”
I didn’t turn around to see who was speaking. I was afraid the urge to punch the anonymous man in the nose wouldn’t be an urge I could fight.
Gunther and I walked away from the crowd and stood in front of a boarded-up storefront.
“Did you sense anything from her?” he asked.
“The old woman?” I asked. He nodded. “I didn’t try.”
I felt it before I saw it on his face. The disapproval hit me in a wave. Like Gunther deliberately turned a psychic hose on me and opened it up. Steadying myself, I shook off the onslaught and shot him a dirty look. “Dude, that was uncalled for.”
“It got your attention,” Gunther half-smiled. Quickly, though, his expression turned serious. “Actually, I didn’t mean to overcome you. I have said nothing about how you live your life until now, Fortuna, because I feel it’s none of my business. We all had enough of that when the Witches’ Council was in power. But the decisions you’re making—”
“What decisions?”
“Well, thousands of dollars on construction, for one,” he said, gesturing toward my storefront/new home standing caddy-corner from where we were. “You realize Charlotte, and I could have helped you do all that for nothing, right? Yet instead of asking us to—or having us teach you—you’re hiring human construction workers. They’ll take three months to fix it. Thousands of dollars. Why?”
“Because that’s how long it takes,” I pointed out.
Gunther shook his head no. “Not for us.”
“They don’t know there’s an us,” I pointed to the crowd ten paces away circling the shiny raffle prize like they were lost in the desert, and it was an oasis. “How am I supposed to explain a three-story brownstone getting completely refurbished in a night? Or, okay, let’s say we try to fake construction. What, snap your fingers once a night for three months?”
Gunther frowned. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Because you’ve never lived in the human world, Gunther. You’ve always lived in the paranormal one, with paranormal people. And you people didn’t even follow the paranormal world’s rules, anyway. You lived in the renegade circuses that made their own rules.”
“I thought taking the death penalty from paranormals living in the human world would change things,” he said, gazing out into the crowd. “Enable us to come out into the open more. At least stop us from taking such great pains to hide what we are.”
“I’m not ready to do that here,” I said, frowning. “And anyway, I agree with Priestess Goodfellow. Going diving in someone’s head for their deepest, darkest secrets, for their intimate thoughts—even if they may not have accepted what’s in their own mind? It’s just not right. So, I won’t go cracking people’s psyches open like cantaloupes. And I really don’t want to make people suspicious by wiggling my nose and making things happen that shouldn’t be possible—”
“Then what’s the point of being what you are?” Gunther asked seriously.
“So…okay, look—I’m a gun,” I told him. “I’m like a human gun. I�
��m powerful, and I can be lethal. I can tear through boundaries when necessary, but I need to stay in the dang holster unless someone is in serious danger. Concealed. You understand? No one needs to know what I have unless I have to whip it out in an emergency.”
He looked troubled but not angry. I was once again astounded by the gentle kindness that just seemed to permeate every aspect of Gunther’s being. It wasn’t surprising that Charlotte fell madly in love with him—well, eventually. I didn’t need telepathic powers to know that Gunther was a genuinely incredible guy.
But I didn’t want to discuss this with him. He and I? We weren’t the same.
“Okay, suppose you’re right. This will all be difficult for me to understand. I have never lived in the human world despite having been half-human,” he nodded. Gunther had lost his mother early in life, and she had been his one human connection to the world. “But I still think some truths are universal. So, promise me you will still practice. I understand the humans with their guns still go target shooting to stay sharp.”
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
“And we’re about to draw, folks!” Martin shouted from the dais.
“Let’s see if that fellow gets his car, shall we?” Gunther asked.
5
A dagger of pain stabbed me right in the center of my forehead. Gasping, I reached out in Gunther’s general direction. My hand closed around an arm—I hoped it was his. “Pain,” I whimpered.
Then suddenly, just as quickly, it withdrew, leaving a vague pressure.
“Are you okay?” Gunther asked, his arm enclosing me protectively.
Even though the stress against my mind passed quickly, I felt suddenly on alert. The bright lights intensified, the cheers of the crowd poured into my ears like waves. My heart pulsed like a drum.
“Fortuna, are you alright?” he asked more insistently.
“I…don't know. I don’t know what just happened.” Small noises were magnified, and snippets of conversation came at me from all directions. I felt…heavy. Thick. “I know what this is!” I said, my head snapping up. “These are my shields. I remember this from when Priestess Goodfellow taught me…” I frowned. “But the reaction in class was nothing like this. It’s the same feeling but, like, magnified a thousand times. Someone just tried to attack me.” I looked around, but everything looked the same.
Even so.
It was a magical attack. I was sure of it.
Then I smiled. I had just automatically repelled it. Go me.
“What could be magically attacking you?” Gunther whispered, his voice low and his eyes alert.
“Whatever it is,” I said, looking around. “It’s strong. Like, really strong.”
My limbs felt like they were encased in armor. Priestess Goodfellow told me that the stronger the attack against me, the more profound the feeling I would have when my magical shields repelled it. I rubbed the site of the initial pain, but there was nothing there. The skin was smooth.
As I glanced around, my eyes locked with Martin Salvi’s driver. He looked frustrated.
“Fortuna!” Barbara Jordon, our real estate agent, drunkenly careened into me. A mousy woman, middle-aged, followed behind her. “So glad you came to the… um, the… light show Christmas extravaganza? Christmas-time car light thing?” Her clothes were in disarray as she raised her hand in a salute. “Anyway, the Christmas thing is always fun, isn’t it, Mirabelle?”
Barbara pulled the inhibited woman forward with a tug, and Mirabelle blushed hotly. Within a few seconds, her expression grew more confident, and she said, “It is, yes, always fun. We’re so glad that you’re moving to our little town, Fortuna. As mayor, I’m just over the moon when outside entrepreneurs bring new business to our sleepy little town.” She smiled broadly. Then she blushed and shrank back.
“I’m sorry, did you say you’re the mayor?” I didn’t mean to sound as incredulous as I did, but it was hard not to be surprised. The woman was reserved, almost skittish. Her streak of temporary confidence was like a child playing at being a grown-up. I could not imagine her being the mayor of a town. Any town.
“I am,” she nodded. “Three years now.”
“Okay, folks, just two more minutes to get your raffle tickets!” Martin Salvi shouted. In contrast to Mayor Mirabelle, Martin had a wonderful voice for giving orders. It was deep and full of conviction.
It was that conviction—complete conviction—that caught my attention. It felt almost forced.
I turned and eyed the Corvette. The car was brand new. It had to be a sixty thousand dollar car, easy. There weren’t enough people in the town square—even if everyone spent five-hundred dollars like Zach had said he would do—to come close to its worth. More money would be raised by merely selling the thing.
I turned to Mayor Mousy. “Mayor, does Martin Salvi sponsor this entire festival?”
“Yes, of course,” she nodded vigorously. “The track goes out of its way to make sure it does things like this for the townspeople. Why, if it wasn’t for Martin, I don’t know that we’d have enough money in the town coffers to keep this going at all.” She beamed in his direction. “Such a nice man.”
I frowned. “Isn’t the track within the city limits?”
She frowned, her head spinning. “Why do you want to know?”
The mousy mayor’s sudden defensiveness put me even more on edge. I’d heard the track was massive, with a casino and hotel. It had to generate an enormous amount of tax revenue for Mystic’s End. So why would the town not have enough money to “keep it going” if Martin Salvi’s largess just stopped? His business would still generate taxes, wouldn’t it?
“Fortuna, you’re such an inquisitive person,” Barbara said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Just relax, have a drink. Have a good time! Mirabelle needs to go say hello to all the other business owners. We’ll see you later! Tootles!”
“It was nice to meet you, Mayor—”
Before I could finish, they were gone.
“You think it was the mayor that magically attacked you?” Gunther asked, watching the two women walk away. “She seemed to get pretty defensive about your question.”
“I don’t know.” I’d moved around Mickwac, Texas plenty once they took the circuses down—yet I’d never felt so out of sorts in a group of humans before. Things didn’t seem to make sense—from the old-fashioned real estate agent suddenly boozing it up in the square to the car being raffled off for a pittance supposedly to raise money, to the supernatural swipe someone took at me.
Which, to be fair, was probably what I needed to concentrate on.
A dog barked behind me, and I turned.
For a split second, a dark-colored hound with shining brown eyes and a long snout stared at me. Then he tilted his head, barked again, and dashed off into the crowd.
Once the dog moved, I was staring at the thief, Bubba Johnson. He was sitting on a bench, handcuffed and weeping.
“I’m telling you, Sheriff, I didn’t do it!” Bubba Johnson cried, sniffling loudly. “I don’t remember anything! I don’t! I took nothing, and I would never do that! Never! Why would I take that stuff? I don’t even know how to use it!”
Bubba’s voice carried above the din, but it looked like I was the only one that heard it—or was the only one paying attention. I moved toward him. Gunther followed.
“Bubba Johnson, you just sit there quietly until the raffle’s over,” Sheriff Clutterbuck told the terrified young man sternly. The sheriff’s directive did nothing to change the kid’s deer-in-the-headlights look. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and Mr. Salvi won’t want to send you up the hill.”
Bubba saw me standing there, watching, and turned. “Lady, I didn’t do nothin’,” he pleaded. His eyes were filled with tears, and waves of desperation rolled over me. I frowned. The kid was not only distraught, he believed he was telling the truth—and he couldn’t understand why no one believed him.
I cleared my throat. “Sheriff, does this young man have a history of mental prob
lems?”
“Fortuna, what are you doing?” Gunther asked, grabbing my arm.
“I don’t have any head problems, Miss,” Bubba told me. “I do really good in school, and I listen to my momma, and I…and I…” He erupted into another crying fit, coughing and seemingly angry that he couldn’t be tough and hold it together. Off to the side, a group of high school boys laughed at his weakness, and I felt my own anger flare. “You shut up, Billy! I didn’t do this, I’m telling you. I didn’t do this!”
“They caught you red-handed, Bubba!” one boy shouted.
“You’re an idiot! You shouldn’t have come back! Moron!” another called.
“Hey, don’t you boys have somewhere else you need to be?” I snapped without thinking. A third boy taunted Bubba once more, and it was enough to propel me into action. Just two steps and the young men scattered into the crowd. I turned back to the teen. “Bubba, where’s your mother? Can I get her for you?”
“Is this your problem, ma’am?” Clutterbuck asked, eying me up and down.
“Is there some reason you’re keeping him on display like this?” I asked.
“As I said—is this your problem, ma’am?” The big man with a hand on his gun looked me up and down as if he were assessing the threat level my five-foot five-inch frame presented. He did his best to disguise his disappointment as he removed his hand from his firearm. “Why don’t you move along now? Go have yourself a drink.”
What’s with everyone in this town and booze? I was just about to deliver a sharp retort when suddenly, a voice behind me said, “What seems to be the issue?”
Turning, I found myself face to face with Martin Salvi’s driver. He was so handsome, so dazzling, my breath caught in my throat. For a second, I felt so overwhelmed, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like his mere presence drove all thoughts from my mind.
Then I heard a dog bark, and my anger flared.