by Hart, Callie
“I told you, fella. No red. I ain’t gonna tell you again,” the tattooed guy growls. “We got a strict dress code tonight.”
The balding man throws his hands up in the air, making a show of looking around. “There’s no sign about a dress code, buddy. I’m wearing a button-down shirt and nice shoes. I can’t see the problem.”
“I’ve told you what the fucking problem is. The fucking problem is that you’re wearing a red jacket, and I ain’t lettin’ anyone wearing red down here tonight.”
“What kind of a rule is that? What can you possibly have against the color red?”
The guy, at least a foot and a half taller than the other man, looms over him as he stabs his finger into his chest. “I don’t have to explain myself or anything else to you, my friend. Now get gone, before I move you myself.”
“I could call the better business bureau, y’know. This kind of flagrant discrimination’s against the law. They could shut you down without a momen—”
Baldy lets out a strangled squeal as the tattooed guy lunges out and wraps his hand around Baldy’s throat. Lifting him a foot off the ground, the guy takes three steps to the left and unceremoniously deposits Baldy right into the gutter. The tatted bouncer gives Baldy a moment to regain his composure, waiting until he’s stopped coughing and spluttering before he addresses him again. “If you’re not gone by the time I’ve counted to three…”
He doesn’t even need to start counting. Baldy takes off at a fast clip down the street, sending furious, humiliated glances over his shoulder as he hurries away. The other people standing in line, including myself and Garrett, all glance warily down at their clothes. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I for one want to make sure I’m not wearing anything red.
I’m not, thank fuck.
Patrin—the kid in the orange jacket said a man by that name would be taking money at the door, and that he would be in a terrible mood—quickly snatches money out of people’s hands and ushers them down the stairs, though by the looks on a lot of people’s faces, over half of them aren’t all that sure they want to visit the fair anymore. By the time we find ourselves in front of Patrin, I’m well and truly ready to give up on the entire escapade, call an Uber and get the fuck out of here.
“What on earth do you call that?” Patrin asks.
I blink up at him, fighting to swallow the instant lump in my throat. “I’m sorry?
“I said, what the fuck do you call that?” he demands, pointing an accusatory finger at my cell phone, which I’m holding tightly in my hand.
“Uhhh…it’s…a cell phone?”
“I know it’s a cell phone. What do you think you’re doing, holding it in your ever-loving hand like that?” Just like the kid in the orange jacket earlier, he has an accent, though his is even subtler. It’s the way he speaks, the inflection and the strange lilt to his words, that makes it sound like he isn’t one hundred percent American.
“Ahh. I don’t know. Just holding it?” I replied weakly. “Making sure it’s safe?”
“No cell phones allowed down there, sweet thing. You’re gonna have to leave it with me.”
“What? No. I don’t think—”
Patrin folds his arms across his chest. “You wanna go down or not?”
“Yes.” The truth is that I don’t want to go down. Not one bit. But the photo of Corey in my pocket can no longer be ignored.
“Then hand it over. Don’t worry. You’ll get it back when you come back up.”
“I didn’t see anyone else handing over their phones.”
Patrin scowls as he points at a small basket on a tiny table behind him. A table I haven’t noticed until he just pointed it out. Inside the basket are six other cell phones with pink coat check numbers stuck to their screens.
“Right.” Reluctantly, I give him my phone. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he applies a fresh coat check sticker to the screen, and then dumps it into the basket. I accept the corresponding ticket from him and slip it into my jacket pocket.
“Don’t lose it,” he warns. “You’ll be shit out of luck later, won’t you.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement that brooks no arguments. He turns his attention to Garrett. “What about you, big fella? Where’s yours?”
Garrett shakes his head, holding out empty hands.
“Fuck’s the matter with you? Let’s move this along, shall we? It’s cold and wet, an’ I don’t particularly want to be out here, dealing with you folk.” The way he says ‘you folk’ makes it sound like we’re criminals or something. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” I say tightly. “And he can’t speak, so don’t get shitty with him.”
Slowly, Patrin’s head turns, his intense gaze boring holes into my skin. “Well aren’t you a firecracker. Got a sharp tongue in your head, woman.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “And you have a mean streak a mile wide. We all have our crosses to bear. Are you going to let us in or not? It is cold and wet, and we didn’t come and wait out here in the rain for the fun of it.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. Up until now, I haven’t given much thought to how he looks, apart from the fact that his expression is severe and angry, but in actual fact the man’s quite handsome when he smiles. He’s probably in his early thirties, and the tinge of grey at his temples gives him a rugged, strangely attractive edge. “I like a woman who speaks her mind,” he purrs. “Wouldn’t get too comfortable speaking to people like that down there, though. Go on, Gadje. I’ll see you later when you come for your phone.”
My insides flutter with adrenalin as I walk past him and descend down the steps. Garrett gives me a gentle prod in the back that I understand all too well: what the hell was that? Are you crazy?
I grunt, taking care of where I’m stepping in the darkness, pretending like I don’t notice his silent comment.
The stairs are wide and slick beneath my feet. I can’t see if they’re coated in moss and slime, but it sure feels that way. At the very base of the stairs, the kid in the orange jacket is sitting on a high wooden stool, holding a flashlight in his hand. He jumps when he notices us; he clearly didn’t hear us coming down to meet him.
“Ahh, you made it! Where’s your friend?”
“Sarah? She wasn’t feeling well. She had to go home.”
“That’s a shame. All those different dead animals on her clothes. Looking at her was very confusing. I liked her.” It’s an odd comment to make, but the kid doesn’t mean to offend. His affable, wide smile and the bright twinkle in his eyes speak of genuine amusement. There’s something charming and innocent about him.
“Never mind,” he continues, his smile broadening. “You’re still here. You’re ready to eat, drink and be merry, then?”
His words remind me that Sarah told us not to drink anything down here. Seemed like a weird warning. The kind Alice should have been given before she tumbled down the rabbit hole. Shame. I could really use a drink right now. “We are,” I say, plastering a broad smile of my own onto my face.
“Hold out your hand, then. This stamp’ll get you into most of the attractions. There are a couple you might have to pay extra for, but hey…you’ll still get your money’s worth with this.” The kid presses a rubber stamp against the inside of my wrist. When he removes the stamp, an inky black mark has been left behind. A sickle moon surrounded by stars. “I’m Leo. If you need anything, I’ll be right here, ready to be of service.” He winks at me, and I realize with a twinge of embarrassment that he’s kind of flirting with me. The color in his cheeks is high, flushed a rosy red, and his voice has a nervous warble to it. Poor kid.
The beam of his flashlight bounces off the walls as he turns and opens the door behind him, and then an explosion of color, sound and light hits me right in the face.
The space is massive, far bigger than I would have thought possible. From my vantage point, it looks as though the underground station is at least the length of a football fie
ld, if not two.
Down either side of the abandoned station, rows of stalls stand, laden and overflowing with flowers, candy, puzzle boxes, children’s toys, stuffed animals, glass bowls complete with goldfish, and an array of games. There are people everywhere, milling between the stalls, pulling the flaps to tents back and disappearing inside. A crowd has gathered to the right, fifty feet away, apparently watching some kind of amusing performance that has them all erupting into fits of laughter.
The air is a confusion of scents and smells, all swirling and bleeding together: cinnamon, cardamom, sugar, all-spice, braised meat, chocolate, and the tang of smoke.
My gaze rises, and for a full four seconds I allow my mouth to hang open in amazement. High overhead, the vaulted ceilings, complete with gothic ribs, are stunning. At first I think they’re painted a royal blue and that the stars glimmering and shining across the vast expanse are the handiwork of someone extremely talented with a paintbrush, but as the flames from hundreds of candles, placed, balanced and stacked on nearly every available surface, sway, the light sways too, and I note the brilliant flash of white that travels over what turn out to be tiles. The entire roof is covered in tiles—a mosaic so brilliant and complex, the colors so vivid, striking and rich in depth that it’s a breathtaking thing to behold. Each tiny star is a tile of its own, silver and gold, carefully placed in a way that it might catch at the light and shine. The candles flicker again, guttering on a warm breeze that sighs out of the darkened subway tunnel to my far left, and the light cascades across the tiles again; it looks as though the heavens are on fire. It’s far too beautiful to be hidden away down here, unseen and unacknowledged by the outside world. There’s something special about it, though, as if the masterpiece of a ceiling is a gift, a secret and a surprise that only a chosen few are lucky enough to see.
“Welcome to the Midnight Fair,” Leo says. “Go on in, now. We’ll have a line forming behind you otherwise, and Patrin doesn’t like the entrance getting clogged up.”
Garrett’s eyes rove over every inch of the place. As we walk down the pathway between the stalls, he studies everything we pass with the blatant awe of someone who has never visited a fair before. His wonder is completely justified, too. I’ve never been to, seen or heard of a place like this before.
Unlike the ceiling, there are no tiles covering the floor as we press forward into the crowd; there’s nothing but bare, compacted earth beneath the soles of our shoes, which doesn’t really make sense since the station must have had a foundation when it was built, but at the same time it feels kind of right. Like all of the stalls and tents are organic things that magically shot up out of the ground and are supposed to be here.
“I guess now we need to ask around about Corey,” I mutter under my breath.
Garrett nods, but he isn’t really paying attention. He’s still busy devouring everything that’s going on around us with his eyes. I approach a stall to our right first. An empty stall, with nothing laid out on its bare, unfinished wood. Behind it, a gnarled man in his sixties with a shock of wiry steel grey hair and a black silk waistcoat drums his fingers across his kneecap. His dark eyes come to life as we approach and stop in front of him.
“Well, well. If it isn’t you.” His face becomes seventy percent grin as he flashes a row of surprisingly perfect, wolfish teeth at me.
I frown. “I’m…I’m sorry, have we met before?”
He cocks his head to one side. Assessing. “No. Should we have?”
“It’s just that you said, ‘if it isn’t you,’ like you know me or something.”
“Alas, I’m almost one hundred percent sure I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. But still. You are you, aren’t you?”
“Oh. Well…yeah. Obviously.” Jeez. The conversation has barely even started and it’s already giving me a headache.
“Excellent news!” The man beams. “For a second there I worried I might have got the wrong person.” He places the side of his cupped palm against the side of his mouth and whispers around it, winking, as if he’s sharing a secret with me. “Would have been pretty embarrassing, no?”
I can feel Garrett’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he’s wearing a highly perplexed, questioning look on his face that speaks a little too loudly. He doesn’t know what the fuck’s going on, either.
“You’ve come to try your luck with me then?” the wiry man asks. I’ve decided that, with his narrow shoulders and the slightly calculating tilt to his head, he’s more fox than wolf. “All you need to do is follow the coin. Simple. A child’s game.” From somewhere underneath the table, he produces three small scuffed wooden cups. Each has a letter carved into its side—the first an M, the second an E, and the third a C. He upends them, placing them down on the table in front of him, and then he reaches into the small pocket in his waistcoat where a pocket watch might have otherwise lived, and pulls out a shining silver dollar. He rolls it across the back of his knuckles, canting his head at me questioningly.
I smile politely. “We don’t have time to play any of the games tonight. I was actually just wondering if I could ask you a question?”
The fox snaps the silver dollar out of the air, fingers closing tightly around it in a fist. His smile is gone in the blink of an eye. “What a thing!” His tone is icy enough to make me realize that I’ve done something wrong. I have no idea how, but I’ve managed to offend him. Fuck.
“I’m sorry. I just—”
“No apologies here. Move along to the next table now. I don’t have time to waste on curious people.”
Curious? What the actual fuck? I bite back an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’d love to play your game. I just meant that—”
The fox’s smile returns, blazing a path across his face. He hasn’t let me finish speaking, doesn’t know that I’m just trying to explain our situation. Obviously, the only words he’s heard from me are the ones where I said I would love to play his game. “Excellent news!” he declares again, rocketing to his feet. He gets up so quickly that the stool he was just sitting on topples over behind him, though he doesn’t seem to notice or care. The silver dollar has returned, skipping over the back of his knuckles. Leaning over the cups, he picks up the cup marked with a C with a flourish, places the silver dollar ceremoniously on the table, and covers it with the cup. “You know how this works?” he enquires.
“I do. But seriously—”
The fox’s face wrinkles with disgust. “No, no, no. We don’t do serious here. If you’re looking for serious, you’ll need to go and find Shelta. Now, are you ready?”
For. Fuck’s. Sake. Maybe it would be easier to just play along with the man, get his sleight of hand trick out of the way, feign amazement, and then he might be inclined to be a little more helpful. Trouble is, even as a child I was unimpressed by sleight of hand magic tricks. Other people were amazed, gasping, ooh-ing and ahh-ing in all the right places, but my eyes have always been too sharp. I’ve always caught the moment when the ball or the coin, or the wallet or the watch disappeared into the magician’s hand, only to reappear in the most unlikely of places moments later, where it wasn’t supposed to be. I can pretend here for a second if it means we made progress, though. “All right, all right. Yes, I’m ready. Wait, what’s the prize if I win?”
The Fox narrows his left eye, nodding quickly. “You’re a smart one. Always best to figure out the stakes before entering into a wager. Why don’t you make a suggestion?”
“A suggestion? About what I’ll win?”
He nods once with a curt jerk of his head.
Weird. Usually, you win a stuffed teddy bear at a game table like this. Or more game tokens. I’ve never been given the chance to negotiate my prize before. “Okay. If I win, I want to ask you my question.”
The fox’s smile sours a little, but he considers my proposal. “Is it a hard question?”
“No.”
“Fine.” He doesn’t look happy. Not even a bit. “An
d if I win—”
“You don’t get a prize if you win. That’s not how the game works.”
Anger flickers in his dark eyes. “And how would you know? This isn’t your game, is it?”
I can’t hold back the sigh this time. I release my frustrated breath, my shoulders slumping; this is taking way more time than it should. “Okay. You’re right. What do you want if you manage to trick me?”
The Fox slaps a hand to his chest in mock horror. “This isn’t a trick, young lady. It’s a game. A rouse at best. Tricks are for children and the intellectually redundant. Now, are you ready to take this seriously?”
“I thought I had to go and find Shelta if I wanted serious?”
The color drains from the fox’s face. For one long, awful, uncomfortable second, I think he’s going to flip his table over and fly at me like a deranged lunatic, but quite the opposite happens. He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “You’re a riot, young Gadje. I need to watch myself around you. I’ve made my decision. If I win, I want something very small. Nothing really. Something of little importance to you.”
“What?” I’m on guard now. His tone makes me feel like he’s lying. Like whatever he’s about to ask for will be of great importance to me.
“Just one of those fine, fiery strands of hair, little Gadje. Just one,” he says airily, waving his hand around.
“What? No! Absolutely not.”
“Why not? You have hundreds and hundreds of them. Thousands. One isn’t going to make a difference to you.”
“Why the hell would you want a strand of my hair?”
He shrugs. “Red was my mother’s favorite color. Not mine. My favorite color is purple, but still.”
I don’t believe in magic. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in curse work, charms or any of that other nonsense. But even so, there’s definitely something highly irregular about someone you don’t know bargaining for a strand of your hair. Gives me the heebie jeebies. “I don’t think so.” I’m firm enough that the Fox looks disappointed.