by Hart, Callie
“Fine. A key, then. One you don’t use anymore.”
“I don’t have a—”
“Of course you do, Gadje. Everyone has at least one. A key on your keychain that doesn’t do anything anymore. A key to nothing. A key you should have thrown away a long time ago.”
Now that he mentions it, there is a key on my keychain that I don’t need—the key to my old mailbox back when I was in college. I have no reason to keep hold of it anymore, but then the Fox could have no possible use for it either. I’m done bargaining with the man. There are plenty of other stalls in the Midnight Fair that must be visited before I can leave here tonight. Plenty of other people I need to question about Corey. I reach into my purse and take out my set of keys, quickly winding off the extraneous key in question, offering out the small, worn bronze piece of metal to him in the palm of my hand.
Garrett looks wary. The fox quickly collects the key from my hand and places it down on top of the table between us, set to one side as collateral. “Okay, Gadje. Now. Watch the coin. If you can tell me where it ends up, you’ll get to ask your infernal question. Make sure you don’t blink, though. I have the quickest hands in this entire fair. Are you ready?”
I nod.
The fox smirks.
The coin is still underneath the cup marked with a C. I watch as the old man slides the cups across the surface of his stall, and I make sure to keep an eye out for the moment when he switches the placement of the coin. The cups are marked, after all. There would be no point to his hustle if the coin stayed where it was; the initials on the base of the cups would make it all too easy to select the correct one otherwise.
The fox’s fingers deftly manipulate the cups, but I don’t see the exchange. The cups are muddled and maneuvered, and I begin to realize that I’ve completely wasted my time. He’s already moved the coin. He must have done it while I was getting my keys from my bag. Or while we were arguing about the strand of my hair. Either way, I’ve already lost this game. I lost it before it even truly started.
The fox stops moving the cups and sets them neatly in a row. M first, then C, then the cup marked with the E on the very end. Reluctantly, I extend my hand, about to tap the cup marked with the C, annoyance and frustration pooling in the base of my stomach, but Garrett places his hand on my arm, shaking his head. His eyes travel to the cup marked with the M, and he winks.
While I was distracted, it turns out my friend was paying closer attention than I was. Thank fuck for Garrett. I smile at him, returning his wink, and I swing my arm to the left, using my index finger to tap the cup with the M. The fox coughs into his balled-up hand.
“Well, I’m not sure if that’s fair or no. Some might call that kind of outside help cheating, y’know.”
“You didn’t say I wasn’t allowed a little assistance.”
He thinks about this, brows pulling together, before he shrugs. “Fair. I didn’t say that. You’re sure you want to pick that cup, then?”
I look to Garrett, and he nods. He’s one hundred percent sure. Turning back to the fox, I fold my arms across my chest. “Yes. I choose that one.”
“All right, then.” The Fox quickly picks up the cup marked with the M, and…the coin isn’t there.
Garrett makes a guttural, angry sound in the back of his throat. His shoulders have hiked up an inch, tense, and he takes a step closer toward the table. In an instant, the Fox’s hands are in the air. “Woah now, friend. Woah, woah, woah. You picked the cup. Don’t blame me if you picked wrong.” The Fox’s mouth lifts at the corner as he slowly picks up the original cup, the one marked with the C, and turns it over. To me, he says, “Sometimes, you have to stick with your gut, Gadje. Sometimes, the trick…is that there is no trick.”
But when I look down at the table, the coin isn’t under the cup marked with the C, either. The Fox hasn’t looked down yet. When he does, his forehead furrows deeply. “What in the world…?” In one swift movement, he flips the middle cup over, confusion written all over him, to reveal nothing but scuffed wood grain beneath it. “Well, shit,” he says. “I can’t—”
This is getting fucking ridiculous. I snatch the cup from his hand and slam it down onto the table, my patience well and truly spent now. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to play games anymore. “Look. We really don’t have time for this. Are you going to answer my question or not?”
The Fox is quiet for a second, and then another. He’s staring down at the table, as if he can’t believe what’s just happened. I’m about to finally give up and finally walk away from the prankster when his face smooths out, as if he’s suddenly been struck by an epiphany. He looks me dead in the eye and says, “Ask.”
I have no fucking idea what’s just happened, what realization has just come to him like a lightning bolt out of the blue, but I don’t waste any time. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the rumpled photo of Corey and hold it up in front of him. “Have you seen this little boy? His name is Corey, and he’s five years old. He was taken from his home, and his parents are worried sick. The police have been out searching for him for more than a week. They have a lead that’s connected him to this fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re planning a raid on the place.”
Okay, so that part is embellished. The cops have barely done a thing to find Corey—they certainly aren’t planning a fucking raid—but the Fox doesn’t know that. My reasoning: if he thinks the authorities are going to show up here and start investigating the fair, he might talk just to prevent any unwanted attention. The fair isn’t likely to be a legal event, and I’d wager every penny I own that they’re not supposed to be using the old subway station as a base. The Fox looks at the photo of Corey and then back at me, his features hardening.
“You work for the cops?” His voice is ice cold.
“No. Not exactly. I work for the emergency services department. And it’s imperative that we find this little—”
“I haven’t seen him,” the Fox says sharply. “We don’t deal in children here.”
“You’re a fair. You must see plenty of kids.”
“Take a look around. You see any?”
I do look around, and I don’t see any children. Funnily enough, I don’t recall having seen a single one since we came down the stairs.
“Adults only here, Gadje. Why do you think we open our doors at midnight?” the Fox says. “Too loud. Too noisy. Too much trouble.” He emphasizes the word trouble in a way that implies I’m causing trouble right now, and I should probably stop.
Unlikely.
“No one around here has ever mentioned the name Corey, then? Or Petrov?”
The Fox rocks back on his heels, his grey eyebrows drawing together in an unhappy line. “No one called Corey. No one called Petrov. No one speaking about either.”
His face is made out of stone, the very picture of annoyance. I could ask more questions, but we only bargained for the one, and in the end it doesn’t matter. I’m like a human lie detector. After years listening to people lie over the phone about how they got hurt, or how their brother/sister/mother/aunt/friend managed to find themselves in trouble, I’ve mastered the ability to spot a falsehood from a dozen paces. Doesn’t matter what a person’s face is doing, or what they’re doing with their bodies. It’s the hitch in their voice that gives them away every time. The tight, hard edge, or the too-airy falsetto that sets the alarm bells ringing inside my head. This guy doesn’t know anything.
“Fine. Then thank you for your time, I guess.” As we walk away from the Fox’s stall, Garrett cracks his knuckles one at a time, his eyes flashing with steel. His irritation is a mirror to my own. I place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I know. Don’t worry. If the next one tries to waste our time, I’ll let you flip the table or something. Deal?”
Garrett’s mouth crooks up at the corner into half a smile.
Unfortunately for him, the next person we approach doesn’t have a table, though. The stalls to both our left and our right are swampe
d with people, all jostling one another to get a better look at whatever game or curiosity is on display; there’s no point getting in line to question the burly men and heavily kohled women who command the attention of so many fairgoers, not with so little of the night remaining, so we keep walking until we come to a tent at the end of the row. A glittering gold plaque has been staked into the dirt to one side of the tent, and on it, in looping, dramatic cursive: ‘Madame Shelta. Purveyor of fortunes, destinies, providences and fates. By appointment only.’
The tent’s fabric is purple and silky—rather theatrical, even against the explosion of color that sweeps through the abandoned subway station. One of the tent’s flaps is pegged back; inside the tent, darkness awaits. “Who has to make an appointment to see a fairground fortune teller?” I grouse, shivering as I peer inside, my eyes searching the black. “I doubt any of these guys have cell phones. And even if they do, there’s no way anyone would be able to find them on the internet.”
One second I’m squinting, trying to discern shapes out of the shadows, and the next I’m gasping for breath, biting back a shriek of surprise as a pair of astonishingly green eyes appear three inches from my face.
Holy fuck!
It’s a miracle I don’t trip over my own damn feet as I stagger away from the entrance to the tent. The owner of the eyes emerges, stepping out into the light: a six-foot four stranger with black hair, a full, sensuous mouth, strong jaw, broad shoulders and the most distracting, unusual eye coloring I’ve ever seen in my life. Green, like fresh shoots of spring grass. Green, like the color of the ocean where the Caribbean meets the Atlantic.
Breathtaking.
“We all have cell phones, actually. Shelta has her own fucking Yelp page,” the guy growls.
I freeze, startled by the deep timbre of his voice.
Holy what the…?
Honey, rough whiskey, fire and smoke: his voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Deep, and sonorous and commanding. Bursts of heat blossom beneath my skin as I take another step back, allowing him to fully step out of the tent and move past me. His jeans are faded black, almost grey, and his white t-shirt has what looks like blue paint spilled on it, down by the hem. His right arm is covered in tattoos, from the cuff of his wrist all the way up to the sleeve of his shirt, and even more black ink peeks up from beneath his collar and rises up his throat. Holding a leather jacket in his hand, he looks like he probably has a motorcycle parked above ground somewhere close by. His eyes pick over me, sorting through my features, cataloguing the different aspects of my face, and, ashamed as I am to admit it, I find myself looking down at my feet. There’s something intimidating about the way he’s studying me, as if I’m not a real person but some sort of life-size photo and he’s looking for printing errors.
I stop breathing for a second. When I finally look up, the guy’s frowning at me like he just found the imperfection he was searching for.
“She’s in a terrible mood,” he rumbles. “I wouldn’t fucking bother if I were you.” A cold, dark smile comes my way, but the frown remains. He blinks at me, as if he’s just remembered how to accomplish the action, and then he turns his back to me, completely ignoring Garrett, and walks away.
How fucking strange. What a weird thing to do, to stare so openly at someone like that. The arrogance and the condescension that radiated off him still nips at my skin as he stops and twists briefly, throwing a handful of words over his shoulder at me, like they aren’t strange, and it isn’t a weird thing for him to do at all.
“Nice hair, Gadje. Looks like a sunset. Or a nightmare.”
Garrett actually growls, low and angry, like a rabid dog, as the stranger disappears into the crowd. My hackles are up—a pretty damn canine response of my own. What a…what a fucking asshole. Baring my teeth, I whirl around, disregarding the guy’s warning and I storm into the tent. I don’t care if Madame Shelta’s in a bad mood. I’m in a bad mood. I’m cold, I’m wet and I’m tired, and the fact that Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome just turned me into a blushing school girl in less than three seconds flat hasn’t made my day any better. Garrett audibly grinds his teeth as he follows inside the tent after me.
I was wrong before; the tent isn’t in complete darkness after all. The lighting is just incredibly dim. A small chandelier lamp sits on a table at the far side of the space, casting off a barely-there, orange glow. Beside the lamp, two stacks of cards sit side by side on the surface of the wood. There’s nothing else of note inside the tent. A carpet underfoot. A small brazier with a couple of pieces of wood resting in it, thankfully unlit. I don’t even know how you’d manage a fire down here, undergr—
“I’m not changing my mind, Pasha. This isn’t a negotiation. If you can’t see how your—”
I haven’t noticed the small curtained off section to my right. I barely see the black curtains move now as a woman appears from behind it, her eyes growing wide as they land on us. Her hair is a dark brown, lightened by a streak of grey that has been pinned back by a floral beret. She can only be Madame Shelta. Her clothes hardly confirm her identity, though. In place of the long gypsy skirt and loose-fitting blouse I’ve been imagining since I read the sign outside the tent, her crisp white button-down shirt and neatly pressed grey pants scream office worker or a bank teller, rather than fortune teller in an illegal fairground. Her sharp, grey eyes spear through me as she walks over to the table.
“Ah. I thought you were my son,” she says. She sets the steaming cup she’s holding in her hands down on the table and slowly lowers herself into one of the chairs at the table, then looks up at me again, a faintly annoyed expression on her severe, though beautiful face. “If you’re my one o’clock, then you’re late,” she tells me. Her eyes flicker toward Garrett and linger on him. “And I did inform you that I only saw one client per session.”
“I’m sorry to intrude. I actually don’t have an appointment. I just wanted to ask—”
She’s already shaking her head, though. Already primed to cut me off. “If you don’t have an appointment, you’ll need to come back another night. I’m fully booked until next Thursday.”
“I just want to ask,” I continue, “if you’ve seen a little boy. Corey Petrov. He was taken from his house five days ago. I got a phone call saying that he might be here tonight.”
Her body stiffens at this. She doesn’t like the determined tone of my voice, or the fact that I’m clearly not going to be told to go away. I’ve been met with resistance and poorly disguised hostility ever since I arrived in Rochester Park, and Shelta must recognize the fire in my eyes. Her posture remains rigid as she picks up her mug and takes a sip from the piping hot liquid inside. “I don’t know who called you, or what you were told, but we don’t allow children at the Midnight Fair. It’s not safe for children here.”
“That’s what the Fox said. But if you’d just take a quick look at his photo, then I’d be very grateful.” I already have it in my hand. Corey’s smiling face doesn’t seem to make an impression on her as I wield the print-out in her direction.
Her head tilts to one side. “The Fox?”
“The man with the cups game.”
She considers this, and then nods. “I suppose Archie does look a bit like a fox. What’s your name? Deborah? Jennifer?”
God knows where she’s pulled those names from. “No. It’s Zara.”
She doesn’t look pleased. In fact, she looks offended, which is strange. “All right. Sit down. I suppose I could spare a few moments. You’re going to have to wait outside, though, I’m afraid,” she tells Garrett. “Only one person inside the tent at a time. That’s the rule. Things get too clouded otherwise.”
Garrett stares down at the woman, arms folded across his chest again. I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s not going to budge. Not after Sarah’s caution-filled words.
Shelta collects the cards from the table in front of her and places the two stacks together, neatly arranging them back into one pile. Her hands seem unsteady as
she sets them down again, though everything else about her is still taut and unyielding. “Don’t worry, Sir. You can wait just outside there. If she calls, you’ll be able to come running to her rescue in no time at all.” Shelta seems amused by this, as if Garrett’s tension is ridiculous to her.
Wary, Garrett shoots me a questioning look: should I go? I nod once, sighing, and that’s all he needs from me. He goes, exiting the tent with a riled grumble, but he makes a point of standing just outside the entrance, the toe of a scuffed leather boot still visible between the flaps.
“Protective, isn’t he? Come and sit down so we can get this over with. My head’s killing me, and I have plenty to be getting on with tonight.” Shelta gestures to the chair opposite her. I sit, and she takes the print-out of Corey from my hands, casting a brief, disinterested gaze over it. “Haven’t seen him. Here. Cut the deck for me, young lady.” She folds the photo, setting it down next to the deck of cards. Tarot cards, I note, now that I’m closer.
“I don’t really believe in that sort of stuff. I just came about the boy.” Truth is, I don’t want to touch her tarot cards. I’ve always been unsettled by the idea of having my fortune told. People like Shelta prey on the naivety of the gullible. Tell them the things they want to hear, simply to appease them. To cure them of some hurt. The height of manipulation. My grandmother wasn’t as jaded and cynical as me. She believed in all kinds of superstition and nonsense, and even she said fortune tellers were the worst kinds of frauds around.
Shelta seems unfazed by my admission. “That’s not how this works. You don’t have to believe. Doesn’t change a thing. Cut the deck. I’ll see if I can tell you anything about this missing little boy of yours.”
If she’d cracked my head open and looked inside, she would have known that this, telling me she might be able to help find Corey, would have been the only thing she could say to get me to cut the deck. Since it isn’t possible that she’s read my mind, however, I take the coincidence for what it is and quickly pick up a wedge of cards from the deck, setting them down on the table. I’ve cut close to the bottom, so only a few cards remain in the right-hand pile. The woman glares at the deck, openly upset by the split for some reason, but she doesn’t say anything about it, or tell me to do it again. She picks up the card now sitting on top of the deck and she flips it over, placing it in front of me.