The Sweetest Kind of Fate

by Crystal Cestari

  “Well…” I start.

  “Don’t answer that. This isn’t about me. Iris is too young and too beautiful to throw her life away for Brooke. My whole family is just standing by, and I’ve gone to every shaman and warlock I can think of. No one will help me. You are, for better or worse, my only hope.”

  I pause, letting the last few words hang sweetly while Ivy stews. When I don’t answer, she adds an impatient, “So??”

  “Hold on, I’m trying to savor this moment.” I take one giant breath, exhaling slowly. “Ah, yes. I feel good about this.”

  “What does that mean? You’ll help? Or you’re just relishing my pain?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “Ugh, you are sick. This makes me sick.”

  “It will cost you, you know.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know. I can already feel a knife slicing my pride.”

  I smile. “I meant dollars. But that’s an acceptable payment source as well.” Ivy rolls her eyes. “Just bring Iris by Windy City Magic; I’ll do a reading there.”

  “Fine.” Ivy bolts for the door, not saying good-bye or anything more. We sit in silence for a minute, letting the weirdness dissipate.

  “Good Gods, are you really going to help her?” Amani eventually asks.

  “Yeah, although I’m looking at it less like I’m helping Ivy, and more like I’m helping her sister. And if it turns out Iris is already with her match, it will piss Ivy off, which is a win-win if I ever saw one.”

  Kim laughs, releasing angelic tones that could summon woodland creatures. Sometimes I wonder if her insides are actually made of sugar. “That’s going to be some session. I feel like Ivy will lose it if this doesn’t go her way.”

  “Oh, they’ll both question it, for sure,” Amani adds. “A matchmaker telling a siren how to live her life? No way.”

  “Ivy will have to accept it. I mean, have you ever been wrong before, Amber?” Kim asks. Now there’s the million-dollar question. A few months ago, I would have been offended, defending my abilities with my final breath. Matchmaking had always been an absolute, a function so central to my being that to question it would mean questioning my existence. But now I debate it daily, constantly rolling certain events and scenes in my head before I fall asleep. Have I ever led lovers astray? The possibility haunts me. I long for my past certainty, where I could brush off doubt like flour off a rolling pin. These days, the only thing I know for sure is that every time I’m with Charlie, my feelings for him shake me to the core. His companionship and affection are things I not only crave, but that make me a stronger, better version of myself. But that doesn’t change what I see in his eyes. The Fates, those bastards, are taunting me with this push and pull, leaving me with riddles and forcing me to live a puzzle. Have I ever been wrong before?

  Good Gods, I hope so.

  THERE’S something in the air at Windy City Magic. I don’t know if it’s Mom’s two-for-one permanent perfume potions or the free corn dogs in the Navy Pier food court, but the shop is jam-packed. I’ve already done twelve matchmaking sessions at my so-pink-I-could-puke table o’ love, and poor Bob, our part-time employee and recovering magic addict, was needed for eight sketch-artist additions. Even though he’s surprisingly good with a pencil, he doesn’t always thrive under pressure. Earlier today, I was describing a man’s match as someone having “dainty, birdlike features,” and Bob started freaking out about this giant peacock that once attacked him while he was trying to steal an egg from its nest. Luckily, he managed not to divulge the horrible details surrounding the type of hex one does with a peacock’s egg, but still, Bob’s ranting was so incessant, it scared the customer off. Mom put Bob back on the register after that, and I put away my matchmaking sign, trying to tidy up the messes left by meddlesome tourists.

  “I swear, everyone just has to rub their fingers all over the crystal balls,” I say to no one in particular as I Windex away prints. “Everybody wants to play fortune-teller, but no one wants to pony up the cash. Why do we even stock these?”

  “You can’t have a magic shop without crystal balls,” Bob says, refilling the magical mints we leave at the counter. (They are magic in that they freshen your current breath and keep it fresh through your next meal, even if your last meal was garlic coffee.) “Everyone knows that.”

  “Oh really? Everyone?”

  He nods, quietly rubbing his “lucky” rabbit’s foot with his meaty right hand. Bob’s not the most riveting conversationalist, but we’ve had a few magic-related debates in our day. Most of his former life is still a mystery to me, but there’s a lot of passion rumbling through that boulderlike body, and I always wonder if one day he’ll just completely explode.

  “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Madame Sand?” a woman asks from behind me. I can tell right away she’s not a “typical” customer. A lot of our clientele, especially on the weekends, are suburbanites spending a big day in downtown Chicago, with Navy Pier serving as their main attraction. I personally would throw myself into the frigid waters of Lake Michigan before choosing to spend a day here for fun, and most locals would say the same. These weekend warriors usually wander in here by mistake, confused as to why we don’t sell T-shirts or shot glasses with “I ♥ Chicago” emblazoned on them, but our selection of magical goodies is so enticing, they rarely leave empty-handed. Who could resist, after all, a potion promising to block out any human voices for one solid hour? Not me.

  Money is money, and we certainly don’t judge (okay, maybe I do), but Windy City’s real patrons are those looking for a magical solution. A fairy in need of a delicate wing patch, or a wizard who needs authentic ground wormswort. This woman here could be a vampire or maybe one-sixteenth centaur, but either way, the fact that she knows my mom’s name proves she’s on a different level.

  “Sure. Is she expecting you?” I ask.

  “No, but I need some help with a custom spell I started working on at Dawning Day the other night.”

  “Oh, um, sure. Right this way.” I guide the witch to the back of the store to Mom’s private quarters. I pull back the red velvet curtain and peek inside. Mom’s mixing something sour smelling in her stone pestle. “Mom? You have a Dawning Day peep here to see you. I don’t recognize her, but—”

  “It’s okay. Send her in,” she says without looking up.

  “Oooookay.” I turn back to the unknown witch. “She’ll see you now.”

  The woman thanks me politely and disappears behind the curtain. I hang out for a second to try to overhear what’s going on but then decide against it. Even though it was a hard adjustment at first, I haven’t been to a coven meeting since the blowout over whether someone so low on the magical food chain (i.e., moi) should be allowed to enter the sacred union that is Dawning Day. A newer member, a despicable wretch named Victoria, declared that I was somehow discrediting the group by proximity—me not being a full-fledged witch. It was insane, of course, and Mom ultimately put Victoria in her place (quite literally, since she rendered her motionless with a severely scary choking spell). We haven’t seen Victoria since, but I’ve still kept my distance from the coven. Victoria, for all her surgically modified ways, did have one thing right: witches, Gods bless ’em, are not my people. I can’t aspire to anything they work with, and they have no idea about the things I tackle. I always hung around coven meetings because I was looking for a place to belong, but now I know that’s not it. I can’t force myself into a box that doesn’t fit, and no spell can do that for me either.

  Still, it’s good the group is accepting new members, though after Victoria, I hope Mom is being a little more cautious in the screening process.

  I get back to helping customers and perform a demonstration on how our teeth-whitening tar works (rub on chompers, let sit for ten minutes, and—voilà!—good-bye stains!). It’s five minutes to closing when I realize Ivy never came by. Huh. For all the spectacle she made showing up at my place, I thought for sure she’d drag Iris in here today. Whatever. Makes no difference to
me. Rather than getting into it with a couple of sea witches, I may actually have a shot at leaving on time and toying with that cinnamon dolce crepe recipe I’ve been dying to try. I’ve got a new friend who I’m sure would love to sample it.

  “ORDER up!”

  I pass off a plate of chilled cow’s heart in a honey pear sauce to a tuxedoed server. Hopefully that will satisfy the diner’s request for something “sweet, yet hearty.” My next order is for a warm intestine compote, and I’m not sure where to start on that one.

  Being that it’s my last year of high school (praise the Gods!) and the Future looms near, Mom loosened her death grip on my Windy City schedule and started letting me rotate two shifts elsewhere. And since it’s my dream to feed the masses large quantities of sweet, hyperglycemia-inducing desserts, I split my time between two of the most unique eateries on complete opposite sides of the spectrum: first is MarshmElla’s, the 100 percent mortal-owned-and-operated bakery that is an actual slice of heaven on earth, and then the Black Phoenix, proudly serving the hidden supernatural community, whose particular palates keep me on my toes. With my buddy Ella, we’ve brainstormed treats that will keep dentists living plush for years to come, but working in the Black Phoenix kitchen has really been a challenge. I thought having a best friend with a spice affinity forced me to think outside the box, but Amani’s preferences are nothing like what I’ve seen at the supernatural hot spot.

  “Customers are really liking those candied bat wings you invented,” says Marcus, a line cook I’m usually stationed next to. “Something about the chewiness of the wing combined with the sugared coating; they really go after ’em.”

  “Yeah, I’m glad. Though it’s weird, because I usually taste-test my recipes as I go, but with this one, I just had to wing it,” I say with an over-the-top wink.

  He smiles at my stupid pun while peeling a pile of gross-looking eyeballs. Marcus is a poet, but more important, a freshman at the Chicago Culinary Institute, aka my dream school. He works here a couple days a week to help pay for tuition. He’s a nice guy, a little on the reserved side, definitely embracing the “contemplative poet” vibe. He plates like a pro, though, making super-weird menu items look almost appetizing. Also, he’s a werewolf.

  “Have you applied to the Culinary Institute yet?” he asks, dropping the eyeballs in a deep fryer. “The deadline is probably coming up, right?”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” I sigh. My application has been ready for a week, but I haven’t had the guts to stick it in the mail. “I’m working on it.”

  “You know, I could help you with it, if you want,” he offers. “I’ve been through it already.”

  “I just may take you up on that.” A second pair of experienced eyes couldn’t hurt.

  He nods. “It’s good that you’re staying in the city,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear him over the clangs of pots and pans.

  “Why’s that?” I ask as I add a cherry to my last blood orange cake of the night.

  Marcus looks down at the floor as if he’ll find an answer down there, but our boss, Vincent, glides in before any words come. “Amber, your arm candy is here,” he delivers in his cool baritone. As always, he’s dressed like he’s going to a black-tie gala, rather than managing a secret supernatural restaurant. He’s so obsessed with keeping up appearances, he makes the kitchen staff wear full makeup even though hardly any of the customers see us, and we’re typically sweating like pigs over open flames and ovens.

  “Thank you, sir.” I untie my apron and check my reflection in a sauté pan hanging on the wall. I quickly run my fingers through my black, blue, and green hair, giving it my trademark “carelessly tousled” look. “See you next week, Marcus!” He responds with an almost sad, lopsided smile and halfhearted wave. Poets, man.

  Vincent escorts me to the front, acting as a pseudo-bodyguard. Candles dance off the golden tabletops as a lonely saxophone player croons in the corner. It’s not like I’m in danger from the night crawlers and blood suckers who dine here, but ever since the regulars learned a matchmaker is on staff, my attention is in demand. I often get pulled aside for some quick and dirty relationship advice at the end of the day, which is not preferable since I’m usually pretty tired and not really up to sitting through love reels. I am weirdly popular here—a feeling I’m not accustomed to—and have even had customers order my desserts just in the hope I’ll deliver them with a side of happily-ever-after.

  “Are you meeting up with Amani tonight?” Vincent asks, trying (and failing) to casually bring up the object of his affection. Ever since I introduced him to my best friend, he’s been completely smitten: the correct response, seeing as how they are each other’s match. Amani had to be stubborn, though, and jumped on the repulsion train instead, describing Vincent as “slimy.” She’s right in that there are times he does get involved with unidentified goos (just a side effect of catering to this particular clientele), but personality-wise, I still think she’s wrong. Vincent’s a vampire, so he came of age in a different time—the 1920s—and has a different idea of what impresses a lady. He’s old-school, using lots of flash and cheesy lines, when he should just drop the wannabe-gangster act and be himself: a nice guy with a lot of patience and heart. Now that I work with him, I want them to fall in love even more. I’d coach him, but I’ve been ordered to STAY OUT OF IT, so I do.

  “Nope. No Amani tonight. Just me and the boy,” I say.

  “Well, that should be fun,” he says, clearly disappointed. “Great job tonight.”

  “Thanks…” I start, but I’m already checked out because I see Charlie at the door, and he looks so cute in his navy peacoat and knit beanie I just want to scrunch his face. I throw my arms around him and pull him in close, breathing in his scent. Heaven. Too bad for him my current aroma is a lovely combination of hog bowels and skunk spleen. Still, he kisses my forehead and lays a cheek on the top of my head, completing the hug and ignoring my stench.

  “Hey,” I say, muffled in his coat.

  “Hey, you. Ready to go?”

  “Yes, please.”

  We walk out into the cold Chicago night; small flurries twirl around us in the evening air. There’s a light dusting of snow on tree branches and rooftops, but the sidewalks are blessedly clear. Charlie’s building is only a few blocks away, so we walk clutching each other’s mittened hands.

  “How was work?” he asks.

  “Good. You know…weird. I keep hearing my desserts are a hit, but they look so disgusting.”

  “Yeah, I hope you aren’t mad that I haven’t asked to try them.”

  “Dude. I haven’t even tried them. So you’re good.”

  Out of nowhere, he steps in front of me, taking my face in his woolen palms. Tiny snowflakes catch on my eyelashes as he leans in for a kiss. The warmth of his lips quickly spreads through me, till I almost forget we’re standing outside in January. The heat builds, and I pull the ends of his scarf to bring him as close to me as possible. It’s exactly what I want after a long shift, and I know I won’t be the first one to pull away.

  “I missed you,” he whispers when we do come up for air.

  “You just saw me at school.” I laugh.

  “But that was, like, hours ago.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “And school is overwhelmingly filled with people who get in the way.”

  “Agreed. People are the worst.”

  “So I like it when I can focus on only you.” I see my spellbound expression reflected in his glasses. Sometimes I don’t know what to do when he says things like this. It’s not like I don’t believe him, or that I’m unworthy of his affection; I sometimes still can’t believe our relationship is even happening, against the odds, the Fates: everything. Blessed, beautiful Charlie: I wish I had such sweet sentiments always queuing on my tongue to respond.

  I grab the collar of his coat. “Why are you so—”

  “Charming? Amazing? Irresistible?”

  “—good to me?”

  His smile softens from
cheesy game-show host to something more genuine. “Oh, that’s easy. You make me happy, so I want to make you happy too.”

  “Well, you’re crushing it, Blitzman.”

  We walk a little farther, hand in hand, when I find myself asking, “Charlie?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  He strokes an imaginary beard. “Hmm. A rock star?”

  “Really?”

  “Not really. I have no musical talent.”

  “Right. Okay, then what?”

  He shrugs, like I’m asking him about what he’d like for dinner and not what he’d like to do with his life. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

  I try not to make a face. “Well, I know you’ve kicked all your volunteer work up ten notches, and you’ve been busting out your college applications….How are you bundling together all your hopes and dreams for your essays?”

  “I’m not, I guess,” he says. “I’m keeping things open-ended, talking about how the future is bright with possibility, and I can’t wait to seize the day!” He pumps a triumphant fist in the air.

  As adorable as that is, I shake my head. “I can’t function like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…whatever happens will happen. ‘It will all work out somehow.’”

  “But won’t it?”

  “Not without a plan.”

  Now he’s shaking his head. “It’s the classic rivalry: head versus heart. You’re lucky; you hit the jackpot early by figuring out what you want to do. You’ve mapped out the future with your love of baking. But this ol’ slot machine”—he taps at his temple—“has yet to land on a winner.”

  “Doesn’t that stress you out, though? Not knowing?”

  “Nah. I just go with my gut, wherever it leads me.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t know, sounds risky. What if you have irritable bowel?”

  “Oh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty.”