Fortune. Erica Spindler
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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 cherry-wood 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.
Chapter Eight
Chance 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