She wasn’t going to tell me anything. The name did fall smoothly off Jenny’s tongue, though. Maybe Elizabeth was her real name.
“I have my eye on you,” Jenny said. She shot me a squinty look. “I know your type.”
I looked up from my paper. “Exactly how many of my type have there been?” Her hostility didn’t bother me. Compared with my aunt Morta, she was a walk in the park.
She gave me another look. “Six,” she said. “There have been six others in as many weeks. All sponges. Out for what they could get.”
I was lucky number seven. Interesting. Elizabeth had been here at least six weeks and had brought home six stray puppies. Who or what was she looking for?
“What does Elizabeth get out of it? Besides the obvious.”
That stumped her for a minute. “She’s kindhearted. Like me.”
I nearly snorted coffee through my nose. Jenny seemed about as charitable as a cobra, but it was Elizabeth who really intrigued me. She was a strange mixture of street and sweet. You always had to watch the sweet ones.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth was back before I’d finished my scrambled eggs.
“No luck?” I asked as I scooped up the last bit of egg with my buttery toast. Crabby or not, Jenny was an excellent cook.
I looked up from my food just in time to catch the look the two of them exchanged. Elizabeth was tight-lipped and unsmiling.
She wasn’t carrying any bags. I’d never met a girl yet who came back from a mall empty-handed, at least not the ones with money to burn.
When she shrugged off her coat, I could see she wore a low-cut top and a tight skirt. Her hair was slicked back, and the floral barrette had disappeared. It was the little things that changed her into a completely different person. Actors often had that same ability to transform into someone else at the drop of a hat.
Mom and I had spent the summer I was twelve working for a traveling theater troupe that, ironically enough, was performing “the Scottish play.” Mom always said Shakespeare hadn’t gotten much right, except that they were witches. She’d also hinted that Shakespeare had had a crush on my aunt Nona.
When we were on the run, my mother would only use magic as a last resort, for fear her sisters would sense it and use it to track us down. I stuck to the same rules. No sense asking for trouble.
“No luck shopping, he means,” Jenny said, breaking my reverie. Idle conversation, or was she letting Elizabeth know what alibi she’d given me?
I was a suspicious bastard the best of times. My gut told me to cut and run. “Thank you for the hospitality,” I said. “But it’s time I go.”
“Do you have to leave?” Elizabeth fiddled with her purse strap.
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I felt responsible,” she said. “I mean, because you got stabbed.”
“You didn’t do it,” I said. “And I feel much better today.”
Although I felt the same pain as anyone, I did mend quickly.
“We thought you could stay with us for a few days,” Elizabeth said. “Just until you get on your feet. Unless there’s somewhere else you have to go? Family or friends?”
“There’s no one,” I said. “But I can’t stick around.” She couldn’t seem to make up her mind if she wanted me to stay or to go.
I’d learned a long time ago not to try to tell anyone the truth about myself. The one time I did, I’d ended up involuntarily committed to a mental health facility. But back then, there was nothing healthy about the place I’d been. I shuddered at the memory. That was the last time I’d opened my mouth about living forever. Or close enough. I’d live until I found my thread of fate or my aunts did.
Being an immortal was like walking around talking in a language that nobody understood anymore. My aunts were the only other people I knew of who’d lived for centuries. My mother had been the only one in history who had been ballsy enough to try to outwit her sisters.
I had a plan when I came to Minneapolis. I’d been alive a long time and Minneapolis in winter seemed like the perfect place to die, but on my terms, not anybody else’s.
Elizabeth was a complication. She intrigued me, which was an emotion I hadn’t felt in a long time. But I didn’t need complications. I needed revenge.
“Why not?”
“I need to find a job,” I replied.
“We’ll find something for you to do,” Elizabeth promised.
“Like what?” I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t exactly employable, at least not doing anything legal.
She paused, a bit too theatrically.
“Why don’t we have him sort through Mr. K’s papers?” Elizabeth asked, too casually.
“That’s a great idea!” Jenny replied without any hesitation.
It was tricky, practiced spontaneity, and she didn’t quite pull it off.
“I haven’t even said yes yet,” I said. “And what kind of papers are we talking about?”
“Historical documents,” she replied, like that cleared it up for me.
“I’ll think about it,” I replied. “In the meantime, I need to go out to pick up a few things.”
They were both staring at me curiously, so I added, “Smokes, maybe a razor.” I didn’t smoke. They didn’t need to know where I was really going, which was out the door as fast as I could.
Bolting was kind of a shitty thing to do, considering Elizabeth had given me a place to stay, but I didn’t have the energy for a scene. She was clearly used to getting her own way.
“Why don’t you stay here until you make up your mind?” Elizabeth said, “It’s almost four. I need to make a call anyway.”
Four P.M.? I’d slept most of the day away. It didn’t give me much time. I was almost out of cash.
I went back to my room and took a long hot shower. The chest wound looked like it was healing pretty well, but it hurt when the water hit the crusted wound.
After I toweled off and dressed, I noticed that someone had placed a bouquet of hothouse flowers in a crystal vase on my nightstand. I plucked a rose and inhaled. It was one of the soulless new strains that didn’t have any scent, but it would have to do. I shrugged on my jacket and placed the rose inside my jacket, where it would be safe.
I wondered if I could find a place to make an offering. A place of magic and luck would be preferable, but I would settle for an altar to Lady Fortuna.
Nobody believed in magic anymore, anyway, unless it happened in the pages of a book.
Some people still believed in Lady Luck, though. My mother had many names. The Greeks called her Tyche. The Romans called her Fortuna. She was the fourth Fate, the youngest Wyrd Sister, Lady Fortuna.
There were few reminders of my mother’s power floating around. I’d found altars in Vegas, Atlantic City, and the back rooms of several restaurants in San Francisco’s Chinatown. I left an offering in every city. It was my way of remembering her.
I took a bus from the posh suburb where Elizabeth lived and got out a few streets from where I’d parked the Caddy. It started up right away. The car was my prized possession, a purple 1956 Cadillac Eldorado convertible, so I was relieved no one had messed with it. The wards I’d put on it would have discouraged all but the most determined vandals.
I cruised around Minneapolis, but finally ended up wandering into a bingo game at the Uptown VFW. Not exactly high-stakes gambling, but there was a certain amount of luck involved, so it would have to do. It was twenty dollars for fifteen games, which depleted my cash considerably.
I played a couple of games and won a hundred bucks. I didn’t always win, but I was my mother’s son, after all. I left the rose next to my board and collected my winnings.
A chill wind hit me as soon as I stepped onto the street, and I turned my collar up against the falling snow. My ungloved hands were already freezing.
I found a grocery store and picked up a razor, some chocolate, and a cheap pair of gloves. The store was nearly deserted, except for a bored clerk at the front. I was w
alking down the neat rows of canned goods, heading for the refrigerated section, when the lights flickered.
I froze when I saw a familiar figure reflected in the glass of the display case. He was blond, with watery blue eyes and pale skin. His nose, pink from the cold, made him look like a cuddly rabbit. In reality, he was the farthest thing from cuddly that I could think of.
Gaston, my aunts’ errand boy, was a general pain in the ass. He was also a Tracker, one of the best. He could sniff out his prey better than any hound dog. He had just enough magic in his blood to be dangerous.
He turned, stared straight at me, and took a swig out of a bottle of orange soda. Gaston had been drinking nectar of the gods since he’d started tracking for my aunts. It kept him alive, but it also kept him crazy.
He flipped the bottle top over and over and I noticed the Parsi logo, or Parcae—another word for the Fates. My aunts were nothing if not subtle.
I tensed, waiting to see if my disguise had held. I’d dyed my hair, turning its normal brown to the color of black licorice. Just to be certain, I’d paid a bloody king’s ransom for an occulo spell, which would hide my identity from anyone looking for me. The essence of what made me me would be concealed. The medicine woman I’d bought it from was the last one in America who could work an occulo spell.
It was impossible to hide the magic coursing through my blood, but the medicine woman had assured me that a casual observer would see a low-level magician from the House of Zeus, nothing more. “But you must be careful of the eyes,” she had warned me.
“You changed the color,” I objected.
“The eyes hold the secrets of the soul,” she replied. “That is something a spell cannot conceal.”
Sunglasses helped to conceal my eyes. I wore them whenever possible, but it worried me that the spell wasn’t foolproof. Would it hold or would I find myself running from the Fates’ Tracker again?
The spell held and Gaston paid for his purchases and left without giving me a second glance.
I added a lottery scratcher to my purchases. I would need all the luck I could get. The ticket was a winner, so I turned it in and pocketed the cash.
I’d obtained the occulo spell after Gaston found me last time. Despite the frigid weather, I was sweating as I remembered our last little visit. He had hunted me down on the beach on a remote island in the South Pacific. It belonged to some celebrity who had probably forgotten he even owned it.
I had been following a lead about a coral fish that the celebrity was supposed to have at his house on the island. The lead didn’t pan out, which meant I hadn’t found my mother’s charms. I was almost certain that my thread of fate was hidden in one of those charms.
I’d decided to take advantage of the celebrity’s absence and take a little vacation on his deserted tropical island. I never knew when my aunts would lash out at the nearest innocent bystander.
I had three aunts, all of whom wanted to kill me, but Morta was the one who wanted to make me suffer first.
I’d been lying on the beach, watching the fish dart through the azure water, when a shadow fell over me. I’d thought I would be safe there. I was wrong.
“Son of Fortuna,” Gaston said. “Time’s up.”
“How did you find me?” It was too late to run.
But Gaston didn’t try to kill me that time. He’d learned it wouldn’t work.
Instead, he just gave me a particularly nasty smile. “You know what I want. Just give it to me and your aunts will leave you alone.”
“I don’t have it. How many times do we have to go over this?”
“As many as it takes,” Gaston replied. “Your aunts’ patience is wearing thin.”
“Tell the Wyrd Sisters that I don’t have what they’re looking for,” I said. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell those hell-ridden hags.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m just here to deliver the message.” My aunts. The three Fates: famous meddlers, witches, and keepers of the threads of fate for the human and magical worlds alike. Nona spun the thread, Decima measured the thread, and Morta cut the thread of fate, which ended a life. Only the gods were more powerful than the Fates, and they’d faded away a long time ago.
What many people don’t know was that there used to be a fourth Fate. Fortuna, the sister who added a bit of luck to the mix. Fortuna, the forgotten Fate.
The human world was bereft of luck. Fate had killed luck and I had watched it happen. Her sisters had made sure my mother’s role as the fourth Fate had been obscured by time, wiped from history. They’d torn down her legacy as surely as the pharaohs of old Egypt had destroyed their predecessors’ temples.
Morta was the one who really had it in for me. She probably sharpened those scissors of hers, just waiting for the day she finally found the silver thread my mother had stolen and hidden. The silver thread that Morta was supposed to have cut when I was a baby, but my mother stole it and hid it away. The three witches had been looking for it, and me, ever since.
Morta cut my mother’s thread when I was twenty, which was also the year I’d stopped physically aging. I didn’t know why. I just knew I was stuck unable to die, probably forever. Or at least until I found my thread.
Shakespeare had been alive when my mother was born. In fact, he knew my aunts, which explained a lot about Macbeth.
I didn’t want to think about that right now. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I found my thread, but I didn’t want them to make that decision for me. I’d never feel safe, not with those three hags at my back at every turn.
My mother lost her job the day I was born. Her family, my three aunts, took one look at me and the evidence of my gender and promptly fired her. In the history of our family, there had never been a male born to one of the Sisters of Fate. Until me.
My hands clenched, but I managed to remain calm. “Deliver the message and get out of my sight.”
I realized that Gaston had been speaking for quite some time. I’d missed part of it, but it seemed to be running along the lines of how much he’d relish the day my time was up.
“So you don’t have anything new to say?” I interrupted him.
He stared at me, nonplussed. “Did you not listen to anything I have said?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“Morta wants your head on a platter,” he summarized.
I shrugged. “She’s wanted that since the day I was born.”
“This is different,” he said. “I think this time she means it.”
“I’m alone,” I said bitterly. “She murdered the only person I’ve ever loved. There’s nothing left.”
He just chuckled. “Poor dumb son of Fortuna. Didn’t you know? Your mother’s little stunt won’t save you for much longer.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Mom never told me who my father was, so the only family I had in the world wanted me dead. “It’s not like my mom had the chance to give me all the deets on the crazy relatives,” I continued. “Since they killed her.”
They couldn’t kill me, but they could make my life pretty miserable. My aunts’ job, as far as I could tell, was to play one giant game of Red Light, Green Light with the world. Morta’s job, which entailed lots of slicing and dicing with those enormous golden shears of hers, was to give someone a permanent red light. She wasn’t Death exactly, but those scissors of hers gave Death the signal where and when to show up. Morta would snip a thread and Death would mosey on down to collect the soul.
Gaston grinned evilly. “There are ways to make an immortal less, well, immortal. Very unpleasant ways. Make it easy on yourself and give me the thread.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. My disbelief had made him laugh harder. “For the millionth time. I. Don’t. Have. It.”
He’d left me bloody and beaten, but alive. The worst part was that I could tell he really enjoyed his work. Half of the scars on my body were courtesy of Gaston, my aunts’ Tracker.
Why had he let me go? Experien
ce told me that it was only because my aunts had something worse planned for me.
I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky next time. I needed to face my aunts. I’d been on the run for two hundred years. I was tired of running.
I came back to the present and realized I’d gripped the chocolate bar so tightly, it had snapped in half.
I was in Minneapolis, my aunts’ territory. The Fates could live anywhere. Why had they chosen Minnesota?
It was time to fight. But although I knew I’d be fighting a war I’d be sure to lose, I needed to arm myself for battle. Gaston had said it himself. The aunts had power and I needed it. I knew exactly where to start.
Chapter Four
Seeing Gaston had shaken me up more than I wanted to admit. It didn’t help that the Minneapolis snowstorm had turned into a full-on blizzard.
I was a stain on the family honor. The Fates were so furious at their little sister’s betrayal that they expunged her name from the family tree, but they didn’t manage to stamp out her name from history completely. My continued existence served as a reminder of their failures.
My aunts had no compunction about using humans to hurt me, which is why I could never get close to anyone. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.
They couldn’t kill me because my mother stole the silver thread, the one that her sister had woven so carefully before I was born. The silver thread they wanted to snip when they found out that they weren’t so omniscient after all, since their sister had given birth to a boy, something that had never happened in the history of the Fates. At least not a boy who had survived Morta’s sharp scissors.
I came to Minneapolis deliberately, after getting a tip that my aunts had set up shop there. I knew they were here, but they didn’t know I was, at least not yet. But they would. The Fates weren’t all-knowing, but they were powerful and they had spies everywhere.
The rest of the world may have forgotten my mother, but I hadn’t. I would avenge her death, find my thread of fate, and call it a day.
At some point, the hunted get tired of being the ones running and decide to do a little chasing of their own. The Fates were not immortal. Every few hundred years, the old Fate would step down and her daughter would take her place. But my mother’s sisters, her murderers, were the ones I sought.
Strange Fates Page 3
