“That’s clocking out?” I ask.
“It means you’re no longer getting paid for being here,” Mrs. Larson says. “So head on home, honey, and tell your mom you’ve had a successful day.”
“Thank you,” I say. I have to go to the employee room to get my coat and sweatshirt. It’s a slog to get there. I’m a lot more tired than I expected, and my legs actually ache. But I’m in a good mood underneath it all.
I thought I would hate work. But I liked this. It felt useful, not at all like being an Interim Fate. As an Interim Fate, I was faking it most of the time, and the rest of the time, I felt like I was screwing up.
Here, I actually think I can get good at the tasks they’ve given me. And the fate of the world isn’t in my hands. Just the fate of a few boxes, and maybe a shelf.
I like that better.
I wave good-bye to Mr. Davis, Nathaniel, and the other kid (whose name I never did learn) and then head out the door.
When the cold hits me, that’s when I remember I was supposed to call home to get a ride.
I cross the parking lot to Subway. I still have a dollar, and I can get myself chips or something while I wait.
I pull the phone out of my purse and flip the phone open so that I can press the right buttons to make the call.
The phone slides out of my hand, hovers in the air, and explodes.
Then my father appears as the bits of phone are falling to the parking lot. He’s short and square and, with his big nostrils and prominent eyes, looks terrifyingly like a bull. I always forget just how much until I see him.
It doesn’t help that his nostrils are flaring and his eyes are more intense than usual.
“So, little girl,” he says, “you really think you can make fun of all of us?”
He sounds angry. I’ve seen him angry before, but never at me.
“What?” I say. “I haven’t—I’m not—”
“Oh, yes, you are,” he says. “And we’re going to sort this out right now, with the help of your evil little empath and her friends, those meddlesome Fates.”
Then he claps his hands together and shouts, “To the Fates!”
And everything around me disappears.
TEN
I HAVEN’T BEEN magicked anywhere in months, and I forgot how disorienting it is, particularly when you’re not the one wielding the magic.
One minute we’re standing in the cold parking lot and I’m thinking about Subway and my purse and the phone and being grimy and wondering what the heck my dad wants and the next minute, we’re in this blankness.
It’s not really blank. It’s more like we’re inside a giant cone of glare. We’re surrounded by white and yellow light, and it’s a lot warmer than that parking lot, and quieter too. The wind had been whistling, and there had been traffic noise I’d already learned to tune out, and then so much silence that the only thing I can hear is my own breathing.
At least I’m still breathing.
Then we arrive in that damn library where I worked with my sisters for a really long time. The actual Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos—are stretched out on three different couches, reading books. All three women are wearing white satin tunics over flowing white satin pants, and white mule slippers with fake feathers on the top.
Daddy picked me, Tiffany, and Crystal, not because we were brilliant or anything, but because our hair color matched the actual Fates. Apparently, all he saw was eyes and hair, because Tiffany looks nothing like Atropos, who is dark-haired. Tiffany’s hair is not straight or quite the same kind of black. Her skin is much darker, and her eyes are much prettier.
Atropos looks like one of those women on the Greek urns, with skin that turns dark in the sun, but isn’t dark if she stays out of the sun. Her hair and eyes are a startling contrast to her skin (and she really shouldn’t be wearing white. Just sayin’).
In Daddy’s grand scheme, I was supposed to take the place of Clotho. Clotho, in her normal state (not some magical persona she puts on, which she does a lot), is a tall, willowy blonde. Her voice is higher than mine and Tiff once said that Clotho was the prototype for the dumb blonde. Only Clotho isn’t dumb. Not at all. I’m a dunce compared to her.
She has blue eyes like mine, but the comparison ends there. Hers are filled with a sharp intelligence that I can only aspire to.
Right now, she has those eyes trained on Daddy. He doesn’t seem intimidated as he stares back at her.
Slowly, all three Fates stand up. They tower over Daddy, but not over me. That’s when I realize I’m taller than he is. That’s a surprise.
“We are not going to say to what do we owe this pleasure.” Clotho lowers her pale eyebrows at me. Her stare is disconcerting.
“We had a hunch we would see you,” Lachesis says. She’s the redhead, and the only one of the Fates who looks like an Interim Fate. Or, really, the only one that shows the resemblance. She’s curvy and red-headed and beautiful, just like Crystal.
The Fates have a prescribed speaking order. They cannot interrupt each other. They don’t quite share each other’s thoughts, but they do seem to have a sense of what the next sentence is.
Or at least, we did when we were the Interim Fates. We also had to speak in a prescribed order, even when we were by ourselves. It drove us crazy.
But then the whole job drove us crazy.
I turn toward Atropos. She’s going to speak next whether she wants to or not.
She frowns at me.
“We have already denied your sister’s request to return to Mount Olympus,” Atropos says to me.
“What?” I ask. It’s not the best way to start a conversation with the Fates, particularly since they hate all of us Interims for taking their job and getting them fired (or term-limited, as the case may be) even though we had nothing to do with it.
“Your sister Crystal,” Clotho says. “We told her she cannot return to Mount Olympus.”
“With her magic intact, that is,” Lachesis says.
“It doesn’t matter how much she wants it,” Atropos says.
I knew that Crystal was unhappy, but I had no idea she had found her way to the Fates and tried to go back home. She didn’t tell us anything.
Then I gasp as I realize something. I missed the phone call. For the very first time, I forgot that we have our conference call on Saturday. I didn’t even tell anyone to give my sisters a message.
“We shocked you?” Clotho asks.
“No,” I say, “I mean, yes, but not for the reason you think.”
I glance at Daddy. He has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s looking mighty pleased with himself.
“I didn’t know about Crystal,” I say.
“Or that your other sister made us take away her magic?” Lachesis asks.
“Well, yeah,” I say. “You took away all of our magic.”
They collectively frown at me, which is mighty impressive. I feel like a dweeble.
“Again,” Atropos says. “We took your sister’s magic away again.”
“Although,” Clotho says, turning her ferocious gaze from me to Daddy, “the second time was not her fault.”
“What?” I ask. “What happened?”
“And….” Lachesis has also turned her gaze on Daddy. “I did not expect to see you here so soon after the last time.”
“Don’t tell us that you can’t refuse one of your daughters, because we know that you usually don’t notice them,” Atropos says.
Daddy has a half smile on his face. There’s something going on here that I don’t understand. But he’s scheming again.
I don’t want to be in trouble with the Fates. Anymore, that is. I don’t want to be in trouble with them anymore. They hate us for what we did, and we promised we’d be good, although it sounds like my sisters haven’t been, and they haven’t told me, which actually makes me feel better about missing the phone call.
I take a step forward, my heart pounding. “It wasn’t my idea to come here.”
The Fates do
something with their bodies that I’ve never seen before. They seem to have grown taller, stronger, more dynamic. I have no idea how they did that, but they look even more powerful than Daddy.
They are more powerful than Daddy, but now they seem to dwarf him.
It doesn’t freak him out. (It freaks me out, though.)
He doesn’t even seem to notice that they’re different. Nor does he seem to notice that I spoke at all.
Or if he did notice, he doesn’t care.
“We’re missing one other person from this discussion,” Daddy says and claps his hands.
The air sparkles for a moment and then Megan topples onto the wooden floor. She’s wearing an LA Clippers sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and no makeup. Her feet are bare. Her toes are painted this great shade of purple.
She looks around, startled, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing.
She stands up and I realize that all she’s wearing are sweats. No undergarments, nothing. She’s a heavyset woman—plus size, they call it in the stores—and she has red hair too, although it’s not as red as Crystal’s or Lachesis’s.
Megan also has a redhead’s temper. I can see it, as her cheeks get red and her green eyes spit fire.
“Now what’s he done?” she asks the Fates, turning slightly away from Daddy.
Megan’s my therapist. She’s therapist to all three of us, actually, and she helped us confront Daddy last summer. She says he was pretty shocked that we disliked him so much, and that we felt like he had mistreated us for our whole lives—or ignored us (which is what he constantly did with me).
Megan’s also the one who went to the rest of the Powers That Be and figured out how we could stop being Interim Fates and start being “real people” —her words—and come into our magic the way that most female mages do, which is after about fifty years of mortal living.
It all sounded like a good idea, but it’s been hard, and it sounds like my sisters wanted out of it, even though they didn’t say anything to me.
Good old Brittany, trying to get along.
Good old clueless Brittany, unaware that the choices everyone else made for her were choices they decided no longer worked for them.
I clench my fists. Clotho glances at me, as if she can sense my rising anger, but she doesn’t say anything.
Of course, I haven’t been paying attention to their speech order. She might not be able to say anything because it might not be her turn to talk yet.
“I haven’t done anything,” Daddy says, responding to Megan’s comment. He gives her a sideways victory glance, as if he has just bested her at soccer or something. “I am merely pointing out something that the four of you should know about.”
Four. Not me. I’m confused.
Megan raises her chin. I know that look. It’s combative and angry, but she’s willing to listen. She had that look during the meeting with me, my sisters, and Daddy back when we decided to give up our Fateness, confront him, and become “normal.”
Daddy takes a step forward and opens his palms at his sides. I’m hoping that’s a submissive movement, because if it’s the beginning of a spell, then we’re all in trouble.
The Fates will destroy him.
He should know that.
I think they’re just waiting for the opportunity.
“My daughter,” Daddy says, his tone reasonable but concerned, “is in hell. I think you need to release her from her sentence.”
I’m frowning. Which daughter is he talking about? I don’t know of any daughters who are serving a sentence. But that doesn’t mean that some aren’t. The Fates are known for giving out sentences.
The worst one I ever heard of was one that a guy named Darius had to serve. He had to find one hundred couples who were fated for each other, and make certain they ended up together. Took him thousands of years.
But I’m here, and my sisters have been here before, and maybe Daddy just misspoke.
Maybe he’s referring to Crystal, and he wants me to testify about what she’s going through. Because, in my opinion, she really is in hell, and we all consigned her there when we made this deal.
Megan glances at me. She’s an empath, so she must feel both my anger and my confusion, as well as whatever everyone else in the room is feeling.
“Are you referring to Brittany?” she asks Daddy. “Because she seems as confused as the rest of us.”
I lean back just a little. He’s talking about me? Why would he be talking about me?
I’m not in hell.
“Because,” Daddy says, “she has no idea what they’re forcing on her.”
My mouth opens slightly. He is referring to me. I have a sentence? And I’m in hell? How come no one told me?
Daddy isn’t looking at me. He’s facing Megan, who is, I think, the only woman besides the Fates who doesn’t smile at Daddy like he’s the handsomest man on Earth.
He’s saying, “I took her out of that situation the moment that I heard what they were doing to her.”
I let out a small breath. What is he talking about? He just got me. I have a job, a real job, and I like it.
“They?” Clotho asks. “This mysterious they are forcing something on Brittany?”
“Yes.” Daddy straightens and juts out his barrel chest like he does whenever he’s making a pronouncement. “Brittany is suffering quite badly.”
I am? How come I don’t know about that?
I want to ask, but I can’t, because Daddy’s still talking. He’s using that stupid rhetorical style that is left over from the days when everyone believed he was a god.
He’s saying, “Let’s not discuss the manual labor that they forced upon her today.”
Then he turns his head toward me. Those dark eyes grip me, and I feel like he’s trying to send me a message. I’m not sure if the message is Don’t you dare contradict me or Right, honey? or Who are you again?
“On second thought,” he says, “let’s discuss the manual labor after all. My child is being forced to lift and drag things about, as if she’s Sisyphus on a hill in Hades.”
“What?” I ask, because I can’t keep it in any longer.
Daddy steps in front of me, as if he’s trying to block my words from reaching the Fates. “My daughter is being treated like a servant, and not a well-respected one either.”
Daddy’s clearly offended, but I can’t tell if he’s offended because I’m being treated poorly, in his opinion, or if he’s offended because of the way someone is treating one of his children.
I’m shaking my head as I’m about to deny everything, when Lachesis asks, “Who is this they you’re referring to?”
“Yeah,” Megan says. The word is really charged, like it has magic all its own. “You’re saying that the Johnson Family is doing this?”
“They’re not doing anything,” I say.
“Shush, child,” Atropos says to me. “Let us figure this out.”
I open my hands in a what-the-hell? gesture. (Mom says it’s both rude and obscene, and I don’t care. I’m the one being discussed here.)
Clotho tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “You’re saying that this family—”
“The Johnson Family,” Lachesis says, making sure she gets it right.
“This Johnson Family,” Atropos says, working in the correction as if she was the one who started the initial sentence.
“—is treating Brittany like a servant?” Clotho finishes.
“Because,” Lachesis says, “we really need clarification. If they are treating her like a servant, does that mean they’re making her work?”
“Or,” Atropos says as she crosses her arms and stares down at Daddy, “does that mean they’re treating her the way that you treat servants?”
Megan looks at me with alarm. I shrug.
No one else pays attention to me, because they’re still caught up in their questioning.
“Because,” Clotho says, “if they treat her one way, they’re making her labor.”
“And,” Lachesis says, “if they’re treating her another, it will result in labor.”
“Oh. My. God,” I blurt. “I’m not pregnant.”
Daddy has always slept with the servants, from the beginning of time, damn near, or at least, the beginning of his time. Half of my siblings are the result of Daddy sleeping with someone who worked for the family.
Everyone looks at me as if I just grew a third head. But I have to clear this up right now.
“I’m not pregnant,” I repeat. “I don’t even have a boyfriend and I barely have time to talk to anyone, and can I just go home, please? I didn’t ask to come here.”
Clotho tilts her head at me. Her blue eyes make mine seem pale and washed out. You can see the entire sky in those eyes.
But it’s Atropos’s turn to speak, so she asks, “You didn’t ask to come here?”
“No,” I say.
Clotho turns that very blue gaze on Daddy. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” I say, before he can answer. “He showed up when I got off work and blew up my phone and then brought me here.”
“He did what to your phone?” Megan asks. She’s probably the only one who understands cell phones in the entire room.
“He took it from me,” I say, “and then it exploded.”
Everyone looks at Daddy now. If I were Daddy, I would be blushing. But I don’t think he can blush. I’m not even sure he feels shame.
He shrugs. “I didn’t mean to destroy the bloody thing.”
Lachesis frowns. “He does have powerful magic.”
“He didn’t mean to do it,” Atropos says to her sisters.
“So that means ‘the bloody thing’ is some kind of technology?” Clotho asks.
“Yes, it is.” Megan tugs on her sweatshirt. She’s obviously uncomfortable wearing those clothes in front of the Fates.
“And why was the thing covered in blood?” Lachesis asks.
“It wasn’t,” Megan says. “He’s using a British swear word, which I’m rather surprised he knows.”
“I know a lot about a lot of things,” Daddy says. “I had no idea, however, that that little black device was a tech device.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, which would really get me in trouble with Mom. “All I was trying to do was get a ride home.”
Brittany Bends Page 10
