“What’s new?” I ask him. I pin the other amulet back behind my ear with several bobby pins. It looks like a hearing aid, and essentially, it is. “Did I miss anything over the last week?” Marcus keeps to himself, but I can usually pry some gossip out of him.
“Well,” he starts, removing the scalding seeds from the peppers, “Thursday was open-mic night, and a banshee went on for over an hour. It was awful, but no one was brave enough to get him offstage.”
“That’s amazing. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It really wasn’t—” He stops, interrupted by Ivy sighing louder than the sous-chef sharpening knives behind us. We both turn her way.
“Yes, princess?” I ask.
“What am I supposed to do while we wait?” she whines.
“You could peel onions.”
“No.”
“Or peel eyeballs.”
“GROSS.”
Perhaps out of boredom, but more likely because she just noticed Marcus is the only line member not sporting some sort of face fungus or pointy horn and is actually decent-looking, Ivy suddenly lights up, shaking her fingers through her hair so it perfectly cascades down the sides of her face. She shimmies between Marcus and me, leaning on the counter to best reveal her décolletage, leaving me with a view of her butt. Now it’s my turn to sigh.
“Hey, there,” she purrs in Marcus’s direction. He gives me a “what is happening?” look over her shoulder.
“Uh…hey,” he replies.
“You’re pretty cute, you know that?”
“Um, thank you?”
“And you’re really talented with those knives. Good hands. I wonder what else you could do with them.”
Good Gods. Flirting? Now? I should have realized bringing her here meant I’d need to protect more than myself. “Yes, Ivy, that’s called a skill,” I interject. “Some people actually work to achieve goals, instead of performing brain melts like you’re trying to do to poor Marcus here.”
She looks back at me with doe eyes. “I’m just talking. He doesn’t have to answer.” Of course we both know that’s not how sirening works. If she’s looking to converse with this innocent werewolf, he’ll participate, whether he wants to or not.
But in a delightful twist, Marcus goes right back to chopping, completely bypassing Ivy’s feminine wiles. It’s an excellent choice, but the fact there was a choice at all is…odd.
“Amber?” says a whisper in my ear. It’s Alessandra, chatting through the amulet. “Your party is here. I’m going to slip the amulet in the table’s centerpiece, okay? Hope it helps.”
“Okay, it’s showtime,” I say to Ivy. “Marcus, I’ll be back in a minute; can you cover my station for me, please?”
“Sure,” he says, blushing. He’s probably relieved at my removing such a foul creature from his workspace. I lead Ivy to the supply closet, where it’s quieter, and we crouch down in a corner, pressing our ears to the amulet. We hear some shuffling and silverware clinking on the other side.
“This is quite the place,” we hear Iris say sweetly through the stone. Ivy tenses at her sister’s voice, unconsciously gripping on to me. I let it slide and make a mental note to properly disinfect the area later. “I’ve never been here before.”
Skipping pleasantries, Victoria cuts to the chase. “So are you ready for the transformation or not?” The deep tone of her voice instantly sends a shiver down my spine. I can just picture her cartoonishly “beautiful” face, forehead frozen and lips permanently pursed.
“It’s not that I’m not ready; I’m dying to be with Brooke,” Iris says, losing confidence. “I’m just worried about the possible side effects from the spell.”
“Side effects? Darling, I’m a professional. I don’t make mistakes.”
“But magic always has consequences, doesn’t it?”
“And who told you that?”
“Lucille Sand.”
Victoria lets out a horrible laugh that crackles through the stone, making both Ivy and me squirm back and hit our heads against the vegetable crates. “You poor thing. You talked to Lucille? No wonder you came to me.”
“HOW DARE SHE!” I say in an intense whisper. Ivy slaps her hand over my mouth, not wanting to miss a word on the other side.
“What I don’t understand is: Why are you willing to perform the spell, but she isn’t?” An excellent question, and I’m glad to hear Iris isn’t completely lost to the pulls of love. She still has a good head on her shoulders.
There’s a pause, and I can’t wait to see what angle this liar will spin. “Well, Lucille likes to think she operates by a higher mystical code, but that excuse allows her to pass judgment on everyone around her. She hides behind the Fates, when really, she just doesn’t have the skills.”
It’s a good thing I’m holed up in a closet, away from the knives, because I want to stab a witch right now.
“Oh.” They’re both quiet, Iris letting Victoria’s claims sink in. The waitress comes by and delivers the night’s specials, and I look at Ivy, who is curled up and perched like a gargoyle, eyes wild but frozen, poised to attack. This exchange is putting both of us on edge, but Ivy seems extremely disturbed at being forced to stand impotently by. “Lucille warned me about taking such a big risk,” Iris continues. “She said I may regret it one day.”
“Just because she made foolish life choices doesn’t mean you are. She’s projecting. I, on the other hand, don’t judge my clients. You’re an adult; you can make your own choices. If you have the cash, I’ll get you that tail.”
Charming. Their drink orders arrive, and after a few sips, Victoria follows up with, “So?”
Ivy’s biting her lip; her sister’s life is on the line. I’ve never seen her so small; she’s always a mountain among men. To see her here, nearly drawing blood from both her mouth and my arm, it’s almost…humanizing. We hold our breath as we wait for the verdict.
“Okay,” Iris declares, quiet but assured. “I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
“IVY, WAIT!”
The siren is on her feet, running through the kitchen, with no regard for the flames and forks around her. She’s a wild animal, tearing through a culinary jungle, but luckily, she’s headed for the alley and not the dining room. I can only imagine what she’d do if she were face-to-face with her sister right now: Drag her by the hair to an underground lair and throw away the key?
As I follow her out back, the amulet begins to make a crackling sound, like land lines losing connection, then falls silent. I’m too far away to pick up the signal from the dining room (#oldworldproblems). I don’t really want to miss the rest of Victoria and Iris’s conversation, but loose-cannon Ivy is my most immediate concern. I find her pacing like a caged lion. I can’t tell if she’s going to scream or cry, so I decide to keep a safe distance.
“Are you okay?” I call out in the darkness. There’s a real tornado of special smells happening back here, as Ivy’s chosen to melt down in direct proximity to our Dumpster. I don’t even want to think about how many unidentifiable body parts are rotting in those bins.
I hear her sniffle, her face turned away. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to cry in front of me, and I don’t blame her; I’m not sure if I’m the right person to comfort her right now. Wait, no, I’m sure I’m not.
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of their conversation?” I ask. If I know anything about evil types, it’s that they like to finalize contracts: not always in blood, but definitely making their victims sign on the dotted line. There’s no way Victoria’s leaving tonight without a clear plan of attack.
“What does it matter?” Ivy whines.
“What do you mean? You wanted to come here—”
“Yeah, to stop her! But she’s hell-bent on becoming a fish, no matter the cost! Nothing I do matters!” she yells. I can see her better now; she’s wiped away her smeared mascara, but she’s not up to her siren standards.
“Speaking of hell-bent, I don’t get what your problem is here. Your sister fo
und her match. Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, I know you’ll miss her, but—”
“This isn’t about me!” Ivy says indignantly. Her wide eyes glow through the darkness. “You don’t understand.”
While I’m not really interested in the inner workings of Ivy’s brain, I feel like I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle. “Okay, so make me.”
She huffs at first, almost as unwilling to share as I am to listen. But we’ve somehow found ourselves in this unholy alliance, and if we’re going to make any progress, we need to bridge the gap.
“What the hell is she going to do all day, huh? What kind of life can she have at the bottom of the ocean?” Even though her rage is building, her voice softens, turning sad. “Her dream was to be a senator, to use her siren powers to make real, impactful change. But what kind of impact can she make underwater? Foster peace agreements between a dolphin and a shark? She’s throwing her life away, and for what? Love?” Ivy shakes her head. “Ridiculous.”
I can honestly say I’ve never thought about a mermaid’s day-in-the-life. It seems relaxing, at first glance, to lie among seashells all day. But Ivy does have a point: What do they do down there? What will Iris’s life become?
Back when she was in school, no matter the topic, Iris could command any room. I have no doubt she could dominate the Senate floor with her ideas, using her influence for good, but she can’t conference in from the coral reef. She’d have to leave that dream behind. Has she thought this through? Is she ready to sacrifice not only her body but her ambitions as well?
“Hey, um, Amber?” I hear Marcus call from behind me. He’s peeked his head out in the alley, like an expectant puppy. “Your station is getting pretty backed up. You may want to get in here soon.”
“Thanks, Marcus,” I say, giving him a wave. When I turn around, Ivy is gone, disappeared into the night. It’s just as well. I honestly have no idea how to process Iris’s situation. I can’t reassure any of the Chamberlains that love conquers all, and if a matchmaker can’t, who can?
Once I’m inside, the amulet crackles back to life, allowing me to catch the tail-end details of Operation Sea Bound, which are: Iris must pay Victoria in full in advance so she can acquire the proper supplies. The actual spell must take place on a full moon, the soonest being in three weeks. They’ll rendezvous by Lake Michigan at midnight. Then good-bye, legs.
I pull the amulet out of my hair and tuck it in my back pocket. Now that I know the particulars, I don’t need to listen to further small talk. I trudge over to my station, the weight of Iris’s decision weighing heavily. I barely even know her, but I can’t help agreeing with Mom that this could be a huge mistake.
“Let me ask you something,” I say to Marcus, sliding my hands into a bowl of dough. “Would you ever sacrifice a part of yourself for someone you loved?”
He flinches a little at my return, a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. “Um, that’s random, but okay. I don’t know….Which part?”
“Any part. A body part, I guess.”
Long curls of carrots cover his area, as he glides the peeler up and down; he takes several contemplative seconds before responding. “I surrender my body once a month for the whole wolf thing,” he says, voice soft with sorrow. His gaze is distant, mind elsewhere while his hands work. “It’s not easy. Nor fun. I can’t imagine voluntarily going through something like that.” More carrots coil below him. “But if there was no other answer, then yeah, I guess I would. In the name of love.”
“In the name of love,” I repeat, nodding. I’m pretty attached to my appendages, so switching them up for someone I love would be extreme. But then again, what if Charlie’s arm got ripped off by some freak dragon accident, and giving him one of mine would be the only way for him to survive? Granted, I can’t foresee us being in any situation where dragons are present, but the whole thing is hypothetical, so whatever. The point is, would I give him my admittedly less-cool, non-tattooed arm in the name of love? Would I? Or would I keep myself whole while he struggled? I don’t think I’d really be whole if the person I loved was suffering.
Furthermore, could I give up one dream in exchange for another? If I had to live underwater to be with Charlie, that would mean never being able to bake again. No cookies, no pies: I’d never feel the warmth of an open oven for the rest of my life. Is that something I could really sacrifice?
It’s too heavy to think about, especially when my first dessert order is in: sugared calf’s brain à la mode. I quickly switch the subject. “How is the whole werewolf scene, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, I’ve always been curious….Does your skin or hair color influence your fur color?”
Marcus laughs, and I can’t help but turn to watch him. He’s not an unhappy person in the least, but seeing him laugh openly is rare. Watching his face shine with humor brings a smile to my own, and I have to look back down at my bowl of dough to regain focus.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” he admits, still chuckling, “but yeah, my fur is black.”
“Awesome. Do you think mine would be blue and green striped?”
He shakes his head, smile hanging on. “You’re crazy, Amber,” he says. “But I like it.” We lock eyes for a minute, and I’m treated to a glimpse of his future love life: him squeezing the shoulders of a short leading lady, with two puppies playing at their feet. I have to wonder if they are their kids or actual dogs. But before I can decide, we look away, getting back to actual work. Marcus is a sweet guy; I know he’ll make a great pack leader someday.
I get lost in the dinner rush, and before I know it, it’s past the time Charlie usually picks me up. He always swings by before closing, forever protective after that vamp tried to make me his main course. I check my phone and find his missed text:
Dad dragged me to a charity dinner last minute to be his +1. I’d much rather be with you, sorry. If the desserts look up to your standards, I’ll snag you some. XO.
Ugh, great. Guess I’m bussing it home.
As I pull on my winter gear, I think about Ivy and wonder if she got home okay. She was pretty upset, but I don’t see her Benz parked outside, so she must’ve managed to find a different place to rage. Actively worrying about my enemy has me spooked for a second, but the chilly night wind forces me to focus on the journey ahead.
These are the moments—all bundled up, heading for the bus stop—I wish my magic went beyond matchmaking. I’m not really a fan of being the cute single girlie walking alone at night, because the world is full of weirdos, and I don’t mean the supernaturals. I hear footsteps crunching in the snow behind me, so I quicken my pace, but the footsteps do too. I swing my bag to the front to whip out my pepper spray just as the stranger reaches for my shoulder. My finger’s on the nozzle when he calls out, “Hey! It’s me!”
I recognize him seconds before blinding him. “Marcus! Good Gods! You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry,” he says, head hanging low. “I didn’t realize you’d be going home alone. Doesn’t your…boyfriend usually pick you up?”
“Yeah, well, he had to go be Mr. Fancy-Pants tonight,” I gripe, with more bitterness than I mean.
As my heart rate returns to its normal, non-fight-or-flight pace, we start walking together. “It must be weird, going out with the mayor’s son,” Marcus says.
I shrug. “Not really, I don’t know. There’s definitely less conventional issues.”
“Such as?”
“His dad holds him to really high standards, so there’s a burden for him to do well, carry on the family legacy, blah, blah. But you’ve seen Charlie: it’s not like he’s gonna win a Super Bowl. So he’s pressured to be great in other ways.” I pause, realizing I’m revealing a lot of personal information that’s not mine. “I mean, Charlie is great. But I mean, professionally great. With a capital G.”
Marcus nods, pulling his scarf tighter. “You don’t feel that kind of pressure? I feel like most kids get that from their pa
rents on some level.”
“I have, in the past. Being a matchmaker in a family of witches is not exactly ideal.”
“I know what you mean. Now that my wolf gene emerged, I’m not in med school like my dad planned.”
The image of a wolf with a stethoscope pops in my head. “You were going to be a doctor?”
“That was the plan. Until my sixteenth birthday turned into a scene from Teen Wolf.” He seems like he’s trying to make a joke out of it, but his staring contest with the sidewalk indicates there’s some real pain there.
“You definitely have the bedside manner for it. You’re so chill and patient,” I say, trying to be helpful.
We’re stopped at a crosswalk, the red light casting a glow on Marcus’s cheeks. “Thanks. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s not like I can go all monster in the middle of an ER.”
“It might be the best place to wolf out, though. You’d get instant medical attention.”
He looks off. “Sure. Right after I’ve scarred a patient for life.”
I’ve unintentionally hit a nerve. It’s easier for me to have one foot each in both the “normal” and supernatural worlds, since for all intents and purposes, I’m just a regular ol’ human. But for those who carry physical proof of their lineage, it’s much harder to keep it on the down low. It would be beyond awful knowing I couldn’t bake or work in a kitchen because of an anatomical trait getting in the way.
“But I guess in the end, it’s okay,” he adds, “because once the doctor thing was no longer a possibility, I turned to other things. Writing. Cooking. Things that can make people happy, without me being around.”
“Where do you go, during a full moon?” I ask gently.
He kicks a dirty clump of snow. “My parents’ basement. It’s pretty destroyed by this point.” Another clump goes sailing. “They’re less than psyched. They were hoping the gene would skip over me.”
Well, I definitely know a thing or two about being on the wrong heredity branch of a supernatural tree.
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 6
