But psychic abilities didn’t exist. Magic didn’t exist. Any more than miracles existed.
Everything of value in this world could be proven by science or mathematics.
Everything.
“Except your ability to win the lottery,” Kyle said, his expression grim. “No matter how you run the statistics, your ability with lottery tickets is mathematically impossible, and you know it.”
“Kyle—”
“I’m not going to shut up about it, Dad. How many other people in the history of the world have gotten rich winning the lottery—not one big lottery, but hundreds of small ones? Hmmm? I’m going to wager no one. That’s like my ability to hear thoughts, Dad. You can make numbers work for you.”
Travers swallowed. He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more; Kyle’s proclaimed ability to read minds (which Travers was finally starting to believe) or the fact that Kyle had just revealed that Travers could manipulate numbers.
He didn’t believe he could manipulate numbers. He just thought he had an incredible lucky streak going. One that would end someday.
Even though it had been going on since he was twenty-one, broke, and alone with a young boy.
“No, it’s not me, Dad,” Kyle said even as Travers looked at him, just beginning to make that speculation. “Your ability with numbers is your own. I have to cheat on half my math quizzes just to get the right answers.”
“Cheat?” Travers asked, more as a stall. He wasn’t really concentrating on what Kyle was saying. He was thinking, and worrying, and wondering what happened to the woman who owned this chair, the woman who had been here not a few moments before. Was that why he was here? So that he would admit his ability with numbers? Did this have something to do with the National Lottery Commission? (Was there a National Lottery Commission? He didn’t even know.)
Kyle was looking sheepish. “I have to read other people’s thoughts sometimes. Then I take the answer most people have. It’s kinda cheating and kinda not. Sometimes I have the right answer before I double-check.”
Psychic cheating. Travers shook his head. If this were true, any of it were true, then he would have to rethink everything, including his parenting.
“It’s all true, Dad,” Kyle said.
“You can hear thoughts,” Travers said.
Kyle nodded.
“All thoughts?” Travers tried not to be afraid of this answer, but there were some thoughts—many thoughts—most thoughts—that should just remain private. Jeez, what if his kid overheard what he thought about Sandra Bullock the other night when they were watching Speed?
“Ick, Dad. I don’t want to know that you can even think like that.” Kyle put up his hands, palms out, as if he were pushing the information away from him. “I only hear big, important thoughts. The ones that are filled with emotion. That you broadcast.”
“But you seem to have heard all of my thoughts here,” Travers said, willing his voice to remain even. He was afraid it would shake, afraid that everything he had ever believed—about privacy, about parenting, about himself and his son—was about to change.
“That’s because you’re really upset, Dad,” Kyle said. “It’s like you’re thinking with a megaphone. Usually you’re just a quiet little hum and not emotional at all. It’s kinda good you’re like a robot. Aunt Viv can zoom in on you any time, but I only get you when you broadcast.”
“Vivian can hear my thoughts?”
Kyle bit his lower lip. Obviously he wasn’t supposed to say anything about that. “She tries not to. She doesn’t like to eavesdrop, and besides, she hates country music.”
“What does country music—?” Travers started to ask the question, then stopped himself. Country music had something to do with it because he listened all the time. Either the radio was on or he was playing his 100-disk changer or he was listening to one of the XM broadcasts on his computer.
His privacy saved by his love of music.
Then he shook his head. “Okay,” he said, trying to get this straight. “You and Vivian got me here so this illusionist could get my attention long enough to have me talk to you about psychic powers—”
“Dad!” Kyle put his hands over his face. Dramatic, but effective. He should have starred in silent movies.
“Zoe Sinclair is not an illusionist,” Lachesis said quietly.
Still, Travers jumped. He had forgotten the Wyrd Sisters were in the room.
“Fates, Dad,” Kyle whispered. “They hate being called the Wyrd Sisters. They think it’s an insult.”
“Have you ever read those Norse Myths?” Atropos asked, crossing her arms.
Travers shook his head, but Kyle nodded. Then Travers bit back irritation. “This is a discussion between me and my son. You don’t belong in it.”
“Don’t belong.” Clotho pursed her lips. “Of course we belong. If we had known that your mentor was screwing up, we would have interfered long ago. It’s our job to deal with the magical.”
“Or it used to be,” Lachesis said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Atropos said. “What matters is that you must believe in yourself, Travers. Your magic will become dangerous if you don’t.”
“My magic?” Travers laughed. “I have as much magic as—.”
He had been about to say Kyle, but he was beginning to realize that Kyle had some kind of magic.
“Well, as you do,” Travers finished lamely. He had heard the women confess (confess? lie?) that their magical powers were gone. That would help—a little.
All three women looked sad.
“Actually,” Clotho said, “at the moment, you have more.”
“Considerably more,” Lachesis said.
“And you have no idea what to do with it,” Atropos said.
“So?” Travers asked.
“So?” Clotho rose out of her seat. She was clearly shocked.
Lachesis put a hand on her arm and eased her back down. “So,” Lachesis said. “In our world, that’s a crisis.”
“Well, we’re not in your world,” Travers said. “We’re in mine.”
“Yes.” Atropos stepped around the chairs, moving in front of the other two Fates. “We’re in yours and you have just met your—well, you have just met your match, so to speak.”
“What?” Travers asked.
Clotho made a face and shook her head. Lachesis rolled her eyes. Atropos shrugged.
“You have a slight magic, fortunately,” Clotho said. “If it were larger, your problems would have shown up earlier.”
“I don’t have magical problems,” Travers said.
“Besides me,” Kyle said.
Travers ruffled Kyle’s hair. “You’re not a problem, kiddo. You never have been.”
And Kyle smiled. Maybe there was something good about broadcasting thoughts after all. At least, Kyle knew that Travers wasn’t lying.
“Your magical problems are about to be compounded,” Lachesis said.
“And unfortunately,” Atropos added, “there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
Nine
Zoe materialized in a library that smelled ever so faintly of pee. She had been here before, a long time ago. She recognized the bookshelves that rose as far as the eye could see. The tomes beside her were thick and dust-covered, which she did not remember. The library she had been to in the past had beautifully bound, well-cared-for volumes in a multitude of languages.
The multitude of languages remained, but the volumes were no longer well cared for. Many of them had fallen onto the floor, and were open to various pages. Others were stacked on tables, the books open and the spines bent.
In addition to the pee odor, the air smelled musty and like something else, something sweet and childlike. The scent was what Zoe always thought of when she had to imagine what pink smelled like.
It was the smell of—
Bubblegum.
Zoe blinked, and tilted her head, wondering if she hadn’t spoken correctly when she completed her transport spell. Maybe that delicious man
in her office had distracted her enough…
But that was ludicrous. She had recited the spell, and she had been irritated at the time, not drowning in lust. (Well, she’d actually still felt the lust—it hadn’t gone away—but the irritation simply overrode it.)
She had done the spell correctly. She just wasn’t where she expected to be.
Zoe stepped over a pile of books, putting one hand on a shelf to brace herself. The lighting was dim and flickery, as if she were in candlelight. Far away, from a direction she couldn’t quite locate, she heard voices.
In the past, whenever she had done a “To-the-Fates” spell, she had ended up right in front of all three women. The first time, she had appeared in what looked like a Greek Temple, complete with columns and fountains and that wonderful Greek sunshine.
The Fates themselves had looked like something out of a Greek myth (which, she knew, they were—only, of course, they were the basis for the myth, rather than the other way around). They were wearing long white gowns that fastened on one shoulder, and they had their hair swept up, a single curl falling on their bare skin. They wore sandals and gold jewelry and looked beautiful.
That was the other thing. Even though the women in her office had been lovely, they weren’t astonishingly beautiful—not breathtakingly, amazingly, astoundingly gorgeous, the kind that took the breath away, no matter what your gender. If those women had been the Fates, then even the outstanding Travers Kinneally would have faded in comparison.
But he most certainly dominated that room.
Zoe stepped over another pile of books, and then another. Finally she had no choice but to walk on several, wincing as she took each step. Dust motes rose in the weird light, and she sneezed several times.
Then she heard a bark. It was more of a yip. More, actually, a sound of irritation.
And she recognized it.
The dachshund had made that sound after he had found out who was at the end of the trail of sausages.
To the Fates, she had said, pointing at the dachshund and waving her arm. And his master too.
The dachshund had disappeared and somewhere else in Las Vegas, that horrible little magician had disappeared as well.
Apparently they had come here.
Zoe bit her lower lip so hard that she could taste blood. What if something in her spell-making abilities had gone awry? What if they were all trapped in this place?
She walked in the direction of the yip. She had to step over more books, and push aside a table. As she did so, a stack of yellow legal pads fell over.
Each stack was covered in writing—most of it Greek (literally), although some of it was English. One of the pads had doodles on top of the Greek—little smiley faces, a few flowers and one Crystal Dudley. That was followed by Crystal and Dudley 4-Ever, and Dudley Rocks! In a different handwriting, someone had written Dudley The Dull Dude. And in yet a third handwriting, in a different ink, someone else had written: Wait Till Daddy Finds Out And Guess Who’s Gonna Tell Him? HA! HA!
Zoe straightened the legal pads as best she could, trying not to read any more, worrying that she was seeing something important that she didn’t understand.
She continued toward a wall of bookshelves. The voices were growing closer.
“I don’t get it,” a young female voice whined. “How come you can’t do this?”
“It’s not my turn,” said another young female voice. “Besides, I always have to look things up.”
“It’s better than calling Daddy,” said a third female voice.
“No, it’s not,” a man said.
Zoe walked past yet another stack of yellow legal pads (Tiffany Eats Toads! was written across the top of one), and nearly tripped on a librarian’s stool half buried on a pile of magazines. The bookshelves opened to the right, and through them, she could see an even light flowing across the dirt-covered hardwood floor.
“It’s stupid,” said the first female voice.
“Yeah, like who cares about a dumb dog?” asked the second female voice.
Zoe’s stomach clenched. Where had she sent that poor dachshund?
“You guys, we’re supposed to care about all this stuff,” said the third female voice.
Zoe stepped over a mound of dirty laundry, then peered at it. Blue jeans, tank tops, and bras, twisted together along with girl’s underwear with the days of the week written across the butt in pink. The laundry gave off a stale odor that mixed with the smell of bubblegum that somehow reminded Zoe of a girl’s camp she investigated one summer.
“Look,” said the male voice. “You ladies think about this and I’ll just take Bartholomew home.”
Bartholomew was the name of the dachshund. A name that poor dog hated.
Zoe hurried toward the voices now, nearly slipping in something wet near the door.
“Did you hear something?” one of the girls asked.
“I always hear something and you always say it’s nothing,” said a second girl.
“No,” said the third girl.
Zoe checked her shoes, sniffed, and sighed. Pee. Dog pee, to be more precise. How long had that poor dachshund been here? And why hadn’t anyone paid attention to his needs?
“Hey, you ladies didn’t answer me,” the man said. “How’s about I just skedaddle, and you figure this out and call me?”
Skedaddle? Only Morton the Magnificent would use a word like “skedaddle.” Only Morton wasn’t Magnificent at all. He wasn’t even Adequate. Morton had long ago sold out and was performing his magic—real magic—as tricks in front of a live audience every night at one of the marginal casinos just off the strip.
Zoe hated that, and she figured once the Fates found out, they’d punish him for violating a major rule: Mortals Should Never See the Magic…or if they do, They Shouldn’t Think It’s Real.
Since most mortals figured the shows in Vegas were faked somehow, Morton thought he was getting by on a technicality, which he probably was. But that didn’t stop his behavior from being, at the very least, unethical.
Zoe peered around the door frame as if she were on the job. Inside a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows were couches, chairs, and a large table. On top of the table sat three teenage girls. The one farthest from Zoe was skinny and blond, in that shapeless way that teenagers who didn’t eat enough had. She wore what looked like a decorated bra and a pair of low-rider jeans. A pair of slides hung off her toes, revealing very dirty feet.
Next to her sat a redhead with hair so short it looked like a crewcut. There was no mistaking her femininity, though. Her green eyelet blouse and Capri pants accented her lush figure. She would have looked exotic if she were older, but at her age, which Zoe guessed to be about fifteen, she simply managed to look rebellious.
The third girl had cornrows decorated with beads made out of real ivory. Even though she was wearing a sleeveless dress, cut slim for someone without hips, she sat with her legs crossed.
Morton the Magician looked as scummy as always. He wore a gold lamé sports jacket worthy of Elvis, and tight brown polyester pants. His shoes were shiny tux pumps that he had forgotten to polish. His hair was thinning on the top, and he had circle combed it—apparently magic didn’t work with bald spots.
Zoe had to look around to find the dachshund. He sat under the table, his tail wrapped around his plump body, his head down as if he were embarrassed to be in such company.
Or maybe he was hungry. Or sick from all those sausages.
She felt a pang of guilt.
“How come every time someone comes here, they have a new problem?” the blond girl asked.
“Just lucky,” said the redhead, and blew a bright pink bubble. It grew until it was the size of her face. The girl with cornrows looked like she was about to pop the bubble when the redhead sucked it back into her mouth.
Zoe had no idea what she was looking at. So she stepped into the room.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for the Fates.”
“There she is.”
Morton the Magnificent pointed at her. His finger was stubby and the nail was black and yellow, not with polish, either. “She’s the one who magicked me here. That has to be against the rules.”
The cornrow girl rolled her eyes. “I’m not looking up another rule.”
“We can’t find the ones we’re supposed to find already.” The blond really was a whiner.
“Can’t you all just leave and solve stuff on your own?” asked the redhead.
“I’d be happy to,” Zoe said, “if you point me in the direction of the Fates.”
“Gawd!” the cornrow girl said.
“How come nobody thinks we’re the Fates?” the blond asked.
“Because we’re too young,” said the redhead. “Even I’m beginning to think we’re too young.”
“That’s because you don’t want to do any of the work,” the cornrow girl snapped.
“Excuse me,” Zoe said again. “Um, I know the Fates and believe me, you’re not them.”
“We are them,” said the blond with more anger than self-pity. “We’re just not the them that you were expecting.”
Morton was shaking his head. The dachshund lay down, put his head on his paws, and whined. Or moaned.
“Has anyone given Bartholomew water?” Zoe asked.
“What do you care?” Morton asked.
“He’s been outside for three days, he ate too many sausages, and I sent him here at his request. I notice that no one let him out when he needed to go—” Zoe wrinkled her nose. The pee smell on her shoes had trailed into the room with her. “—and frankly, he doesn’t look all that well.”
The dachshund raised his eyebrows at her. His brown eyes were very intelligent, and if she wanted, she could give him the power to speak English. She had done that earlier, and had learned about all of his grievances. Then she had sent him here. As far as she could tell, her spell had worn off, but the Fates—wherever they were—would have known to spell him for language.
Or maybe they could just understand him without it.
“See, now, look.” Morton stood up and hiked his pants up by the belt. The pants rose to the middle of his bulky stomach, and were tight enough to reveal more of Morton than anyone should actually be able to see. “She talks a good game, but when push comes to shove, she don’t deliver. I mean, I paid her good money to find the dog and what does she do? Sends me away from my work to come here to meet you kids, and pretends like the dog has a complaint. Has he said anything? I mean, really.”
Absolutely Captivated Page 8
