by Jordan Bell
The Fortune Teller’s Daughter
Jordan Bell
Copyright © 2012 Jordan Bell
All Rights Reserved
Sweet Stories Press
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Remember, this is a work of imagination and fantasy.
Other Stories by Jordan Bell
The Curvy Sister
Her Secret Pleasure (Secrets #1)
Her Secret Betrayal (Secrets #2)
Coming Soon: Her Secret Power (Secrets #3)
The Billionaire’s Son: Distracting Jonah Silver
Taming London: The Erotic Submission of London Mackenzie
Billionaire Bait: Breakfast with Mia, Ménage for Dessert
The Submissive Behind the Mask #1: Bondage & Curiosity
Coming Soon: The Submissive Behind the Mask #2: Bondage & Discipline
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Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
The Last Show
About the Author
Insatiable Reads Book Tour
Prologue
__________________
On the day the carnival closed, it had snowed. Great big frozen flakes fell from a murky grey sky and quickly buried the tents, the wagons, and at last, the harlequin carousel until all went still and silent. An avalanche wouldn’t have done a better job of dousing out the fires that lit the lamps between tents. And then it was over, just like that. Before, and then, after.
Standing on the dark side of Prague some hour past midnight, with snow blanketing the stone and muting all sound, it reminded Mr. Alistair Rook of that day when he’d locked the gates one last time so many years ago. In the breast pocket of his jacket he could even feel the iron key, growing colder and heavier as the snow dusted his hair and shoulders.
No one saw him walk through Old Town alone, or if they did they forgot almost right away, and within minutes the steady snow fall covered his tracks. He strayed from his path only once that night to bring himself close to the famed astronomical clock, a bewitching thing in the middle of the day and a truly haunted one at night. Watching the many hands pass the hour, he could feel the thrum of time tick away inside him. One, two, three, one, two, three, blink once and you’ll miss me…
Mr. Rook’s final destination was a house at the last stop on a dead end street, past the spires and Baroque façade houses, hidden far from the trains and traffic, shopping and theaters. Alone out here in the dark, it could have existed two, maybe three hundred years before except for the light seeping out from every window on the top floor apartment.
The landscape of snow leading up to the magician’s doorstep, like a white stage carpet glittering by moonlight, lay pristine like glass as if no one had come or gone for days.
Mr. Rook rapped his gloved knuckles against the wood door. The sound echoed deep within the house, but fell dull against the crisp, cold air outside. And then, he waited.
He did not expect a warm welcome. He expected to find the inhabitant sprawled upstairs on a king sized bed, possibly drunk or getting there. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found the magician calling demons in the cellar or casting charm spells on a parlor full of beautiful Czech women. He expected threats, maybe violence. He expected his old friend to slam the door in his face at the very least, forcing Rook to resort to bribery, begging, or grave warnings of his own.
He did not, however, expect to be left waiting in the cold.
Rook tapped the toe of his boot on the door frame to knock the snow away and tightened his long black coat around him. He knocked again. Waited. Knocked. A confrontation, at least, was something Rook could talk his way through. A confrontation had a beginning and eventually an end. The silence was the magician’s distracted way of saying no. And also, get the fuck off my doorstep.
“I’ve got all night,” he told the door knocker.
This time when he brought his fist to the old door, it opened.
* * *
Firelight spilled around the shape of a woman with gold hair as long as her elbows, fanned out like a full moon around a soft, small face. She rested her cheek against the door and canted her hip enough to show off the curving shape of her petite body. She wore a t-shirt for an American rock band and absolutely nothing else. Cold broke goose bumps out across her bare thighs and she shivered almost imperceptibly.
Mr. Rook tilted his hat. “Dobrý večer.” Good evening. He knew his Czech was worse than rusty, but she was polite enough not to wince at his broken pronunciation. Her sweet eyes gazed at him expressionless, maybe a little curious. Rook struggled to remember the right words. It had been a long time since he was last in Prague. “Promiňte…um…hledám…Matteo? Eli Matteo?”
He glanced beyond the pretty face when she made no sign that she understood him.
“Galina,” a voice said from behind, and at her name she turned to greet it as a lover, hooded eyes and pouting lips. The voice spoke to her briefly in Czech, a command that would brook no objection. It did not return the affections of her body sidling up against it. The woman stiffened and backed off with a sharp glance at the carnival director before disappearing up the stairs at a run.
Then the magician stepped into the sliver of open doorway where the blonde beauty had been a moment before. Despite there being two decades since the last time they’d seen each other, the magician hadn’t aged a day. Not a moment, and the effect was unsettling.
One glance in the magician’s eyes spoke volumes though - if he hadn’t aged on the outside, he lived through millennia within. An old soul, that’s what Rook had first thought when he’d met the magician so long ago.
He leaned against the door frame, black hair, badly in need of a brush and a wash, fell unkempt across his face. He needed a shave and by the half-moon shadows beneath his eyes, he also needed sleep. He did not look well.
The magician shoved his fists into his pockets and tried almost successfully to look uninterested and careless, but those wise, cautious grey eyes gave him away.
“I don’t go by that name anymore,” the magician said after the men had looked each other over for answers to two decades of lost time. “What do you want?”
“To talk.” Rook shrugged.
The magician snorted. “That’s a lie.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
Rook laughed. “And why not?”
“Because I don’t want whatever
you’re selling.”
“Eli,” Rook sighed. If the magician was won over by the familiarity of his name, he didn’t show it. “It’s cold and I’m already sick of the Czech snow. I just want to talk. No tricks.”
“No tricks,” he repeated. He thumbed the black suspenders he wore and finally brought his gaze fully to meet Rook’s. No, there was no youth in those eyes, even if his face lied. “I find that extremely hard to believe. Alright, come in if you must. But don’t get comfortable because you’re not staying.”
“I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”
The magician stepped aside and let the carnival director pass. He stomped his feet as quiet as he could, but still left a trail of powder and water up the narrow staircase. Eli trailed him.
The apartment looked smaller inside, barely more than a room with a bed and a couple of chairs. A fire cast everything in yellow gold, romantic enough to hide the shabbiness of the greasy walls, the cracked plaster, the toss of forgotten, dirty clothes in the corner. There was a vanity with some stage make-up across from the bed, a dresser, and a table with a hot plate. Not a single scrap of nostalgia or trinket to be seen. Nothing permanent. Nothing personal.
Only one object commanded Rook’s attention. Set on a glass mannequin head on the dresser was a top hat, black as the Czech night sky, tall with a wider top than its base, theatrical but exquisitely made. Rook knew that in all the world there was only one object Eli Matteo cared about and it was that hat, though he’d never gotten the magician to reveal its origin in the lifetime of their friendship.
The fur, like satin, as crisp as if it had been stretched only yesterday, reflected the firelight.
Galina stood in front of the vanity gazing at her own reflection, tucking and twisting her hair so that she looked effortlessly tousled. She jerked straight when the two men returned from the door, clearly surprised that Rook had been allowed inside. She did not, however, seem the least bit modest about her lack of clothing. Alistair Rook was polite enough not to stare much.
Eli spoke a few words without meeting her eyes. Time to go. The girl pouted. Eli repeated as if she hadn’t heard him the first time. She shook her head in disbelief then started dressing. The magician pulled a chair out near the fireplace and motioned for Rook to sit.
Galina, once dressed, took her time to see if the magician would change his mind about dismissing her. Rook remembered a different man than the one who stared into the fire, ignoring both his guests. Though he didn’t treat her unkindly, there was a kind of exhaustion to him now that could not be replenished by this girl, no matter how beautiful and effortless her charm might have been. It was clear by the state of the magician’s apartment that he only kept what was necessary and even if he’d enjoyed Galina’s company, Rook doubted she’d become invaluable.
Being a settled man was a burden Rook thought the magician would never have to bear.
When he didn’t stop the girl from leaving, she let herself out, proud enough not to beg. He’d seen that too. Ugly moments of sharp, broken hearts.
Rook waved his gloved hand across the room. “It’s…cozy.”
Eli made a non-committal, derisive noise.
“She was beautiful.” Rook settled into the offered chair. “I see your tastes haven’t strayed much.”
“Yes, and far too smart to be hunting for a man to beholden herself to, but she thought I was in show business and had great big American stars in her eyes. I tried to tell her I was from London, not Los Angeles, but…” The magician trailed off with a shrug. He leaned against the mantle and assumed a posture of glowering indifference. His default setting.
“Your accent is wearing off.”
“So is yours.”
“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back to Surrey. Too many summers in southern Louisiana will have any good Brit drawling his way through the Queen’s English.”
“So that’s where you’ve been spending your retirement years.” The magician produced a match from behind his ear, though Rook was sure it hadn’t been there a moment before, then struck it long across the stone. He didn’t smoke, at least, hadn’t last time Rook had seen him. Instead of lighting something with it, he let the match burn to his fingertips, filling the room with the smell of sulfur and ash.
“In a manner.”
“Then what are you doing in Prague, Alistair?” Eli stubbed out the match and produced another one. “More importantly, what are you doing here?”
Alistair leaned back in his chair, conscious of the wet seeping through his clothes. “I’m unlocking the gates. I’m bringing the carnival back to life.”
The magician’s steel grey eyes flashed furious, consumed like the match. “That,” he growled through clenched teeth, “would be foolish.”
“It’s time. She’s been silent long enough.”
“It will never be enough time.”
A quarter of wood combusted in the fireplace, causing sweat to break out across Alistair’s brow.
But as quickly as the emotion flared, it was over. A dark shadow fell across the magician’s face that made his already broody demeanor seem particularly hostile.
Rook tugged at his gloves, the apartment growing quickly too hot. “Perhaps a drink?”
The magician crossed the room for the table with the hot plate and a stash of glasses. From his dresser he procured a bottle of something cheap and amber that smelled like bitter fruit but went down smoother than he expected. While Rook drank, Eli pulled a second chair across from him and fell heavy into it.
“Don’t do this.” He stared silently into his glass, and then, “Why would you do this?”
“Delilah, Curtis, and Tomodon are dead.”
The magician’s expression fell. He let his own glass drop to his knee, unfinished. “How?”
The fire crackled and between the two men, two old friends playing God with the universe, Rook looked away. “Murder. Curtis in Beijing. Tomodon in his apartment in California. And Delilah…” Rook’s heart pounded when he remembered the smooth, dark skin of the contortionist when she’d been young and vibrant and under his protection. He ran a finger across his throat, rough with stubble. “Her neck had been snapped clean. No struggle.”
Eli’s brow furrowed.
“I’m sorry.”
“I found a Soul coin at each grave site. Delilah’s was buried but the other two had been left in plain view. He wanted me to find them, I think.”
Their eyes met. “He?”
“Oh yes. Who else, and why? Though I doubt he sullied his own hands with the dirty work. He’s got a few of the old crew in his employ – Finnes and Cylic for sure. Scattered he can pick us off one at a time, but together we’re protected. You must return with me to the carnival.”
“Absolutely not.”
Rook leaned forward, set his hands on his knees. “I can’t protect them without you.”
“You can’t protect them at all.” Eli brought his hand to his forehead, touched his brow briefly before dropping it to his left wrist. He rubbed the tattoo there, an old fashioned keyhole. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. “Why should I do this thing I said I would not do when I left?”
“Because you live in a shitty one room, drowning yourself on cheap alcohol, wasting nights with women you’ll never love, performing for audiences of ten or less in theaters that bring in more money from topless shows than they do from you.”
The magician jerked to his feet, fists drawn like he might strike the carnival director, but he stayed his rage. Even after all this time, after so much self-loathing, he still had enough pride to defend his talent. Perhaps there was life left in his old friend.
Cautiously, Rook lifted his gaze.
“Oh, I’ve kept both eyes on you my friend. I half expected your untimely death in some back alley years ago. I know about your stint with the opium king, about the fire at Delgado’s, and about the devil incident in Morocco before you ended up here penniless and drifting. You’re at the very bottom now, Eli.
Your manager’s about to cancel your final act and you’ve nearly lost all control of the last siphon of talent you’ve got. Do you really want the Great Dragon to go out here? In this place? Forgotten? Come back with me to the beginning. One more time.”
The magician shook his head once and looked away. From thin air he produced a gold coin, too big to be a quarter, thin and rubbed almost smooth with time. A Soul, a carnival coin from the Carnival Imaginaire. The last in circulation.
He turned it head over tails across his knuckles, vanished and reappeared it in one palm, then the other. Like magic. Firelight captured its grooves, its barely legible scrawl. Step right up, young sir, young miss. Ten tickets for a Soul, one Soul for a wish. Step up…step up…
“We will invite such catastrophe if you unlock those gates,” the magician warned.
The carnival director stood and extended his hand.
“Let him come.”
1
__________________
Two abrupt knocks yanked me from my sleep and as I lay there wild-eyed trying to figure out where I was and what was happening, the abrupt knocks turned into rapid, insistent rattling. Like a woodpecker. That I would crush with my bare hands if they didn’t stop immediately.
Too much light poured in through the blinds and outside I could hear crazy drivers honking at the crazy pedestrians. Someone shouted and the subway train trundled into the stop across the street. So much noise and it was the impatient person on the other side of the door who would not be outdone.
I scrubbed my hands across my eyes and rolled off the couch. The wood floor sent icy chills up my legs as I stumbled barefoot towards the noise. I made sure all the important bits were covered by pajamas before rising up onto my tiptoes to peer through the peep hole into the hallway.
There was no one there.
Yet the person on the other side continued to knock, pause, knock. I suspected it was probably my pervy landlord getting wise enough to stand where I couldn’t see him if he wanted me to actually answer the door. He’d want rent, which I didn’t have, or an excuse to stare at my chest, which I wouldn’t give him. I considered going back to bed and dealing with him later, but an annoying little scratch of curiosity kept me cemented in place. It might not be Maurie, and if not, who knows what sort of fortune had made its way to my doorstep?
