Fated Page 8

  I dress in a hurry. Swapping my wrinkled white robe for a freshly laundered black tank top, slipping on the same dark denim jeans I arrived in, the black flats too. Then after reaching for my olive-green army jacket, and scraping my hair into a haphazard ponytail, I zip my bag shut, swing it over my shoulder, and call Jennika.

  Again.

  Only to have her phone go straight into voice mail just like it did the first time I called.

  Flying is out of the question. I’ve been banned from all commercial aircraft.

  Driving is out too. I may be sixteen, but I don’t have a permit, much less my license. Up until now, I had no real need of it.

  All I know for sure is that I can no longer stay here. It’s not even an option. I’ll take a bus—walk if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the hell out of this horrible place.

  I glance at my father’s portrait—taking Django’s restless, troubled gaze as a warning to bust free before it’s too late.

  No wonder he fled—Paloma’s a freak.

  She knocks, whispers through the wood, calling me nieta as she twists the handle and tries to come in. Her efforts rebuffed by the old wooden chair I’ve wedged under the knob, barring her from entering ’til well after I’m gone.

  I press my ear to the door frame, listening for the reassuring sound of her retreating step—a temporary surrender I’m determined to exploit by making a run for the window, propping it open, heaving myself up to the ledge, and dropping my bag onto the stone courtyard below where it lands with a thump. My gaze fixed on the big blue gate and the adobe wall that surrounds the place, noticing for the first time the strange wooden fence constructed from juniper branches that sits just inside it, and just inside that is a thick border of something grainy and white—as though someone went a little crazy with the saltshaker.

  A layer of salt, within a wooden fence, within a thick adobe wall—is this what Paloma meant when she claimed the house was protected?

  I shake my head and swing a leg over, scrunching and contorting until I’ve freed my other leg and eased my way out. The tickle of the dream catcher’s feathers brushing softly against my scalp serving as yet another reminder of why I need to flee—this is the house where crazy lives. If I stay any longer, I’ll never see normal again.

  I crouch next to my bag, grab hold of the strap, and dash across the courtyard as fast as I can. The gravel crunching under my soles so loud it reverberates through my head—the gate shrieking in protest, causing me to curse under my breath, until I’m free of it—free of her. Sprinting down the dirt road, following the same route I came from. My feet pounding so hard, small clouds of dust stir in my wake.

  I run for a while. Run for much longer than I’m used to. The strap on my bag cutting a deep wedge into my shoulder, as my cheeks flame, my eyes sear, but still I continue. Refusing to stop until the small cramp in my side explodes into a pain so white-hot and stabbing, I lose my balance and land in a big crumpled heap. My duffle bag strewn to my side, my arms wrapped tightly around me, I tuck my chin to my chest and fight to grab hold, to steady my breath. Coaxing the pain to go away, convincing it to subside so I can get moving again.

  I inch my way off the road, crawl deep into the shoulder where a narrow, dirt gully runs alongside it. Taking great care to pace myself, go slower than I’d like—making sure to stay crouched, out of sight, hoping to make it harder for Paloma to spot me, should she decide to go searching.

  A small army of dried-out shrubs on their way to becoming tumbleweeds prick at my jeans as I pass one anonymous adobe house after another. Each of them in a similar state of disrepair, with crumbling chimneys and patched-up windows—featuring an assortment of rusted-out cars, freely roaming chickens, grazing cattle, and sagging, overloaded clotheslines meant to stand in for landscaping.

  This has got to be the most poorly named town I’ve ever visited. There is absolutely no sign of anything even remotely enchanting about it. It’s one of the worst cases of false advertising I’ve seen.

  I’ve traveled a lot. Done considerable time in my share of dead-end dumps. Or at least that’s what I thought until I came here.

  I mean, where do people shop for clothing and food?

  Where do the teens all hang out—the ones who haven’t already hopped the first bus out of this godforsaken place?

  And, more important, where do I catch that very same bus—how soon ’til it leaves?

  I reach for my phone, trying for Jennika again, but just like before it goes straight to voice mail. And after leaving yet another angry message, followed by an even worse text, I consider calling Harlan but nix it just as fast. I have no idea how he and Jennika left things, have no idea if he’s even back from Thailand. Besides, one look at my watch tells me there’s only a short time standing between sundown and me, and I really need to locate the town by then; if not, I’m in for a long, spooky night.

  I follow the gully to its end and find myself back on a succession of dirt roads once again. One ends, another begins, and after a while it’s just one big blur of depressing, desolate streets that seem to lead nowhere in particular.

  I’ve just decided to approach the next house I see, march right up to the door and ask for assistance, when I turn a corner and miraculously stumble upon some semblance of a town—or at least the closest thing I expect to find in these parts.

  The street is wide, sprawling the length of three stop signs until it fades into nothing again. And not wanting to waste any more time than I already have, I head into the very first storefront I see, the sign overhead reading: GIFFORD’S GIFT SHOP * NOTARY * & MAIL STOP, with a smaller sign beside it advertising freshly brewed coffee.

  I push inside, causing the bell on the door to clink so hard the patrons halt their conversations long enough to turn and stare—eyes widening at the sight of my snarled hair, reddened cheeks, and filthy jeans.

  Great. Just in time for rush hour.

  I sigh. Heave my bag high on my shoulder, straighten my clothes, and take my place at the end of the line. The rise of voices resuming around me as I snag a postcard from a nearby rack, which features the word Enchantment! scrawled in pink across the top, with a picture of this miserable street just below—and I can’t think of a better depiction to show just how dismal this place really is.

  Using the pen that’s chained just beside it, I scribble the address for Jennika and my box at the UPS store, then write:

  Dear Jennika—

  Thanks for sending me to this dump and then refusing to take my calls.

  I don’t feel at all abandoned by you.

  Nope, not one bit.

  Your kind consideration is very much appreciated.

  Your loving daughter,

  Daire

  xoxo

  Even though I know I’ll be well out of here before the card has a chance to reach her, the small burst of sarcasm makes me feel better.

  The line moves quicker than expected, and it’s not long before I’m inching my way toward the counter. Warning myself not to look at the magazine rack, no matter how tempting, but I can’t seem to obey. My gaze keeps getting pulled to the one featuring Vane and me on the cover. All too aware of that annoying pang in my gut the moment I see him—only this time it’s more a pang of anger than weakness, and I consider that progress.

  I lower my sunglasses and tuck my chin to my chest, hoping no one will make the connection between me and the glowering girl on the tabloid’s glossy cover, though it’s probably not necessary since from what I can tell, they’ve made the transition from gawking at me to ignoring me, which I truly appreciate.

  “Help you?” the man asks, as I edge my way to the front and lean against the gray Formica counter. His snug jeans, Western-style shirt, and big silver belt buckle make him look like some old, retired ranch hand. Though his clipped East Coast accent hints at a whole other life before he found himself here.

  I perch my bag on my hip and slide the card toward him. Digging for my wallet as I say, “Just
the postcard, some postage, and hopefully some directions as well.”

  He hums under his breath and affixes a stamp to the back. Shamelessly pausing a moment to read what I wrote, before his eyes meet mine and he says, “Planning a jailbreak, are you?”

  I quirk a brow, wonder why he chose to phrase it that way.

  But he just shrugs and hooks his thumb toward the door. “You’ll find the bus stop at the end of the block. Bus to Albuquerque leaves every two hours.” He consults his watch. “Unfortunately for you, one just left, which means you’re stuck with the likes of us for just a little bit longer.” He laughs in a way that causes his eyes to disappear into a riot of wrinkles, and though I’m sure he means well, I’m in no mood to join in.

  I just pay for my stuff and shoot for the door. Squinting into the fading sun, searching for a good place to hide so Paloma can’t find me before I’ve had a chance to run.

  eleven

  I make my way down the street, passing a bakery displaying elaborately frosted birthday cakes, a used bookstore featuring a random assortment of dog-eared paperbacks, and a small clothing boutique with sad sagging hangers bearing the kind of sparkly clothes I would never think to consider. Pausing before the corner liquor store, waiting for traffic to clear so I can see what lies just beyond, I sense the strange weight of someone looking at me, and turn to find a guy about my age leaning against a brick wall.

  “Got a light?” His voice is low and deep as he waves an unlit cigarette at me.

  I shake my head. Fingers picking at the ends of my ponytail as my eyes greedily roam the length of him. Taking in brown leather boots, faded jeans, a light gray V-neck sweater, damp black hair that’s combed away from his face, a square chin, a strong brow, eyes that remain hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, and widely curving lips that smile flirtatiously.

  “You sure?” He cocks his head, allows his smile to grow wider. Revealing a perfect set of flashing white teeth that stand in sharp contrast to his gorgeous brown skin.

  It’s the move of a charmer—a guy who knows he’s good-looking. A guy used to getting his way.

  I shake my head again, try to force my gaze away, but it’s no use. My instincts warn me to leave, while my curiosity insists that I stay.

  “That’s too bad,” he says, mouth quirking at the sides. His smile growing wider when he holds the cigarette before him and it turns into a shiny black snake that slithers up his arm and into his mouth invading the space where his tongue ought to be.

  I freeze. Waiting for time to stop, for the crows to appear. Convinced it’s another hallucination, when he laughs—the sound loud, booming, lingering in the background as he says, “Guess I’m on my own, then.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a silver and turquoise lighter, and brings it to his lips where a cigarette waits in place of the snake—his thumb striking the ribbed metal wheel, sparking the blaze that flames in his face.

  He inhales deeply, the two of us staring through dark lenses it’s too late to wear. And before he can exhale, before he can blow a string of smoke rings my way, I’m gone. Crossing the street, my breath quickening, heart racing, punching in Jennika’s number the instant my foot leaves the curb, leaving a stream of messages and texts so ugly they make the postcard read like a love letter in comparison.

  I’m acting ridiculous. I seriously need to get a grip on myself. What I saw wasn’t real. Still, I’m left unsettled in a way I can’t shake.

  With only a few feet of asphalt standing between the bus stop and me, I can’t help but consider it. But it’s too open, too exposed, consisting of no more than a splintered wooden bench and a shabby plastic shelter that looks ready to collapse under the next burst of rain. Not to mention it’s probably the first place Paloma would look. She may be crazy, but she’s not stupid, of that I am sure.

  Needing to find a place to hide out, maybe even grab a quick bite to eat, I drop my phone in my bag, just about to set off again, when I notice the way the battery flashes in warning, as a glaring neon sign switches on right before me.

  THE RABBIT HOLE.

  And just beside the glowing red words is a glowing jagged green arrow pointing toward a steep flight of steps.

  A basement bar.

  The perfect place to hide until my bus comes to take me away.

  The last place Paloma or Chay would ever think to look.

  Taking it as the first good omen I’ve had in weeks, I tackle the stairs and rush through the door, entering a place so dark and dim it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

  “ID.” An overly muscled, no-neck bouncer eyeballs me carefully.

  “Oh, I’m not drinking, I just want to grab a soda, and maybe a bite.” I force a quick smile, but it’s wasted on him. He sees himself as a badass, a tough guy, someone who’s immune to small pleasantries.

  “ID,” he repeats, chasing it with, “no ID, no enter.”

  I nod, slide my duffle down to my elbow, and dig through a tangle of clothes until I fish out my passport and hand it right over. My breath bubbles in my cheeks as he studies it, mutters something I can’t quite make out, then motions for my right hand where he presses a stamp to the back before dismissing me with an impatient look.

  Once inside, I take a good look around. My gaze darting along red vinyl banquettes, dark wooden tables, wall-to-wall carpet of indeterminate color, and a long mahogany bar crowded with patrons—the majority bearing the tired glazed look of people who’ve been teetering on their bar stools too long.

  Searching for an empty seat, preferably one in a dark, undisturbed corner where only the waitress can find me, it’s not long before I spy an older couple vacating just the kind of small booth I need, and I’m quick to claim it well before their dirty plates can be cleared.

  I pluck a menu from its holder, taking great care to maneuver around its sticky edges as I study the array of salty bar snacks on offer—all of them chosen to whet the thirst and make you drink more.

  “Somethin’?”

  I look up, startled. I hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Would. You. Like. Somethin’?” The waitress smirks, makes a point to over-enunciate every word. Tapping her pen against her hip in a way that tells me she’s so used to getting crap for tips, she sees no point in trying anymore.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, knowing if I ask for more time she’ll never pass by again. “I guess I’ll just have the buffalo wings—oh, and um, a Sprite too. Thanks,” I add, committing the cardinal sin of sliding the menu toward her, and watching as she huffs, shakes her head, and punches it back into the holder where it came from.

  “Anything else?” she asks, and despite her surly, beaten-down tone and defeated, hardened slant of a mouth, I’m guessing she’s only a handful of years older than me.

  I’m also guessing she might’ve once been the town beauty queen. There are traces that linger by way of her long acrylic nails, freshly filled from what I can tell—carefully tended dark roots bleached a light, yellow blond—and black lace push-up bra that heaves her breasts so high and round they threaten to spill out the top of her tight white tank top, causing the name tag that reads: MARLIZ! to teeter like a seesaw—but for whatever reason, it still wasn’t enough to buy her escape.

  “I need to charge my phone,” I tell her. “Is there a vacant outlet I can use?”

  She jabs a thumb over her shoulder, her modest bump of a bicep jumping in a way that begs me to notice the intricate snake tattoo that winds its way from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder and unseen points just beyond. “Talk to the bartender,” she barks, turning to tap an overworked busboy on the back, ordering him to clear my table ASAP, before she heads into the kitchen, her hip leading the way through a set of swinging doors that appear to swallow her whole.

  I head for the bar, making sure to keep an eye on my stuff as I flag down the bartender, which is easier said than done. But before I can speak, he’s already eyeballing my hand, the one with the stamp, and directing me back to my seat.

  His back
turned toward me when I say, “Hey! Excuse me—I’m not trying to order a drink—I just want to charge my phone. Do you think you could help me with that? I’m pretty sure you must have an available outlet somewhere.”

  He stops, heavily lidded dark eyes gazing down the long strip of bar, studying me in a way that causes everyone else to lower their drinks and study me too. Making me wonder if I should just grab my bag and retreat. Get myself to that bus stop and take my chances on getting spotted by Paloma or Chay or whoever else she has working for her.

  I don’t like being stared at, especially like this. It reminds me too much of the way the glowing people watch me. The crows too. Reminds me of that awful night in Marrakesh, when the Djemâa el Fna turned into a sea of dark flashing eyes and bloody, severed heads hanging from spikes.

  I take a deep breath and rid my mind of the image. Glancing over my shoulder to check on my stuff as the bartender says, “Got a charger?”

  I nod, unable to tear myself from his gaze once I’ve returned it.

  “So…” He flattens his palm, looks at me like I’m the dumbest thing he ever saw.

  And even though I’m reluctant to hand it over, it’s not like I have other options. Still, I can’t help the way my stomach lurches when he closes his tattooed fingers around the phone and leaves without a word. Disappearing down a long corridor as I return to my seat, where I slurp my Sprite and pick at my basket of buffalo wings, all the while keeping tabs on my watch, willing the hands to move faster, never having wanted to leave a place so badly as this.

  A crowd of people push past the bouncer—four guys trying to look tough in their baggy jeans, beer-brand tees, and camouflage hats—while their dates try to look hot with their puffy hair, teetering stilettos, cleavage-baring tops, and jeans slung so low their assortment of tramp stamps and belly rings are neatly displayed. Their eyes narrowing when they catch me staring, then forgetting me just as quickly once the song changes from an old Red Hot Chili Peppers tune to a classic Santana song that gets the girls dancing.

  Their hands circle each other’s waists, as they swarm and grind in a way that practically begs their boyfriends to notice. And it’s all I can do to grab hold of the table, my fingers curling around the edges, squishing a stale piece of petrified gum someone saw fit to leave there—as my head swirls with the beat of that incessant drumming. The sound so persistent it turns the chorus into a meaningless flurry of words that fade into nothing.