Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
I emerge from the tent into bright sunlight, half-expecting to step into another world entirely. But no: the Ferris wheel’s still revolving in the distance, the tinny music of the carousel’s still tinkling, and across the lawn, Mrs. Fontaine’s still puttering with the novels on the bookmobile’s outdoor rack. Nothing has changed—except everything is different.
Clutching the sheet of paper I ripped off the legal pad, I take another funnel-cake-laced breath. But this one does nothing to settle me. The festive sounds of the fair fade into the background, replaced by the pounding of my heart.
You must confront the truth, no matter how painful it may be.
Let’s say my curse has something to do with the way my parents died. How would I even go about searching for them, to figure out how everything went so horribly wrong? I guess I could try to find the social worker who initially placed me, or the one who handled my case for years. Maybe she would know? If I discovered who my parents were, then I could ask around, maybe try to find people who knew them way back when. I could look in the library’s archives, at old newspapers. A couple being murdered, leaving an infant behind, was surely big news. But what if whoever did it covered it up? Or what if I wasn’t born here, in Sapphire Springs?
The magnitude of everything that’s happened since I tackled Officer Cooper descends on me all at once, so overwhelming that dizziness sweeps me. Wrapping my arms tight around myself, I make a mammoth effort to pull myself together. I’m at the fair with Charlotte’s sweet daughters. I can’t be preoccupied with this whole mess, not now. It’ll show on my face, and Charlotte knows me way too well. I don’t want to bring any part of this to her, not until I have a plan. Because how would I ever explain?
The Seer of Sapphire Springs is real, and she told me my parents didn’t die a natural death. She said a person close to me had something to do with it. Even if by a miracle, Charlotte believed that part, my curse would prevent her from believing the rest. And if she didn’t believe my premonitions were real, there’d be no reason for her to have faith that Hot Yoga Grandma had validated them. She’d dismiss the whole thing as quackery brought on by monster-associated trauma, and doubtless be so worried about me, she’d suggest I seek help. In her shoes, I’d probably do the same thing.
Maybe I could just tell her that now that the monster’s dead, I want to find out more about where I came from. That it’s my first step toward starting over. She’d support me, I know she would. I bet she could even help me find the best way to go about my search. But that’s just one part of this disaster. What about the rest?
I see darkness surrounding someone you work with. Could sweet, shy, hot Donovan really have something to do with whatever happened to my parents? I don’t know exactly how old he is, but he looks close to my own age, thirty-two. He would’ve been a baby when they died. Still, what if it’s not him, but his family, that’s responsible for the loss of my family and my curse? What if he’s heir to a legacy of blood and death?
The idea that the man I kissed last night might have a direct connection to the most painful part of my past sends a shiver down my spine. As I make my way back toward the bookmobile, I replay every conversation I’ve had with him, searching for any signs of darkness they might’ve concealed and coming up blank. Sure, he can be cold and reserved, even grumpy. But when I woke up to him stroking my hair back from my face, when he told me about Cooper, when he kissed me like he did—I could’ve sworn that was the real him. Vulnerable and tender and commanding, all at once. That his Ice Man persona is a protective mechanism for the awkward, caring guy beneath, who just doesn’t want to get hurt again.
What if I’m wrong, though? What if he’s playing me, and the Ice Man is who he really is, through and through? What if the way he thawed for me was just a calculated act, designed to make me open up to him and trust him? What if beneath his gorgeous surface lurks nothing but darkness—the same darkness that haunts my visions, the one behind the ocean of blood?
The cards show that this person has a hidden side, Ella said. One that they might not even be aware of themselves. Is it possible that Donovan has no idea he’s doomed to ruin me—and in the process, bring about his own death?
I stuff the torn paper into my pocket and weave between families pushing strollers, barely paying attention to where I’m going. I’m so out of it, in fact, that I don’t realize I’ve made it back to the bookmobile until I bump right into the rack of novels that Mrs. Fontaine’s tidying, sending a chunk of the paranormal section spilling into the grass. Fitting.
Steadying the rack, Mrs. Fontaine gives me the evil eye. I feel like I’m fourteen all over again, caught drinking chai in the stacks. “I’m so sorry!” I blurt, and kneel to gather the books up: Kelley Armstrong, Faith Hunter, and Kim Harrison. Some of my favorites. Normally, I’d be excited to browse through them, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
Perceptive as ever, Mrs. Fontaine cocks her head as she reshelves them, brushing them free of debris. “You seem a little distracted, Rune. Well, a little more than usual. Did you find the answers you were after?”
She’s turned away, messing with the books, like my reply doesn’t matter much to her. But after my conversation with Hot Yoga Grandma, I find myself wondering if anything—and anyone—is really what they seem. “I found…something,” I say slowly, watching her profile for a response. But as best as I can tell, her expression doesn’t change.
“Did you really?” She tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear, her tone neutral. “Ella can be quite intuitive. I’ve always thought so.”
She knows something, I’m sure of it. Otherwise, why would she send me to have my fortune read? I can’t believe it’s just coincidence. On a whim, I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Does this symbol mean anything to you?”
She takes it from me and unfolds it, frowning. And then her eyes spring wide. “Where did you get this?”
I start to answer her, just as Sophie pokes her head out of the bookmobile. “There you are, Auntie Rune! We thought maybe the psychic ate you.”
“No one thought that,” echoes Emma’s disgruntled voice from behind her. “You’re just saying that now because you’re hungry. Which you wouldn’t be, if everyone had just paid attention to my list! It’s very organized.”
God, she reminds me of Charlotte. “Well, maybe your mom’s almost done,” I say, my eyes still trained on Mrs. Fontaine’s face. She’s always been hard to read, even when I was younger and trying to talk my way out of overdue fines. This is no exception: she’s schooled her face back to its normal cordial expression as she presses the folded paper back into my hand.
I want to ask her what the symbol meant to her, because clearly it meant something. But this isn’t the time, in front of the girls and Charlotte, who’s emerged with her arms full of paperbacks, Emma trailing right behind her. “Just ten more minutes,” she promises her daughters. “Then we’ll do the carousel.”
“You always say ten minutes,” Emma protests. “But it’s always forever, and then we won’t have time to—Sophie! Not again! Mama and Mom both said we can’t get a dog. You’re ’lergic. Come back here!”
With a sinking feeling, I turn my head to see where Sophie’s darted off to this time. Sure enough, between the caramel apple cart and the taco truck is the animal rescue shelter’s tent, showcasing adorable puppies and kittens who need a new home. It’s an excellent marketing strategy, if less than sanitary, but right now, all I can think is that it’s also an endeavor fueled by volunteers. Which means that the person I’m least prepared to see right now might be staffing the very booth Sophie’s making a beeline for.
“Oh no. Mrs. Fontaine, could you please hold these for me?” Charlotte thrusts her books into the librarian’s hands and runs off after Sophie, Emma right behind her. Giving Mrs. Fontaine a we’ll-talk-about-this-later look, I follow.
Beneath the shelter’s tent is a bulldog with a head the size of a dinner plate, the most adorable Siamese kitten ever, an assortment of big-and-little mutts, and Jenny, who waves at me with one hand while wrangling a Rottweiler mix with the other. There’s a bunch of teen volunteers who are probably racking up credits for Beta Club, too. But no Donovan.
It’s for the best. I know it is, especially in light of recent revelations. But then, why am I so disappointed?
Later, I tell myself, the folded piece of paper warm in my palm. For now, just be grateful he’s not here. You’ll have to deal with him soon enough.
Sophie’s thrown her arms around the bulldog’s neck, refusing to let go, and Emma’s stomping her foot with frustration. Pushing my worries to the back of my mind, I’m on the verge of heading over to help when a sardonic voice rumbles from behind me.
“In the market for Valentine’s sibling?”
I turn. And find myself looking into the cobalt-blue, extremely pissed-off eyes of the man I never intend to marry.