Fortune

Chance wanted to ask Skye more, but they had arrived at the trailer. They stepped inside just as Claire set a heaping plate of French toast in the middle of the table.

“’Morning,” she said, turning back to the range. “Get it while it’s hot. You know where the coffee is.”

Skye didn’t need to be told twice; she grabbed a plate, piled on several pieces of toast and drowned them in Aunt Jemima’s. Chance took his time. He poured himself a cup of coffee—a taste he had acquired in the past two months—took a seat at the table and filled his plate.

“So,” Claire asked, “what do you think? Are we going today or staying?”

“Skye asked me the same thing.” He poured syrup over his toast. “Staying, I’m certain of it. It would be too dangerous to be on the road.”

“I agree.” Claire sat across from him. “Better safe than sorry.”

She speared a piece of toast with her fork; Chance noticed that her hand shook. He shifted his gaze to her face, and made a sound of concern. She looked like hell.

He told her so, and Claire laid her napkin in her lap. “I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

“I told him about your nightmares,” Skye said around a mouthful of food. “I told him you had one last night.”

“It’s no big deal. Really.”

Claire met his eyes, then motioned toward Skye and shook her head. He nodded, understanding that she didn’t want to talk in front of Skye.

Twenty minutes later, after sending Skye out for an updated weather report, Claire turned to Chance. “I need a favor.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I need you to watch Skye for a while. Tonight, after she’s gone to sleep.”

“After she’s gone to sleep?” he repeated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“No, really. It’s nothing, I just—”

He caught her hand and looked down at her nails. They were raw, bitten to the quick. He met her eyes. “You practically jump out of your skin every time someone speaks. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, and you’re not sleeping. I don’t have to be a fortune-teller to know something’s wrong.”

She snatched her hand away. “You’re not a fortune-teller.”

“Exactly my point. You want to tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help.”

For a moment he thought she was going to feed him the same line of bullshit she usually did. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Turning away from him, she crossed to the sink and stared out the small window above it.

“I wish you could help,” she said softly. “But you can’t.” She swung to face him. “I have to go into town. I have to make a…phone call, and I…I don’t want to leave her alone. Especially with the storm.”

“Why can’t you take her with you, Claire? Who’re you calling? Skye’s father?”

“No!” She shook her head for emphasis. “No.”

“Last time, that night you disappeared, is that where you were? Making a call?” She shifted her gaze, and he had his answer. He held out a hand to her. “I know you’re in some sort of trouble, Claire. And I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Skye’s father.”

“Well, you’re wrong. It has nothing to do with him.” She caught his hands. Hers were like ice. “I need your help. I need you to do this for me. Will you? Yes or no?”

“Claire—”

“Yes or no? It’s important, Chance.”

He hesitated, not at all certain he was doing the right thing, then nodded. “What time do you want me here?”

Chapter Fourteen

Claire had asked Chance to come at ten-thirty. She checked her watch, thankful to see it was almost that now. She could hardly think for the terrible sense of urgency, of impending disaster, pressing in on her. She had to call Dorothy. Now, tonight. She had no more time, she felt that keenly, with every bit of psychic ability she possessed. She and Skye had run out of time.

Shuddering, Claire glanced toward the back of the trailer, at the closed bedroom door. Skye was asleep and had been for better than a half hour. Still, Claire worried about her waking, worried about how she would explain where she was going if she did.

The wind buffeted the camper, rocking it; several particularly strong gusts seemed to actually lift it off the ground. She crossed to the door and peered out, struggling to see through the driving rain, feeling suffocated in the tiny trailer. She thought back to her last call to Dorothy, to the way she had sounded—distracted and nervous. Guilty, even.

Claire froze, searching her memory. After seeing the bit in the newspaper about Monarch’s having hosted a charity benefit in Philadelphia, she had, on impulse, called Dorothy. But she hadn’t told the woman anything that would give them away. Had she? She’d been just as careful as always.

Claire checked her watch again. Ten-thirty. Finally. She collected her rain slicker and car keys and went to the door to wait. She had unhitched her car from the back of the trailer before the rain started; after lunch she had darted into town and filled up its gas tank. While there, she had bought a sack of nonperishable food for the car and two gallons of water. Her and Skye’s duffel bags were in the camper, stuffed into the storage compartment above the dinette. The pouch of gems was already tucked into her duffel, just in case. She couldn’t chance forgetting them.

That she and Skye might be leaving the carnival tonight was a very real possibility.

It all depended on what Aunt Dorothy said. It all depended on Pierce.

Claire drew in a deep, shaky breath. Even if Dorothy reassured her, she might choose to leave, anyway. The advent of the school year wasn’t that far off; if she and Skye left now, it would give them more time to get set up someplace. That would be good for Skye, it would be good for her, too.

She had laid the groundwork for her and Skye’s departure with Marvel already: she’d told him that they had friends nearby, and if he didn’t mind they would wait out the storm with them. She’d told him that she had asked Chance to watch their camper while they were gone, because of the storm. Marvel hadn’t asked any questions, he had merely nodded and muttered something about wishing he could wait out the storm elsewhere, as well.

Claire rubbed her arms, chilled. She couldn’t go on this way, not knowing, unable to sleep for the nightmares, for the horrible feeling of doom that hung over her and dogged her every waking moment.

Last night the nightmare had been particularly vivid. The monstrous dark bird had nearly had Skye, its great, sharp talons had closed around her. Claire had snatched her daughter away, a moment before the longest of the talons had pierced her daughter’s heart.

Claire had awakened out of breath and drenched with sweat. And she had known, just as she had known every time in the past, that Pierce was close to finding them.

He had never been so close before.

Chance arrived. They spoke little, though the silence between them was heavy with her anxiety and his unasked questions. For one moment, she considered telling him the truth, sharing her fear. The desire to lean on someone, to have someone support her, even if only a boy, was so strong it took her breath. It had been such a long time since she’d had someone to lean on, someone to be strong for her.

But in the end, she knew she could depend on no one but herself. It had always been that way; she feared it always would.

Promising Chance she would be back as quickly as she could, she headed out into the storm.

The trip to town took nearly three times as long as usual because of the wind and driving rain. She had planned to call from the pay phone in the tavern; she hadn’t planned on the place being so crowded. It seemed the entire town of Ridely had decided to wait out the storm drunk.

Claire picked her way through the crowd, heading for the back of the bar and the phone. A woman stumbled over to her and grabbed her arm, though Claire wasn’t sure whether to get her attention or to steady herself. The woman reeked of booze.

“You’re that psychic, ain’t you? From the carnival?”