“But—”
“Just realized I left my computer plugged into the wall! Gotta check on it!” I babble, my hand balled into a protective fist as I barrel past her. “Thanks for the advice. So helpful. I’ll keep you posted!”
“Don’t you want to say—” Jess begins, but she’s talking to my back. I’ve snatched up my purse from the living room couch and fled. It’s only when I’ve gone two houses down that I duck into an alleyway, lean against the brick wall, and unfold my fist.
I was sure it was my imagination. But no. There on my palm, branded deep into my flesh, is the scroll-and-dagger symbol.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
I standwith my back against the alleyway wall, staring down at the scroll and dagger branded into my palm. One of my premonitions has never stayed with me in such a tangible way before, unless you count the piece of paper that Hot Yoga Grandma scribbled the symbol on. But there’s no denying this. My hand is alive with pain, as if I pressed it against a hot burner.
What is happening to me?
I’m not usually a crier, I swear. But the past few days have proven me wrong. Tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. Since I’m staring down at my palm, they also splash onto the brand, which stings and makes me cry harder.
The monster is dead. I found a sweet, smart, sexy man who wants to be with me. Charlotte and Jess are willing to help me find my parents. And yet, everything is so incredibly, indelibly screwed up. Why can’t I just have a normal life, with normal problems? Whyme?
My pity party of one is interrupted by a soft voice. “Rune?”
I jerk my head up. Mrs. Fontaine is standing at the mouth of the alley, peering in at me, her blue eyes filled with concern.“I thought I heard somebody crying. Whatever is the matter, dear?”
I have no idea if Mrs. Fontaine can see the symbol on my hand, but I’m not inclined to find out. That would open the door to a whole bunch of questions that I have no idea how to answer. I don’t even know how to answer the one she already asked me. “Oh, I’m f-fine,” I say, dashing away my tears with the back of my unwounded hand. “Just too much funnel cake.”
“Uh huh.” She bustles down the alley toward me, clearly not buying it. “Was it that handsome man of yours, the one who’s so fond of computers? Because you’re one of us, Rune, and if he said something to hurt you…”
Despite the fact that she’s about half a foot shorter than me, saying those last words seems to have blown her up to twice her size, like an enraged puffer fish. I can’t help but smile through my tears. “Donovan didn’t say anything. Or do anything, either. It’s not him. I’m fine. Really.”
“Sure you are.” She has hold of my arm now and is towing me out of the alley, so determined that it doesn’t occur to me to resist. “Was it Ella, then? Did she tell you something untoward? I’m always saying she needs to be more careful, that she can’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind when she reads those cards. ‘You can do real damage!’ I always tell her. And now look.” She tugs me down the street, then up the steps of a whitewashed Cape Cod. “This is all my fault, really. I told you to go see her. Oh, I feel just terrible.”
“Mrs. Fontaine,” I say, trying to reclaim my arm and the remnants of my dignity, “it’s not her fault either. I just need to go home and um, have a nap.” Or a margarita, heavy on the tequila.
“Nonsense,” she says, opening the bright yellow door and pushing me through. She comes in after me and shuts the door behind her, locking it with a snick.
I blink into the gloom. The whole street must’ve lost power when Charlotte and Jess did, because there are no lights on in here. Objects take vague form in the dimness: what I’m guessing is a coat rack in the corner, the sinuous curve of a staircase off to the right, the gaping maw of a doorway. A savory, spicy scent fills the air—some kind of baked casserole, maybe. “Where am I?”
“My house, of course.” Mrs. Fontaine chuckles. “What, did you think I kidnapped you and dragged you off to some dreadful lair? You always did love to read those fantasy books, Rune. Of course, I have to admit it looks a little odd in here, what with the power being off and all. Just come on through into the other room. We have candles, and Drusilla’s made her famous enchilada casserole. It’ll be just the thing to perk you up. Come, come.”
She hooks her arm through mine again, like the world’s most cheerful tugboat, and pulls me through the doorway into the room beyond. And there, seated on cushions on the floor around a circle of candles, are Mrs. Grant, Mrs. Hernandez, and the Seer of Sapphire Springs herself, Ella Campbell.
At the sight of us, Ella raises those perfectly drawn eyebrows. “Found a stray, Louise?”
“Oh, you.” Mrs. Fontaine waves a dismissive hand in her direction, then gestures toward one of two empty cushions. “I told you I heard someone crying, Ella. And here she is. Do have a seat, Rune. I’ll fetch you some of Dru’s enchiladas; lucky they finished cooking before the power went out. Just the thing for what ails you. Ella, don’t you say one word to that girl while I’m gone. You’ve done enough damage.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but it’s too late. She’s already gone, leaving me alone at a Sinster Convention.
This day just keeps getting better and better.
“Um, hi,” I say, waving at each of them with my non-branded hand. The other one’s clenched tight into a fist, even though ithurts badly to do so. More than anything, I want to run the burn under cold water, plaster it with aloe, and hope it goes away. But that’s not happening anytime soon. Not while I’m stuck in Mrs. Fontaine’s house, victim of her superhuman hearing.
She means well. I know she does. But her timing couldn’t be worse.
“Why, hello, Rune,” Mrs. Hernandez says, her tone every bit as stern as when I mis-programmed my robot and made Sapphire Springs lose at Regionals. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Oh, geez. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever this is, really.” I gesture at the cushions and the candles. “I didn’t ask to come in, I promise. In fact, I really should be going?—”
“Don’t be silly. We’re just having a Sinning Spinsters meeting, to pick our titles for the next six months,” Mrs. Grant says. “It’s our little ritual, after the BBB festival every year. Unfortunately, we’re having some difficulty agreeing on our next pick. Dru here”—she points at Mrs. Hernandez—“wantsLord of Scoundrels,which the rest of us have already had the tremendous pleasure of reading several times over. I vote for the first book in the Bootleg Springs series. And Louise thinks we simplymustreadBook Lovers,but I think it’s much too on the nose. There’s some sex-in-a-lake scene that she just won’t stop talking about. Won’t you be a dear and cast the tie-breaking vote?”
