realized she was panting, her heart pounding. They were after her; Aunt Dorothy had told her so. Even if she hadn’t, Claire would have known by her dreams; her premonitions and visions.
She left the mess on the stove and began to pace. It had been Aunt Dorothy who had told her Adam was alive. Three months after she had run away with Grace, her premonitions had started. So, she had called Aunt Dot. Claire had told her nothing but that they were all right—not the names they had taken nor the direction they had gone. Dorothy had begged her to come back. She had told Claire of the depth of Pierce and Adam’s fury and of their quest to find Grace. But she hadn’t mentioned the missing gems. Not then or in any of their conversations since.
Claire had found that strange. She still did.
The gems. Many times she and Skye had been desperate for money, but she had been afraid to try to sell the stones. She had no idea how or where such a transaction would take place, but more, she had feared that Pierce would be able to trace her through their sale.
Claire crossed to the dinette, to the storage compartments located under the bench seats. She lifted out a carton of cookware, then dug carefully through it until she found what she had hidden there. A six-inch-square, antique cherry-wood box.
Claire looked over her shoulder, then unlocked it with the key she wore around her neck. Nestled inside was the pouch of gems. She’d had no reason to think it might be gone, but she breathed a sigh of relief anyway. They were her insurance policy, though against what she didn’t know.
She opened the pouch, dipped her hands inside and moved her fingers through the cool, smooth stones. As she did, she was assailed with the strongest sense that the gems were important, that they would someday help her. That they would help Skye.
She curled her fingers around the stones, absorbing their heat, their vibrations. Images assailed her, of the dark and of cold. Of ice and of a bird of prey stalking, stalking…
Claire made a sound of fear and released the stones. They slipped away from her, the frightening images with them. She closed the pouch, tucked it back into the box, then locked the box.
Someday, she thought again, someday, somehow, those stones would save Skye’s life.
Chapter Eight
Chance tipped his face to the bright, cloudless sky, squinting against the sun. Sweat beaded his upper lip and rolled down the center of his already slick back. Not even 8:00 a.m. and already hellfire hot. Appropriate, as his first couple of days with Marvel’s had been hell.
His first day, the troupe had traveled to Zachary, a town a hundred miles east of Lancaster County. As far as metropolitan pools went, the town of Zachary, Pennsylvania, was about the size of the average spit. Not quite the kind of opportunity Chance had been looking for, but just the type of town that appreciated a show like Marvel’s.
No sooner had the drivers positioned the trucks and trailers on the lot than the skies had unleashed a flood. No matter, in anticipation of clear skies later and a heavy opening-night crowd, the troupe had gone to work. Rides needed to be positioned, tested and inspected, booths set up and tents raised.
Chance hadn’t had much choice but to acclimate, and to acclimate fast. The rain had turned the low-lying patch of ground into a mud stew, thick, black and viscous. Some places the mud had been so deep, it had seeped over the top of Chance’s work boots. After that, with every step he’d taken, the goo squished between his toes.
Once the worst of the downpour had let up, Chance had begun hauling and spreading bales of straw. He’d worked until his muscles quivered, and he bowed under the weight of the wet bales. But still, he’d kept on. He had promised Marvel that he would do the job of two, and he meant to keep his word.
The sky had finally cleared; the customers had come, the night with them. Then Chance’s initiation into carnival life had really begun. As Marvel had warned, these boys were rough, coarse and brutal. Brutal in a way he had not been exposed to before. And they were loyal, blindingly loyal. To each other, to the show. And even to Marvel, though he ruled them with a baseball bat.
The others blamed Chance for their friends’ expulsion, though Chance knew they didn’t suspect the real part he had played in the two getting fired. He was a towner to them, an outsider. The one who had taken the place of their trusted buddies.
In the last two days, Chance had been harassed; he had been threatened. He brought a hand to his swollen and bruised right eye. He winced even as his lips twisted into a half smile. He supposed he should be grateful—the boy who had given him the shiner had also promised to slit his throat while he slept. Yet here he stood, throat intact.
Chance untied the bandanna from around his neck and dipped it into a barrel of cool water, one of many Marvel kept constantly filled for his employees to refresh themselves. Chance drenched the bandanna. He was going to have to earn the other guys’ respect. Unfortunately, he knew of only one way to do it—beat the crap out of somebody tough. These boys weren’t unlike L.A. street kids—violence was the one thing they understood and respected.
Chance brought the drenched fabric to the back of his neck and squeezed, sighing as the water sluiced over his shoulders and down his back. He could handle it, and anything else that was dished him. For, despite it all—the heat and mud, the exhausting work and the other boys’ animosity—Marvel’s was his way out.
And nobody was going to screw it up for him. Nobody.
“I saw what you did.”
Chance swung around. A scruffy-looking girl stood a couple of feet behind him, arms folded across her chest, head cocked to one side as she studied him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high, untidy ponytail; her eyes were an almost uncanny blue.
He arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I saw what you did,” she said again, obviously pleased with herself. “The other night, at the hot-dog stand. I heard what you said.”
“Yeah?” Pretending disinterest, he sent her a dismissive glance. “So what?”
“You were scamming Marta, weren’t you? To get this job.”
Damn kid was too smart for her own good. Too smart for him to even think about trying to deny it. He shrugged. “So? What if I was?”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll go to Mr. Marvel?”
“Why should I be? You’re just a snot-nosed kid. Besides, what’s the big deal about a bad dog?”
She huffed with annoyance, sounding very adult. “I am not a…snot-nosed kid. I’m twelve.”
“Twelve? Gee, that old?” Amused, he turned his back to her. He bent, splashed water over his face, then straightened and retied his bandanna.
“Okay, you’re right. Mr. Marvel wouldn’t care about that. It was a pretty cool scam. But the other one would really piss him off.”
The other one? Chance swung to face her, narrowing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You know. Benny and Rick. The shooting gallery, your trick, their fight.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to tell her she was wrong. “Mr. Marvel would fire you if he knew about that.”
Chance
