Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(56)
“Come on,” I said, and stepped into the stall.
California is flea market heaven. It rains rarely enough that it’s safe to have a remarkable variety of open air goods, and the vendors tend to become comfortable enough in their positions that they really nestle into a space, decorating and customizing it to their heart’s content. The front of the tarot and taxidermy stall looked like any other, with long, uncovered folding tables heavily laden with wares. But the back half was taken up by a gauzy tent that looked like something out of a Renaissance Faire, complete with rainbow streamers and multiple layers of netting. Someone was inside, their shadow moving against the net.
I stopped without reaching for the curtain. If the stall’s owner was in the middle of a tarot reading, they wouldn’t take kindly to being interrupted. Instead, I cleared my throat to let them know I was there before turning to study a stuffed and mounted furred trout. Like the jackalope, it appeared to be the real deal.
Dominic stepped up next to me, apparently reaching the same conclusion, as he said, in a low voice, “I thought these were extinct.”
“Not extinct, just mostly being preserved in private fisheries until science is ready for them,” I said. “The last time there was a wild spawning, some *s poisoned the river to stop whatever weird disease they thought was making the fish all moldy.”
“There will always be things people aren’t prepared for, which must be covered in mirrors and greasepaint, until they seem believable enough to be borne,” said an Irish-accented voice behind us. It was light, female, and amused, like the speaker was the only one who knew the punchline to the world’s best joke.
I turned.
She was taller than me—who isn’t taller than me? In a world of giants, I’ve learned to treasure my high-heeled shoes—and about my mother’s age, with a smile that matched her voice for warmth and amusement. Her hair was black, with streaks of lilac gray. It looked dyed, rather than natural; everything about her looked carefully designed. I couldn’t be sure without a blood sample and an X-ray, but I was willing to bet she was human.
“So you recognize a furred trout,” she said, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The silver foil printing on her T-shirt was so faded that I couldn’t make out the name of the band it had been intended to promote; the graphic was nothing but the ghosts of gothic type and heavy metal guitars. “Short, blonde, and holding yourself like you think you might have to kill me—are you Alice Healy’s girl?”
“Is there no one who does not know your family?” asked Dominic. I glanced at him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle in his cheek was twitching.
Poor boy really didn’t understand what he was getting into when he married me. “We sort of tend to attract attention,” I said, and focused back on the stall owner. “I’m her granddaughter. How do you know my grandma?”
“She gave her children to Laura Campbell to raise, remember? The routewitch community took notice.”
I felt a small knot of tension uncoil between my shoulders. My Great-Aunt Laura had been missing since before I was born—the history of the Price family in America is a patchwork of unexplained disappearances and unanswered questions—but she raised Dad and Aunt Jane when Grandma Alice couldn’t. And Great-Aunt Laura had been an ambulomancer, which made her part of the routewitch community. Routewitches were magic-users of a sort, pulling their strength and spells from the long sweep of the road. They gathered power through travel, and through artifacts that had been carried around the world, amassing power with every step. Flea markets were their cathedrals, truck stops their holy ground, and while they were as capable of being deceitful and untrustworthy as anyone else, we had enough of a history with them that this encounter had just become a lot less dangerous.
“Verity Price,” I said, sticking my hand out toward the woman. “I’m Kevin’s daughter.”
“The older one, if I’m not mistaken: I know one of Laura’s last predictions related to the younger.” The woman took my hand. Her palm was callused enough to feel almost scaled. “Bon. Siobhan, actually, but ‘Bon’ serves me well enough.” She looked to Dominic as she let go of my hand. “And you, young man. You’ve traveled a very long way, from the other side of the Atlantic, if I know my road-ways. British?”
“Italian by birth,” said Dominic. “British by much of my upbringing. My name is Dominic.”
“He follows your lead, doesn’t he?” Bon looked back to me. “I’ve never met a Covenant boy who’d give his name to a routewitch without a fight.”
“Ex-Covenant,” said Dominic. “They’d kill me as soon as look at me at this point.”
“Oh, you are your grandmother’s bloodline,” said Bon, looking amused. “What can I do for the latest generation of the Price family? I’m sure you didn’t wander into my flea market because you were in desperate need of a mounted boar’s head—although if you are, I’d be happy to work something out with you.”
“Do you do your own taxidermy?” I asked. My head was reeling. Meeting Bon wasn’t as big of a coincidence as it seemed. Our kind of people have always frequented flea markets and rubbish sales, since they’re a great place to trade the things we’re likely to need. I just hadn’t been braced for someone with quite this much of a connection to my family history.