Fortune. Erica Spindler

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 swore under his breath, then met her eyes. “Interesting fairy tale, kid. But I don’t have time for kiddie stories right now.” He moved past her. “See you around.”

      She followed him, skipping ahead, then swinging to face him once more. “It’s not a fairy tale, and you know it.”

      “Is that right? And what makes you such a big authority on everything?”

      “I make it my business to know everything that goes on at Marvel’s.”

      “And I’m sure your mother’s real proud. Now, could you please get lost? I’ve got work to do.”

      He started off again; again she stopped him. “When I saw you at the concession stand, I thought you were up to something, so I followed you. I saw the whole thing.”

      “Yeah? Well, it’s my word against yours, kid. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      She tilted her head back and laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I hated those two guys. They were total pigs. I’m glad they’re gone.” She leaned conspiratorially toward him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

      Just what he wanted, to be in cahoots with a snot-nosed, busybody twelve-year-old girl. Just great.

      “Look, kid,” he said, “you want to buzz off? Like I said, I’ve got work to do.” He headed in the opposite direction; she followed him.

      “My name’s Skye.”

      “Whatever.”

      “My mother’s Madame Claire.” At his blank look, she frowned. “You know, the fortune-teller.”

      “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

      “Not if you don’t care about a curse being put on you.”

      “I’m really worried.”

      “She can do it. She made one kid’s hair fall out.”

      He laughed. “And I bet she turned another one into a frog.”

      “Laugh now. You’ll see.”

      “You’re terrifying me, really. See you around.”

      He turned and started for the supply tent. She hurried after him, and he muttered an oath. What was with this kid? What did he have to do to get rid of her?

      “If I ask her to put a spell on you, she will.”

      He made a sound of annoyance, stopped and swung to face her. “So, you’re saying your mom’s a witch?”

      “No. She’s a fortune-teller.”

      “A Gypsy fortune-teller?”

      “No.” The girl propped her hands on her hips and sucked in a quick, frustrated-sounding breath. “She’s just a fortune-teller.”

      Amused, he mimicked her, making an exaggerated sound of frustration and placing his hands on his hips. “Witches put curses on people. Fortune-tellers tell the future. Gypsies do both, at least in the movies. Of course, I don’t believe in that stuff. In fact, I think it’s all a bunch of crap, so why don’t you get lost?”

      She ignored him. “Where’d you get the black eye?”

      “None of your business.” He started off again.

      “I bet it was one of the other guys.” She screwed up her face as if deep in thought. “My guess is Max or Len.” She cut him a glance. “But, probably Len. He’s a real badass.”

      Chance supposed he would call Len that. He was the blade-happy bozo with dibs on his throat.

      “They’re all pissed at you,” she continued, “because you took Rick and Benny’s place.”

      “Yeah, well, that’s tough shit. They’ll get over it.”

      She smiled. “Good thing they don’t know what I know.” He glared at her, and she smiled again. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I told you I wasn’t going to tell, and I’m not.”

      This was just getting better and better. He stepped up his pace in an effort to shake her.

      “I’ll tell you what to do about those creeps,” she said, hurrying to keep up. “Just give ‘em