Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (8 page)

“What’s up, sis?” Kyra asked.

Stacey glanced desperately at her watch. “Julie’s mom said she’d be here at eight, and
it’s
freaking seven-thirty. Why
eight o’clock
, anyway? Can’t it be a little longer? Julie, why’s your mom gotta be such an asshole?”

Julie grinned while she swung her skinny legs back and forth. “Dunno. She’s my mom.”

“Well, looks like no Scrambler today,” Stacey said with a huff. “Look at the friggin’ line! By the time we got on she’d be here.”

“Can we just walk?” asked Kyra. She didn’t understand why her sister got upset and swore all the time. It didn’t make sense, and besides, she
was
getting a little tired.

“That sounds good to me,” said Julie, rolling her eyes.

Stacey shook her head.
“Fine.
Whatever.
There ain’t
nothing
else to do in this shithole, anyway.”

The three of them strolled down the boardwalk. Stacey kept to the front, her head swiveling from side to side, her expression dour. Kyra and Julie followed a few steps behind, walking hand-in-hand. They passed the booths and the smiling people who stood in front of them. Kyra’s mood started to change. Perhaps it was a result of her sister’s irritation, or maybe the fact that her stomach was rumbling, seeing as Stacey had hijacked her tokens and spent them all on herself. Either way, it didn’t matter. All she
knew was that the carnival goers didn’t seem so jovial anymore. Their smiles took on dark, sinister qualities, as if each and every person was hiding a deep, threatening secret. She noticed many older men glancing in their direction and quickly turned her head, leery of the odd, invasive look in their eyes. A shiver racked her body even though the evening was hot and muggy. All of a sudden she just wanted Julie’s mom to show up, and quick.

They circled around and crossed the walk, heading back for the parking lot. At that point there were still many people flooding into the party and very few leaving. The farther they moved away from the carnival, the thinner the crowd became, which served her just fine.

Everything grew quiet, with the exception of the roiling waves and the wind. Even Stacey had ceased her tireless stream of obscenities. She stared out at the ocean as she walked, squinting. Kyra followed her sister’s gaze, and caught sight of something strange.

At first she thought it was a sand dune that had sprouted up in the middle of the beach, but as they got closer she noticed it was actually a small tent. Kyra stopped in her tracks and her eyes locked on it. Her head tilted sideways as the moonlight slowly diffused, bringing the tent into focus. The canvas covering the sides appeared brown and torn, as if it’d been left out on the beach for too long. There was an entrance in the front, a gap in the fabric covered with strings of beads that clattered with each gust of wind. Turning her back on her sister and Julie, Kyra hopped over the concrete divider. Sand poured over the sides of her flats, grinding against her feet. She took a step forward and spotted a makeshift wooden sign affixed to a stake just outside the entrance.
Madame Rhodan
, it said.

“Hey guys, lookit this,” she said, but no one answered. She glanced to her left and saw Stacey and Julie walking away from her, leaving her behind. After an instant of panic, Kyra shrugged off her fear. They were only a few feet away from the parking lot. She’d meet up with them in a few minutes, right after she satisfied her curiosity.

Though she usually loved the feel of the sand between her toes, as she crept across the beach it felt intrusive, unwelcome. Everything around her seemed strange—the breeze was too sharp, the waves crashed too hard, the moon above shone too brightly. The tiny voice of the survivor within her
—
the voice that would grow to prominence when she got older
—
whispered warnings into her brain. Kyra ignored it and kept moving. The twinkling light coming from inside the tent was too much for her young mind to ignore.

She stood outside the entrance and listened to the hushed tones coming from within. It sounded like a whispered conversation, and Kyra felt shame warm her neck at the thought of eavesdropping on adult banter. Instead of trying to make out what they were saying, she leaned forward, swept the curtain of beads aside, and entered the tent.

The cramped interior was well-lit by a gas lantern that hung from the wooden beam supporting the structure’s roof. Kyra stared at the assortment of posters hanging from the walls.
Madame Rhodan!
one
of them said, beneath an illustration of an old woman wearing red robes, whose eyes glowed a brilliant yellow.
Soothsayer! Psychic! She’ll tell you your future, if that is what you want to hear!
A fake skinned chicken and a collection of papier-mâché skulls dangled from strings between the posters. The skulls stared down at her with their creepy, empty eyes.

A circular table sat in the center of the sandy floor, so large that there was barely enough room to fit anything else in there besides the three chairs around it. Vines were carved into the legs of the table, snaking up and over the surface. Kyra felt a chill come over her.

“Ahem.”

Startled by the sound, Kyra glanced up to see a woman hovering by an opened flap at the rear end of the tent, bathed in shadows. The woman then stepped into the lantern’s light. She was old and very thin, with tufts of white hair sprouting from beneath an unseasonable wool cap. Her nose, face, and neck were all exaggeratedly long, making her look more bird than woman. She wore a blue dress and held a deck of cards in her hands. A cigarette dangled from her lips.

“Uh, Ma’am?” said Kyra, timidly.

“Yeah, kid,” Madame Rhodan replied. “Why’re you here?” Her voice was gruff yet sane, and years of smoking were made known by the rumble in her throat when she exhaled.

“I dunno,” replied Kyra. She could barely hear herself speak. “I just saw the tent and came over. Julie and Stacey didn’t come, though. They’re…”

“Self-centered,” said Madame Rhodan with a wave of her hand. “Most big sisters are.”

“Uh, I guess so.”

“No. It
is
so. Trust me, little girl. That’s
exactly
what they are.”

The bird lady’s lips curled into a cynical grin. She pulled out a chair, sat at the table, and began flipping the cards between her fingers the same way coins fell through one of those zigzagging piggybanks. Then, without warning, she slammed the cards down on the table. Kyra let out a little yelp as she jumped backward.

“So, little girl,” she said with curt aggression, “I’ll ask you again. Why’re you here?”

Fear clenched Kyra’s ten-year-old heart. She didn’t like the tone of the old woman’s voice. Though she was wrinkled and slender, just like her Grandma Lucile, there seemed to be no kindness in her. In that moment she reminded Kyra of the scary lady from the Disney movie about the chipmunks who save a kidnapped little girl. She gulped.

“I…I dunno…” she repeated.

The bird lady gazed into Kyra’s eyes and, as if noticing something she hadn’t seen before, she sat back. Her tone suddenly changed—the tenor lifted, the rumbling in her throat diminished. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her while snuffing out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “You’re just a confused little thing, aren’t you? Here, take a seat and we’ll see what I can do for you.”

Kyra’s young mind was put at ease by the transformation. She complied, trudging through the sand and lifting herself onto the chair. She folded her hands atop the table and sat there, swinging her legs, waiting for Madame Rhodan to speak. But the old woman simply stared at her and traced the carvings on the tabletop with her finger. Finally, Kyra asked, “What do I do?”

“You ask me a question, if you like,” replied the old woman. “What do you want to know?”

Kyra shrugged.

“Do you want me to tell you what boy you like? Who you will marry? What your job will be when you grow up? Anything from the future you want to learn, I’m here to disclose to you.”

Kyra squeezed her eyes shut. Images ran through her mind’s eye: She saw Randall Livingston and his bright blue eyes, the picture she’d drawn of the White House in first grade, the portrait of her family on the wall in her living room. But there was one image that forced its way to the foreground. It was something she’d never seen before, a vision of an ashen, withered man with gray hair, empty black eyes, and a sinister grin. He hid in the shadows behind a statue of Paul Revere, eyes fixed on her. Kyra shivered, and her eyes shot open.

“Who’s the creepy man?” she asked.

Madame Rhodan’s expression soured, becoming one of motherly concern instead. She slowly reached under the table and pulled out a small, flat object. It was a handheld mirror. She held it out to Kyra.

Kyra started to have second thoughts. “Actually…” she began, but Madame Rhodan cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“I’m sorry, my dear, the decision’s been made.”

The old woman placed the mirror facedown on the table and slid it across. Kyra picked it up by the handle but hesitated before turning it around. An odd feeling she didn’t like came over her. It felt like she was swimming though sitting still.

“You don’t have to look, child,” Madame Rhodan said. “You can simply put it down and walk away if you like.”

Kyra squinted, scrunched up her nose, and impulsively spun the mirror around. She stared at her own reflection, smiling at the sight of her freckled cheeks, gapped teeth, and wavy red hair. There was nothing to fear, after all. The old woman had been wrong.

A fog rolled over the mirror’s surface just then, the way mist does in the shower. It blotted out her view. Kyra wiped at the stuff, but it wouldn’t come off. She could feel Madame Rhodan wince when the fog parted, revealing the mirror’s secret. Kyra couldn’t make it out what it was at first, so she drew the mirror closer to her eyes until the image became clear.

Then she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

*
  
*
  
*

Josh awoke with a start, still enraptured by his dream and unsure where he was. He glanced around him, taking in the faded, flowery wallpaper, dusty picture frames, and boarded-up windows of their newfound home. The day’s first light shone through the cracks between the boards covering the windows.

He felt pressure against his back, and a soft shudder, and slowly craned his neck. There lay Kyra, almost naked. She was shaking and tears rolled down her cheeks. Guilt bubbled in his throat, but it wasn’t the same kind he’d experienced over and over again for the past few months. No, this was
helpful
guilt, the type of guilt that told him it was time to stop being a baby and start acting like a man. He rolled over.

“Kye,” he whispered, gently rocking her shoulder. Her green eyes fluttered open, sopping with wetness. He smiled at her, and she broke down. She almost leapt into his arms, squeezing his neck tight as she clung to him.

“Whoa, Kye, what’s wrong?”

She sniffled in response.

He stayed still for a long time afterward, letting her sobbing die down to a small chain of sighs. He softly urged her away from him and looked in her eyes. She seemed to have composed herself, and she shrugged the bit of the old blanket that had lodged in her armpit away, revealing her rapidly enlarging breasts. Josh tried his best to keep his focus on her face. He felt his eye muscles twitch and thought that he must’ve looked quite peculiar in that moment.

“Hey,” Kyra said, forcing a grin.

“Hey, yourself.”

She sat
up,
looking around the room the same way Josh had done earlier. Her expression said she couldn’t believe she was sitting there, in that house, in that bed, with him. Josh propped himself up on his elbow and tapped her knee.

“So what happened?” he asked.