“Come on,” Bishop says. He leads me farther into the land of the freaks.
I take a closer look at the booths—one has what appears to be raccoons hung from the rafters by their tails. A sign outside reads SACRIFICES. Another booth sells bottles and fluted vases in various sizes and colors, another one carries creepy porcelain dolls, and I don’t even want to know what the booth swathed in rich, black velvet with only a picture of a human skeleton on the outside sells. A rooster crows close by. I recoil as a flash of white feathers runs past chased by an irritated old woman in a beaded gown. If it weren’t for the fat guy in the Speedo, who walks past a fortune-teller’s booth without so much as a glance at the Morticia Addams look-alike calling to him, I’d swear we’d been transported to a market in the 1600s.
“No one can see this?” I ask, despite it being obvious. I myself couldn’t see it just moments before.
“Just us magical folk,” Bishop says. He keeps a brisk pace, and I hurry to keep close to his side.
“Cat bones!” a woman calls. “Ten for ten. Cheapest in town.” She leans out from her booth as we pass. “Won’t find cheaper anywhere. Ten for ten. Okay, ten for five. Cat bones. Ah, whatever.” She gives up on us and slumps back onto her stool.
I try not to make eye contact with any of the vendors after that, lest they think I’m interested in their wares. I stick close to Bishop, stopping myself from clinging to his arm only because it’s not the 1920s and feminism and whatnot.
He squints into the booths as we pass, mumbling.
“What are we looking for?” I ask.
“Irena,” he answers. “She’s a genius. If anyone knows anything about why the locating spell isn’t working, it’d be her.”
I shrug. I doubt Bishop’s friend is going to be able to help, but I can tell he feels like he failed me with the spell, so for him, I go along with it.
A nagging feeling that someone is watching me begins to tickle at my brain. I try to ignore it, but it’s too hard to resist casting a look around. My eyes catch on a woman three booths down. Her wrinkled skin is the palest I’ve ever seen on a living person, so fair I can see the blue river of veins beneath it. Her eyes are circled with dark shadows, as though she hasn’t slept in a century, and her gray hair is thinning to the point I might call her balding.
And she’s staring right at me.
A thousand people on the boardwalk, and she’s staring straight at me. I suck in a little breath, my heart hammering in my chest.
Bishop notices the focus of my attention and draws a protective arm around me, pulling me against him as he walks steadily through the crowd. I crane my neck to watch the woman until we get too far away to see her clearly. A chill shudders through me.
“Finally,” Bishop says.
He pulls me up to a tent draped in dark purple beaded silk. A sign out front reads simply IRENA’S. Bishop draws back the curtain, and I almost have a coronary right there.
Based on what I’ve seen of the Black Market so far, I expected Irena to be a creepy old woman, possibly fat and goitered. Instead, I find a drop-dead-gorgeous girl whose pale blue eyes contrast sharply with smooth skin the color of a Werther’s Original. Her lips are red-stained and sensual, and a mane of shiny dark hair tumbles in thick waves over a chest busting out of her corset gown. She sits gracefully on a ruby-red cushion surrounded by candles, looking like an Egyptian princess. Of course this is Bishop’s friend. Of course.
“Bishop!” she purrs, climbing to her feet. I give him the side eye. He shrugs and sends me a look that distinctly says “What? Don’t blame me!” as she draws him into a warm hug. She seems to notice me for the first time over his shoulder, and dismisses me with a cool glance.
It’s not exactly like I fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, but next to Irena I can’t help feeling like my every flaw is on display—Afroed hair, practically no boobs, knobby knees. I have to wonder just what Bishop sees in me when he’s got girls like Irena and Jezebel fawning all over him. I can feel my bottom lip jutting out farther by the second.
“I heard the news about the Priory,” Irena says into his neck before finally releasing him from her clutches. “Everyone’s been talking about it.”
“Actually, that’s why we’re here,” Bishop says.
“Oh?”
“I have reason to believe—” He stops and grabs my hand, interlocking our fingers. I feel a burst of happiness and can’t help smiling as Irena looks down at our joined hands. I swear I can actually see her hormones snuff out.
“We have reason to believe our friend was kidnapped by the Priory before they were killed,” Bishop finishes.
“That is a problem,” she says disinterestedly. “So you want to find her?”
Duh. Genius, my ass.
“We’ve tried a locating spell and it didn’t work.”
“And you used a deeply personal possession?” she asks.
“Yes,” Bishop answers.
“And you’re sure it’s personal?” she asks, falling heavily back onto her cushion, like the pretty-pretty-princess act was only for when Bishop was available. “Because that’s important.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I cut in, annoyed. Like I don’t know my best friend.
“And you did the spell correctly?” she asks.
“Yes,” Bishop says, matching my annoyed tone.
“Then there’s only one place she could be.” She locks eyes with me for the first time since we entered her tent. “And it’s not on earth.”
5
I can’t breathe. Paige can’t be dead. She can’t be.
“What’s her problem?” Irena asks, looking at me as though I’m an animal behaving in a strange yet fascinating way.
“She thinks you’re saying her best friend is dead,” Bishop answers before turning to me to interpret. “That’s not what she meant.”
My head spins so fast I can’t form words.