Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

“I can still make my afternoon shift,” said Fern, making her book—her bribe, since it had never been promised to her, and we were both smart enough to see it for what it was—disappear.

“Great,” said Sophie, clapping her hands in a way that made me want to fall into a starting cheer position. “Let’s get you two to work!”

“See you soon, Melody,” said Emily sweetly.

I didn’t say anything. I just followed Sophie away from that unkind little room, Fern at my heels.

Sophie was silent until we were out of the building, across the sidewalk, and in her car with the doors closed. Only then did she look at me and ask, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, leaning back in my seat so I could see Fern in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but alert. She’d be fine. Roller derby teaches many important lessons about sleep deprivation and why it is sometimes just one more obstacle to wave at as you skate on by. We’d both sleep like rocks tonight, and the world would keep on spinning.

“That was Emily Doyle.”

“Okay.”

“She’s a shark. Don’t trust her. She shows up every time something happens, and she gets the credit suspiciously often.”

Of course she did. She was a routewitch, and what were the paths and trails through Lowryland, if not roads? She might lack the power of her peers who drew their strength from highways and urban thoroughfares—but then again, she might not. Thousands of feet traversed the smallest of Lowryland’s trails every day. That much presence, that much power, had to go somewhere, and Emily was as good a vessel as any.

“She just wanted to review my side of the story and make absolutely sure Fern and I were in agreement,” I said. “We were. She had me sign a statement, promised me the time slips, and we were done. Where did you go?”

“To view the video footage. Nothing contradicts what either of you have been saying.” She glanced at Fern in the rearview mirror. “As long as it stays that way, there shouldn’t be any lasting effects.”

“Except on the dead guy,” I said.

Sophie sighed. “Except on the dead guy,” she agreed. “Mel . . . you’re not going to go all Nancy Drew and try to figure out what happened to him, are you? We have our own security. Lowryland is not the place to play out your high school dreams of cracking the case.”

“Since I’m under the age of sixty, I’d actually be going all Veronica Mars, and no,” I said. “I’m not a mystery solver. I do not yearn for the feeling of closure as the clues all come together. I mostly just want to get to work before I wind up getting docked a vacation day.”

“You won’t be docked a vacation day,” said Sophie. “I updated your file with the reasons behind today’s tardiness myself. You’re fine.”

“Except for the dead guy,” chirped Fern.

Sophie sighed, seeming to deflate. I could still see my high school cheer captain in her, but for the first time, I could also see the adult woman who’d kicked and spat and clawed her way up the corporate ladder. We were the same age. Her birthday was less than a month before mine. In that moment, she looked like she was ten years my senior, something she usually concealed beneath makeup and careful hair and attitude.

“Except for the dead guy,” she said, and while it was remarkably close to what she’d said after my last prompt, she hadn’t sounded so damn defeated then. “Be careful, all right? Both of you. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I understand that, but you’ve been noticed. Having the eyes of Lowryland upon you is not always all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Understood,” I said. She had pulled up in front of the gate that would take us past the boundary of the Park and into the endless warren of tunnels, offices, and locker rooms that would allow us to do our jobs. I flashed her a smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Any time,” she said.

Sophie sat there, hands resting lightly on the wheel, and watched as Fern and I walked down the sidewalk to the gate. I glanced back at her. She raised one hand in a small wave. I returned the wave, and we stepped through the gate, and we were gone.





Eight




“Performance isn’t all sequins and bright lights and knowing when it’s done. Sometimes performance is what drags you through a day when nothing else will stick around to finish the job.”

–Frances Brown

Lowryland, subject to the judgment of coworkers, because that’s fun

ARRIVING FOR MY SHIFT three and a half hours late was about as well-received as I’d expected. My cushy duty attending on the princesses was gone, handed off to someone who actually got to work on time, and I was back in retail hell. Whee. Sharp glances and casual glares greeted me when I stepped onto the floor of the Fine and Fair Gift Shop. Having anticipated this, I’d tucked my book of time slips into the pocket of my apron, and responded to the most acidic glares by pulling it out just enough to let my adversaries see the big golden “6” on the cover. Their eyes went wide, and judging by the speed with which the negative looks turned into friendly, open-faced smiles, the rumor mill was making sure everyone knew I was in the possession of a truly excellent Get Out of Snubbing Free card.

I was folding and stocking shirts when someone sidled up next to me, approach announced by the rustle of their long uniform jacket. “Hi, Mel,” said a sweet voice.

I closed my eyes, counting silently to five before opening them again. Of course. I might be working in the same area every day this week, but that didn’t mean anyone else was. Even Fern was doing a shift as Princess Aspen in one of the private “dining experience” restaurants, rather than hanging out in the main meet-and-greet.

“Hello, Robin,” I said, glancing meaningfully at my nametag and its prominently displayed “Melody” as I turned to face her. “What can I do for you?”

She dimpled at me. “I was just wondering if you might need some help with the folding. Looks like there’s a lot.”

I glanced around. There were no guests nearby. The shop was in the middle of one of those odd, unpredictable lulls that came and went on even the busiest days, when the aisles would seem to empty out for no apparent reason, leaving us with the chance to catch our breath and repair all the damage the last wave of guests had done.

Naturally, that also gave us time to bother each other—or more specifically, it gave Robin the time to bother me. “I’m good, thanks,” I said. “It’s just the normal number of shirts.”

“You shouldn’t have to take care of all that on your own,” she protested, and made a grab for the shirt I was holding, pouting at me when I moved it out of her reach. “You know, we could be really good friends if you’d only learn to play the game the way the rest of us do. A little give, a little take, a little yes, a little no. You’re not willing to let anyone in, Mel, and we worry about you.”

“Right.” I put the shirt down and straightened, turning to face her fully. Crossing my arms where guests might see me was frowned upon: I joined my hands behind my back instead, which had the helpful side effect of preventing me from setting her on fire if she continued pissing me off. “And this sudden urge toward camaraderie, it has nothing to do with the book of time slips in my pocket, right?”

She could grab them, if she wanted to. She could make this physical. If she did, I’d be within my rights to get our shift supervisor involved. I could see by the way she hesitated that Robin knew it, too.