Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

My escort led us to a cubicle maze, where she gestured for me to take a seat on the petitioner’s side of an L-shaped desk. She wrinkled her nose, ever so slightly, when my butt hit the chair. I was clearly even dirtier looking than I’d thought. My heart sank.

I could try Lowry again, of course. The nice thing about having a fake ID is that you can always get another one. But fake IDs cost money, and without contacting my family, I’d have to find a way to get that money on my own. Robbing convenience stores might play a big part in my future if I wanted to be able to buy clean clothes, a clean name, and a second shot at all the jobs I was about to not get.

“All right, Miss . . . West, what brings you to the Lowry family? Why should we consider you for the position?”

“I’m a hard worker, I’m motivated to meet and exceed any employment requirements, and I have experience working with traveling carnivals, which means I’ve worked with crowds, children, people experiencing ride-related vertigo, and entertainers.” All of that was true. That’s the key to a good lie: build it on a foundation of as much truth as possible, because the truth will shore it up even when the falsehoods begin falling away.

I’m getting awfully tired of lying about who I am. There’s always been a veil of pretense between me and the rest of the world, thanks to my family and what we do, but there’s a big difference between basic subterfuge and this “Bruce Banner on the run from the government goons” bullshit that has consumed my life.

The woman flashed me a frozen smile. My heart sank. That wasn’t the sort of smile that came before “you got the job.” It might be the kind of smile that came before “Security is going to escort you off the premises.” All in all, not a good sign. My fingertips grew hot as my anxiety about failing to get the job translated into adrenaline and the adrenaline translated, as it so often does, into my body trying to involuntarily set things on fire.

Being an untrained magic-user in the process of manifesting her powers is fun, and by “fun” I mean “only slightly better than being covered in wasps, like, all the goddamn time.” Better yet, there’s no one around to train me. The last magic-user in our family was my grandfather, Thomas Price, and he’s been missing since long before I was born. My Aunt Mary could get me the lessons I need, but she’s a crossroads ghost, and well . . .

Some prices are still too steep for me to pay, even if it means occasionally charring my clothes.

I stuck my fingers under my knees, smothering them as best I could, and met the woman’s frozen smile with a weak, wavering smile of my own. Please don’t say what you’re about to say, I thought. Please don’t.

She did. “Lowryland is not a traveling carnival, Miss West, and while we appreciate your enthusiasm, your lack of either references or a fixed address makes you—”

“Melody?” Excitement tinged my assumed name, causing it to climb higher with every letter, until it peaked in something just shy of a squeak. “Melody West?”

The woman with the clipboard blanched. I turned.

There, standing in the mouth of the cubicle, was my high school cheer captain, Sophie Vargas. Oh, she was older now—who wasn’t?—and had traded her cheerleading uniform for a smart pantsuit in a shade of cream that set off her naturally tan skin gorgeously. It looked like it cost about as much as my cousin Elsie’s car, and that wasn’t even going into the accessories, which were all opal, and obviously all real. Her makeup was tasteful, her heels were both leather and low, and I could easily have walked past her on the street without a second glance, if not for one little detail:

She had a spirit bow—in the Lowry Entertainment logo colors, red and silver—clipped above her left ear. It was a playful, almost juvenile affectation, and it made the rest of her make sense. Sophie was always an overachiever. Now she was just overachieving on a corporate level.

I didn’t have to work to make my eyes widen or my jaw drop. The sight of her did that all on its own. “Sophie?”

“Oh, my God, I heard your voice down the hall, and I thought ‘naw, that can’t be Mels,’ but here you are—” Sophie paused, frowning. “Here you are. Clarice, what are you doing here? If this is an intake interview, it should be happening in one of the conference rooms.”

“Miss West’s credentials are somewhat . . . lacking,” said the clipboard woman. She was less frightening now that she had a name and was grimacing like she’d bitten into something sour. “She does not have a fixed address, and while she’s listed several relevant skills, she has no verifiable past employment.”

“I see,” said Sophie. There was a sudden, venomous sweetness in her tone. I remembered that voice aimed at cheer newbies on the field behind our high school, usually right after they complained about something trivial. “Did you not receive this quarter’s memo on giving back to the community by working with people who lack work history but possess applicable skills?”

“That was meant to help us hire more seasonal college workers, not homeless people,” said Clarice.

Sophie’s face froze. “I see. Thank you for your candor; I’ll be speaking with your supervisor. Melody, with me, please.”

It had never been a good idea to argue with Sophie when she used that tone. I couldn’t imagine that had changed. I jumped to my feet, grabbing my backpack from where I’d stuffed it under the chair, and started toward the cubicle exit. At the last moment I paused, offered Clarice a wan smile, and said, “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Sophie took my arm and whisked me down the hall before Clarice could reply. That might have been for the best. I couldn’t imagine whatever Clarice might have to say would be terribly complimentary.

The cubicle maze extended to the far wall, where Sophie took a sharp left, pulling me into a narrow hallway with walls only a few shades darker than her suit. I made a sound of impressed amazement as I realized her outfit was not only designed to coordinate with her accessories and her coloration, but with the building itself. She was dressed to look like the whole place had been painted solely to flatter her. It was either genius or proof that she’d spent too much time as a cheerleader. Or possibly both. Both was always an option.

We reached an open door with her name on a brass nameplate next to it. SOPHIE VARGAS-JACKSON. I blinked.

“You got married?”

“I would have invited you, but no one knew where you were.” Sophie gave me a measuring sidelong look. It was the first time she’d visibly assessed me since stepping into Clarice’s cubicle. It definitely wasn’t the first time she’d done it. Sophie was good like that. People never knew she was sizing them up until it was done. “You know, most of the old squad has stayed in touch. You’re the only one who dropped off the face of the planet.”

“Yeah, well.” I looked away before she could see more than regret in my eyes. “Things got complicated.”

“Things always do.”

Sophie’s office was sleek, sophisticated, with leather chairs and glass-topped furnishings, all accented with little pops of Lowry red. (Literally “Lowry red.” That’s the name of the color. Isn’t trademark law fun?) She stepped around the desk and sat in her high-backed executive chair, gesturing for me to have a seat. I sat.

The visitor’s chair here was sure a lot nicer than the one in Clarice’s cubicle. It was probably going to need to be steam-cleaned after encountering me.

“Did you marry him?” asked Sophie, without preamble.