Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

My first “date” with Sam had been at his family’s carnival. That should have prepared me, at least a little, for the sheer degree of enthusiasm that he would bring to a theme park. What is a theme park, after all, if not a carnival that has grown up and put down roots? Even Disneyland had gained in popularity with the addition of several displays that had debuted at the World’s Fair. Michael Lowry hadn’t had that early boost, but by the time he’d broken ground in Florida, Disney had already provided the world with a handy roadmap of what not to do in putting an immersive environment together. Lowryland was a masterpiece of the carnival arts, and Sam knew how to appreciate them.

Sam dragged me up one side of Chapter and Verse and down the other, exploring every nook and cranny, pulling me into line for every ride, even the ones most adult guests would sniff at and dismiss as designed for kids. As long as he could fit in the seats, he was riding the ride, and if he was riding the ride, I was riding the ride. We got our picture taken with Aspen and Elm (Fern giggling behind her hand and fighting not to break character the whole time). We bought corndogs from the Monty Mule’s Mealtime Melody cart near the exit from the Mooncake-themed River of Stars roller coaster.

Sam grinned the whole time, only letting go of my hand when it was absolutely necessary. Even then, he kept an eye on me, like he was afraid I would melt into the crowd and disappear. It should have been annoying—I’ve never liked being hovered over, which is why it’s funny that I wound up being the kid who kept our phantom babysitter—but it was sweet, in a weird way. He didn’t want me to go away again. As long as he relaxed once he figured out that disappearing wasn’t my favorite trick, we’d be fine.

Chapter and Verse is the most eclectic zone, thanks to serving as a dumping ground for every property that doesn’t fit cleanly somewhere else, and it only took a few hours for us to exhaust its many wonders and move on to Candyland, where everything is pink and green and smells like sugar. Sam paused at the threshold, sniffing the air.

“How . . . ?”

“Scent dispersal units hidden in the bushes.” It helped that—with the exception of a few fruit trees—Candyland is the one zone without natural greenery. Almost everything there is crafted from plastic, steel, and glowing bulbs, creating an atmosphere that would have been called Wonka-esque, if that wouldn’t have been stepping on someone else’s copyright. “There’s a petition every year or two to take them out. Allergies.”

“Huh.”

“Ironically, it’s never the people with the allergies who want the scent dispersal shut down. It’s usually folks getting offended on their behalf.” Mostly parents at that. “We offer gluten-free gingerbread in this part of the Park, though, and that means there’s a powerful lobby to keep Candyland exactly as it is.”

“There’s a lot more politics involved with running a theme park than there is with running a carnival,” said Sam ruefully.

“Yeah, but we also have Hansel and Gretel and a house made out of gingerbread.” I leaned in impulsively, planting a kiss upon his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go see if the bakery is open.”

The bakery was open, and selling all four of the standard flavors of gingerbread—original, chocolate, cinnamon-spice, and gluten-free original. We got a sampling platter and settled under the shade of a waffle cone-shaped umbrella to watch the people come and go, kids dragging their parents toward the confections, or toward the waiting meet-and-greet with the Candy Witch, who was in prime sugarcoated form. Sam scooted his chair a bit closer to mine, and we sat there, eating gingerbread, existing. Not running away from anything or anyone. Not in fear for our lives. Just being.

It couldn’t last. Sam gave me a sidelong look and asked, “How are your hands?”

“Cold.” I raised one of them, looking at it critically. “The more I learn, the less I can do.”

“Does it scare you?”

I lowered my hand, thinking about his question for a long moment before I said, “Yes. What if it never comes back? What if I trade being actually useful for knowing all the things I could do, if only I hadn’t put the fire away? But it makes me hopeful, too. I didn’t always set things on fire without meaning to. I used to be pretty much normal. I could probably adapt to being normal again. I’d spend less on burn cream, anyway.”

Sam bumped my shoulder with his. “This is a bad time to start lying to me.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve met you. You’ve never been normal, Melody.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. He’d been given strict instructions to use my alias throughout the day, and he hadn’t slipped once—dating a cryptid meant dating someone who knew what it was to keep a secret or pay the price—but he kept saying my “name” like it was some sort of complicated joke he was hoping I’d understand. Sam grinned at me.

“So this is what you do now?” he asked, changing the topic. “You wander around somebody else’s playground, keeping kids from trying to eat the décor?”

“Most of the time, I’m in Fairyland, not Candyland,” I said. “But yes. I spend my days trying to keep kids from tearing the Park apart, and making sure all of these people will think of us before they think of anyone else when it’s time to plan their next family vacation.”

“Do you like it?”

I paused. Finally, I said, “That’s sort of a hard question for me. I’m pretty good at my job. I don’t mind the rules, management does their best to be fair, and I like being allowed to run around the Park when I’m not on duty. It gives me something to focus on. I appreciate that. There are a lot of moving pieces in Lowryland. I could work here for twenty years and not know everything.”

Sam looked perplexed. “Do you want to work here for twenty years?”

“Oh, hell, no.” I didn’t have to think about that answer. “I want to go home. I miss my family. I want to know what’s going on. Exile may be fun for a little while, but as a long-term plan? It’s terrible. I have no concept of where we stand with . . .” I dropped my voice. “You know.”

Was I being paranoid, thinking that a member of the Covenant of St. George might have decided to bring their children for a pleasant vacation in Lowryland? Yes. But much like Fern hadn’t been able to reveal herself to the dragons without fear of causing trouble, I couldn’t run the risk of the Covenant hearing me.

It was funny. We were in a cathedral built to honor and uplift fairy tales. Everything about this place was a story, carefully crafted and orchestrated to instill a sense of awe and wonder in the guests around us. I could have stood up and started explaining, loudly, how a ghost had been my primary babysitter since I was born, how she had sung me doo-wop songs in my cradle and organized my family’s colony of talking mice into backup choruses, and no one would have batted an eye. Lowryland was where you went to be a little left of the norm.

That didn’t change the fact that if I used proper names, called Mary a crossroads ghost or called the mice an Aeslin colony, I’d be running the risk of attracting the wrong kind of attention. Stories are universal. Details, though . . . details can get you killed.

“When do you think it’ll be safe to go home?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “It’s not like I have an exit strategy here. I’m sort of hoping that once I know enough about my magic, I’ll be able to shield myself from anyone who comes looking. I could go home if I just knew I wouldn’t be followed.”

“Can’t Mary—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I meant for it to. I stood, picking up our empty plates, and said, “There are some serious limits to what Mary can and can’t do for me. Actually teaching me is off the table. So is doing that sort of a favor. I’d need to make a bargain for that.”

Sam pulled a face. Interesting. I had never asked whether the fūri had a tradition of crossroads bargains. Looked like they did.

“No,” he said. “Let’s not do that.”