Dead to Rites (11 page)

See, I’d never gotten anywhere near enough to see the signs on my first visit. I was too busy chattin’ with Nolan Shea, and also not having the slightest inkling the carnival mattered. And on my way in today? I’m sure they
had
banners up out front, since this was obviously their main attraction, but I’d missed ’em. Just chance, I guess. I’d wandered in at the wrong angle, or I’d been distracted by the crowd. Now, though? Now it was emblazoned overhead like the word of God Him-, Her-, or Themselves.

“
THE DUSTY TOMBS OF FORGOTTEN DYNASTIES OFFER UP THEIR SECRETS!!
” it said. “
COMMUNE WITH A GOD-KING FROM THE DAYS OF ANCIENT EGYPT!! WITNESS ONE WHO WATCHED THE BIRTH OF CIVILIZATION WITH HIS OWN 2 EYES!!
”

Then, in much smaller print, “Bring the family! Educational and fun for kids, all for less than you’d pay for a day at the museum! Only at Rounser’s Remarkable Fun Fair and Excellent Exhibition’s Funhouse of Mystery!”

They had a mummy. This rundown, flea speck of a sideshow carnie had a goddamn mummy.

Didn’t know they did that? Yep. Respect for the dead’s nifty and all, but it don’t pay. Some of Egypt’s preserved dead got lucky; once their burial treasures’d been raided, they at least got sold to this museum or that private collector. Sure, they’d be displayed like something from a tourist gift shop, but they were reasonably well preserved and often stored alongside some of the riches that’d been theirs in life and afterlife.

Others, though? Well, if they weren’t sold as kindling—yes, really; kindling—a few ended up as attractions in traveling fairs and funhouses. Offered a nice touch of spooky atmosphere, something to chill the onlookers just enough to tell their friends and maybe sell another fucking ticket.

Some carnivals pretended to have ’em and didn’t, of course; just more fakery and sleight-of-hand, another con in a long line. But Rounser’s? Had too many peepers on it—some of which belonged to people who knew their stuff—for it to be a sham. There was a genuine mummy here, and both Ramona’s and Shea’s bosses clearly believed it still had some power or value to it.

And hey… That might explain somethin’ else, too. This wasn’t the only mummy in town; the Field had a new Egyptology display that included a couple. But those didn’t have any lingering mojo, or at least not enough to reach beyond the walls of the museum.

If this one did, though? Well, some of that power might be in the form of a curse. Yeah, mummy’s curses are real, though not exactly common. And if most but not all of that curse had faded over the centuries, there might not be enough left to pester you lugs—but some of us Fae, with our sensitivity to luck and magic? Yeah, the last fading echoes of a curse might, just might, explain the run of misfortune I’d been having lately.

Seemed as though this desiccated corpse might hold the answers to a whole variety of questions. If nothing else, I needed the chance to give it the up-and-down before Ramona or Shea or whoever else tried to make off with the damn thing. It mighta still held traces of genuine Egyptian magics;
heka
they called it. Or it coulda had old spells or occult knowledge written in the wrappings; that was a pretty common part of the ritual. Or, or, or. Without knowing
why
they wanted it, or what sorta power or secrets it held, I wasn’t real inclined to let it fall into
anyone’s
hands, and this place sure didn’t have even the mundane security of the Field, let alone defenses against more magically inclined thieves.

Casually, tryin’ to make it look like I was just idly wandering and taking in the sights, I started making my way toward a funhouse I didn’t honestly figure was gonna be much fun at all.

As far as what happened next, I’m gonna make some excuses for myself. I was focused so hard my thoughts were aching and my brow was furrowed so deep my skull almost folded. I was casting out in all directions for the slightest feel or mystical “scent” of Ramona, or anyone else who mighta been packing magic heat, while also keepin’ on guard, ready to push back against the first hint that she was plucking at my emotions. I knew what kinda power she held, what kinda effect she had on me, and no way was I gonna let myself get empathically bushwhacked.
And
I was working at staying inconspicuous in the process, which don’t exactly come easy when you’re a lone grown man in a greatcoat at a carnival fulla kids and families.

In other words, I was a touch preoccupied.

If it’d been an attack of some sort, it woulda caught me square on. Since it
wasn’t
an attack, I only almost jumped outta my skin when the call rang out, “Come, stranger! Vould you gaze into your future and see vhat destiny has in store for you?”

She was addressing me, specifically. I dunno how barkers and showmen do it, somehow “aiming” their voice through a milling crowd, but the experienced ones somehow pull it off. Guess I coulda ignored it, but I’d already turned to look despite myself.

Short. I dunno why that was my first impression of her, especially since she was behind a kiosk, and sittin’ on a stool to boot, but it was. Dusky skin, Mediterranean if I wasn’t totally daffy, dark eyes, black hair tied up in something between a normal scarf and a babushka. She also wore heavy kohl around her eyes, lipstick so bright it looked like she’d smooched a wet stop sign, and enough gaudy rings I was amazed she could bend her fingers.

She was also a lot younger’n she was tryin’ to look, and pretty behind that mask of showmanship; surprisingly so, the sorta pretty that sneaks up on you, takes a second look to notice but then won’t let you forget it.

“Come!” she called, once she’d seen her pitch’d snagged my attention. “Come and let Madame Tsura impart her visdom. You… you…”

Her lips kept movin’ but the only sound was a tiny squeak. Cheap brass clattered and gouged furrows into the wood of the kiosk as she clutched at it to keep from toppling over.

Me, my shoulders went tight as a snare drum. Oh, yeah, I knew that expression. I’d seen it before, most recently on Gina’s face a few months back. And I was startin’ to get downright irritable about how many people in this friggin’ town knew I was more’n just some average Joe.

Muttering under my breath, I made my way over.

The kiosk was even gaudier than she was, painted in bright colors and designs meant to look exotic without actually meaning anything about anything. It was only just starting to peel, too. The curtains were velveteen, a sorta pinkish-purple, I guess intended to enhance the idea that “Madame Tsura” could see into the fuchsia.

I’m so sorry I even said that. Too much time hangin’ around with Pete.

“All right, toots.” I leaned in, elbows on the counter where the cards or crystal ball would normally go. “Spin me a tale.”

“I don’t… I’ve never seen anything like…”

“Is this part of the act? Does it cost extra for punctuation or somethin’?”

“Who
are
you?
What
are you?”

“Careful, doll. Your accent’s slipping.”

Somehow, despite her shock and behind her stage makeup, she blushed.

“I’m not actually a gypsy,” she admitted.

“No kidding. The Roma would laugh at you.”

“Yeah. It’s embarrassing, really, but…” She shrugged.

“But it’s what the rubes expect.”

“Something like that.”

I studied her, lookin’ past the makeup, not that I had to. I could taste the tang of history around her, the weight of civilization.

“Greek?”

She didn’t seem surprised.

“Guessin’ your real name ain’t ‘Tsura,’ then. Madame or otherwise.”

No doubt about it now. She blushed redder than the rouge on her cheeks.

“I just go by Tsura these days.”

“Uh-uh. You’re the one who—”

“Hey! You! Yeah, you, pal!”

I sighed, pretty much for her benefit.

“Speaking of rubes… Excuse me a minute.”

Then I turned to face the gink who’d shouted at me. He was a burly fellow, round-faced and red-haired, with two equally round-faced and red-haired brats. Each of ’em clung to one of his hands with one of their own, stuffing wads of cotton candy into their traps with the other.

“Speed it up, would ya?” he demanded. “My kids wanna get their fortunes told already!”

I stared at him. Down at the kids. Back up at him. Finally back down at the boy, pushing a sliver of power through his blinkers and into his thoughts, just enough to give an extra nudge of motivation to what would probably’ve gotten him all riled up anyway.

And then I said, “Isn’t your sister’s cotton candy bigger than yours?”

When they finally faded from sight in the crowd, dad—his coat now well-smeared with sugary strands—was still strugglin’ to drag both of them along while also straight-arming ’em enough that neither could reach the other, and going hoarse trying to shout over the boy’s banshee-esque screeching, the girl’s wails, and the roar of the throng around ’em. Poor sap didn’t even have the effort to spare to glare back at me.

“Right. Where were we?”

Tsura, or whatever her name was, was doin’ the “jaw-gaping” thing again, so she probably wasn’t gonna be much help answering that question.

It was weird. She obviously knew I’d done something more’n just talked to the kid, but she just as obviously didn’t have a good grasp of what. Awareness, maybe even power, but not a lotta knowledge. The hell was I dealin’ with here?

And why’d it have to crop up
now
, when I had seven-hundred-and-four other things to worry about?

“Oh, yeah. You’re the one called me over here,” I reminded her. “Why’d you pick me?”

“It wasn’t… I just call to people in the crowd.”

“Nope. Ain’t that simple. Never is, with me. Why?”

“I just… felt I should. That’s usually how it wor— I mean, how I do it. Something about you called to me.”

“Great. Calling all around, then. Point is, I’m here ’cause you wanted me here. So your name ain’t too much to ask, is it?”

“Fedora,” she mumbled, apparently to her feet more’n to me.

“Okay.”

Oh,
now
she was lookin’ at me again.

“No jokes? No wise-ass comments?”

“It’s a perfectly good Greek name. Pretty traditional, ain’t it?”

“I could kiss you!
Nobody
here knows that! My parents named me soon after they passed through Ellis Island, long before they actually assimilated. They had no idea—”

“That it was a hat?”

“Well, yeah.”

This was takin’ too long. I kept smiling, but it felt stiff.

“So, look, Fedora—”

“I still prefer Tsura, though.”

Oh, for…
“Fine. Tsura. You need to spill. Why’d you pick me? How’d you know there’s somethin’ different about me?”

“I told you, though!” She waved her arms, catching the curtains with a dull
flump
. “I just get hunches. Almost whims.”

Well, I sure couldn’t cast the first stone where
that
sin was concerned.

“And I just… know things,” she continued. “That’s gonna have to do you. It’s a long story you wouldn’t believe anyway.”

Yeah, I wouldn’t be too sure of that, sister. She wasn’t wrong, though. It
was
gonna have to do me; I’d already spent way too much time, gotten off-track. I was gonna have to dig into this dame, no question, but I couldn’t afford to burn any more daylight on it
now
.

“Well, I appreciate the chin-wagging, Tsura. I don’t think my future’s any clearer’n it was when we started, but it’s certainly five minutes closer. You have a good afternoon, now.”

“Wait!”

I stopped but didn’t turn back. “Yeah?”

“What’s
your
name?” She sounded more intense, more intent, than I’d yet heard her.

And I gotta say, for a minute I wasn’t real inclined to tell her. I had no good reason for it, didn’t suddenly mistrust her or suspect her of anything. But I didn’t know who, what, she was, what she knew or how she knew it. And it felt… heavy. Like the question was way more important than it sounded, and once it was answered, there was no goin’ back, for good or ill.

But in the end, I couldn’t come up with a solid answer to “Why not?” And it ain’t as though my identity’s some big secret.

“Oberon. Mick Oberon.”

Then I
did
look back, my attention snagged by a sudden clatter. Soon as she’d gotten my name outta me, she’d ducked back inside, closing off the kiosk with a wooden shutter that had “Back Soon” scrawled across it in cheap paint.

That sorta reaction didn’t exactly make me feel any better about having answered her question.

Much as I wanted to know where she was dusting off to in such a rush, though, Tsura still wasn’t my priority. So, muttering to myself again and maybe not so worried anymore about seeming all casual and inconspicuous, I resumed my interrupted trudge toward the funhouse.

* * *

Wasn’t difficult to find the place, and it wouldn’t have been even without the half-dozen signs and a couple of bandage-wrapped dummies or scarecrows pointing the way. It was the biggest structure on the fairground that wasn’t either a tent or obviously a ride of some sort. They’d put up cheap wooden siding to make the thing appear to be an actual building, rather’n a collection of large tractor trailers pushed together. Then of course they’d tried to make it look Egyptian, with a few haphazard obelisks, a pyramidal top that didn’t remotely match the lower floors, and an even cheaper fake stone facing over that cheap wooden siding. The “hieroglyphics” were random scribbles and sketches, and the sphinx was a plaster lion with a crooked headdress and his snout sanded off.

On the square, I was tempted to turn around and walk away. If someone’d dug me up from my eternal rest to stick my carcass in a decrepit embarrassment of a joke like this, I’d
want
someone to come and steal me, and I don’t figure I’d much care who.

And yet, there was a whole line of people waiting to get in, snaking along the path, around and between some of the other kiosks. Kids whined over how long they’d been standin’ there; some of the supposed adults did, too. None of them cared how chintzy the place looked, or how goofy its attempts to even evoke, much less resemble, the real thing were. Nope. All they knew was that, inside, there were rides, and displays to spook ’em, and somewhere in the midst of it all a guy who’d been dead longer’n their religion had been alive.