Page 29 of Tricks for Free

“Exactly,” I said, with as much of a smile as I could muster. It was dark in my room. The sun must have gone down while I was sleeping. That was a good thing. If it was dark, Fern couldn’t see how much my smile was shaking. “Now, speaking of being me . . .”

“I’m sorry!” Fern clapped a hand over her mouth before repeating, through her fingers, “I’m sorry. I was so scared for you I didn’t even think.”

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to be reassuring. “There was no one else here.”

Megan knew “Melody” wasn’t my real name. She’d made a few comments about how the next time I got to decide what to call myself, I should pick something that didn’t start with an “M,” to cut down on confusion in the mornings. Nothing pointed enough that I’d been forced to respond to it, and it wasn’t like I was worried about her spilling all my secrets—she had plenty of secrets of her own that needed keeping, and she was too good-natured to go in for mutually assured destruction—but her message had been clear. When I was ready to tell her who I really was, she was going to be ready to listen.

There’d been times when I was tempted. Her parents were back in Ohio. My brother had been in Ohio when he’d been working with a colony of Pliny’s gorgons, and while I wasn’t absolutely sure Megan was one of theirs, I had my suspicions. It would have been nice to have one more possible exit strategy on the table.

But Alex was still in touch with the gorgons in Ohio because Alex is still in touch with everyone he’s ever met. Alex still writes thank-you notes to his college professors, which he has to mail from a different state. If Megan found out I was Antimony Price, sister to Alexander Price, the chance that her parents would know where I was inside of the week, and my brother would know where I was inside of the month, was just too big of a risk for me to take.

Life was a constant game of risk assessments, and I didn’t enjoy it one little bit.

Fern wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I wish it wasn’t always you,” she said miserably. “This is the most time we’ve ever had together, and I don’t want it to be you.”

“I grew up knowing it was always going to be me,” I said, tone apologetic. “My hands will be fine in a day or two, and in the meantime, how about you make me a sandwich? I’m not sure I could hold a knife right now if I wanted to.”

Before Fern could answer, there was a clatter from the kitchen. We exchanged a look.

“Megan isn’t here,” she said, voice going suddenly low. “Her shift at the hospital doesn’t end for hours.”

“Okay,” I said. “Stay behind me.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. I could barely bend my fingers. I didn’t have a gun, and I wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger if I had. But Fern still nodded obediently and stepped behind me as I got out of the bed. Together, we made our way toward the bedroom door.

The apartment was dark. Fern hadn’t bothered to stop and turn the lights on during her charge toward my bedroom. That might work in our favor. My hands weren’t good for fine motor control, but they could still grip, and I paused to grab a chunky ceramic vase off the table in the hall. Fern had brought it home from a swap meet, saying she thought it was pretty, and the thing was a magnet for the weird translucent lizards that kept getting in. We dumped the things out on the porch at least twice a week.

Well, they could find a new lizard motel, because I was about to smash this one over somebody’s head. We inched our way down the hall toward the kitchen. We were almost there when I paused, sniffing the air.

“Is that chicken?”

“Good, you’re up,” said Mary, a beat before the kitchen lights clicked on. There was my old babysitter, white hair braided back to keep it away from her face, Lowry-branded attire traded for her more customary faded jeans and white peasant top. A red-and-white bucket that smelled strongly of fried chicken, clogged arteries, and good life choices rested on the counter in front of her, along with several smaller containers of side dishes—corn and gravy and potatoes.

Fern squeaked. Mary’s attention switched to her.

“Fern, right?” she said. “From the Slasher Chicks. I’ve seen you skate. You’re really good.” Mary’s outline wavered. A Slasher Chicks tank top replaced her peasant blouse, black and red and skin tight.

I sighed. “I hate it when you do that.”

“But you love me, and you’ve done something horrible to your hands, which you’re not going to let me tell your parents about, so I think we’re even,” said Mary.

Fern was gripping my left arm hard enough that it hurt. “She’s a ghost!” she exclaimed.

“And you’re adorable,” said Mary.

“Okay, let’s not,” I said. “Fern, this is Mary Dunlavy, my childhood babysitter and adopted aunt. She’s been keeping an eye on me so that my family doesn’t burn down the world trying to find me and bring me home. Mary, this is Fern Conway, my roommate and teammate and easily startled friend. Please don’t torture her for fun.”

“I do everything for fun,” said Mary. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Fern. You’ve been a good friend to Annie. She doesn’t have many of those.”

“How are you a ghost?” asked Fern.

“I died, I wasn’t ready to move on, I decided to haunt the living for a while, I wound up babysitting this one’s grandmother,” Mary hooked a thumb toward me, “and somehow that turned into haunting their family in specific. As long as there are Prices, I’m going to be around to change their diapers, wipe their noses, and try to keep them from getting swallowed by unspeakable creatures that they’ve brought home and named ‘Fluffy.’”

“But you had to die?” asked Fern anxiously.

Mary gave her a sad, sympathetic look. “It’s all right,” she said. “Everything dies. One day, you’ll die, and when you do, you’ll find someone like me waiting to give you your options and docent you all the way into whatever you decide to do next.”

“Right now, what I’d like to do is know why you’re in my kitchen,” I said.