Chaos Choreography
Page 66
Poor boy really didn’t understand what he was getting into when he married me. “We sort of tend to attract attention,” I said, and focused back on the stall owner. “I’m her granddaughter. How do you know my grandma?”
“She gave her children to Laura Campbell to raise, remember? The routewitch community took notice.”
I felt a small knot of tension uncoil between my shoulders. My Great-Aunt Laura had been missing since before I was born—the history of the Price family in America is a patchwork of unexplained disappearances and unanswered questions—but she raised Dad and Aunt Jane when Grandma Alice couldn’t. And Great-Aunt Laura had been an ambulomancer, which made her part of the routewitch community. Routewitches were magic-users of a sort, pulling their strength and spells from the long sweep of the road. They gathered power through travel, and through artifacts that had been carried around the world, amassing power with every step. Flea markets were their cathedrals, truck stops their holy ground, and while they were as capable of being deceitful and untrustworthy as anyone else, we had enough of a history with them that this encounter had just become a lot less dangerous.
“Verity Price,” I said, sticking my hand out toward the woman. “I’m Kevin’s daughter.”
“The older one, if I’m not mistaken: I know one of Laura’s last predictions related to the younger.” The woman took my hand. Her palm was callused enough to feel almost scaled. “Bon. Siobhan, actually, but ‘Bon’ serves me well enough.” She looked to Dominic as she let go of my hand. “And you, young man. You’ve traveled a very long way, from the other side of the Atlantic, if I know my road-ways. British?”
“Italian by birth,” said Dominic. “British by much of my upbringing. My name is Dominic.”
“He follows your lead, doesn’t he?” Bon looked back to me. “I’ve never met a Covenant boy who’d give his name to a routewitch without a fight.”
“Ex-Covenant,” said Dominic. “They’d kill me as soon as look at me at this point.”
“Oh, you are your grandmother’s bloodline,” said Bon, looking amused. “What can I do for the latest generation of the Price family? I’m sure you didn’t wander into my flea market because you were in desperate need of a mounted boar’s head—although if you are, I’d be happy to work something out with you.”
“Do you do your own taxidermy?” I asked. My head was reeling. Meeting Bon wasn’t as big of a coincidence as it seemed. Our kind of people have always frequented flea markets and rubbish sales, since they’re a great place to trade the things we’re likely to need. I just hadn’t been braced for someone with quite this much of a connection to my family history.
“No, I buy it from a family of Sasquatch up near Vancouver,” said Bon. “It keeps me running the West Coast twice a year, and helps them clean out their garage. Everybody wins.”
“Nice,” I said. I looked around one more time, assessing the people around us, before I focused on Bon. “I’m in town because I’m appearing on a reality show—Dance or Die. There’s a situation at the studio. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Now we get down to it,” said Bon. “My cards told me not to skip the flea market this week. Come in.” She walked back to her tent, sweeping the curtain aside with a grandiose motion of her hands. The gauzy ribbons danced and fluttered in the breeze from her passing.
I followed her.
Dominic followed me.
The air was at least four degrees cooler inside Bon’s tent, which was lit by a pair of camp lanterns hanging from the roof. A carved wooden table occupied the center of the space, presumably for tarot readings. There were two chairs on one side of the table, and a single chair on the other side. All of the furnishings were plain, not buried in lace or doilies: this was a practical place in a very impractical location. The noise-dampening qualities of the tent were more surprising than anything else about it: once the gauzy curtain fell back into place behind us, I couldn’t hear a thing from outside.
My surprise must have shown, because Bon smiled and said, “I keep track of my space in other ways. If I need to deal with a customer, I’ll duck out.”
“What about shoplifters?” I asked.
Her smile turned feral. “I’ve been coming here for a long, long time. People know better than to steal from me. Now what is it you needed to know?”
“Have there been any rumors of a snake cult starting up in Hollywood?”
“She gave her children to Laura Campbell to raise, remember? The routewitch community took notice.”
I felt a small knot of tension uncoil between my shoulders. My Great-Aunt Laura had been missing since before I was born—the history of the Price family in America is a patchwork of unexplained disappearances and unanswered questions—but she raised Dad and Aunt Jane when Grandma Alice couldn’t. And Great-Aunt Laura had been an ambulomancer, which made her part of the routewitch community. Routewitches were magic-users of a sort, pulling their strength and spells from the long sweep of the road. They gathered power through travel, and through artifacts that had been carried around the world, amassing power with every step. Flea markets were their cathedrals, truck stops their holy ground, and while they were as capable of being deceitful and untrustworthy as anyone else, we had enough of a history with them that this encounter had just become a lot less dangerous.
“Verity Price,” I said, sticking my hand out toward the woman. “I’m Kevin’s daughter.”
“The older one, if I’m not mistaken: I know one of Laura’s last predictions related to the younger.” The woman took my hand. Her palm was callused enough to feel almost scaled. “Bon. Siobhan, actually, but ‘Bon’ serves me well enough.” She looked to Dominic as she let go of my hand. “And you, young man. You’ve traveled a very long way, from the other side of the Atlantic, if I know my road-ways. British?”
“Italian by birth,” said Dominic. “British by much of my upbringing. My name is Dominic.”
“He follows your lead, doesn’t he?” Bon looked back to me. “I’ve never met a Covenant boy who’d give his name to a routewitch without a fight.”
“Ex-Covenant,” said Dominic. “They’d kill me as soon as look at me at this point.”
“Oh, you are your grandmother’s bloodline,” said Bon, looking amused. “What can I do for the latest generation of the Price family? I’m sure you didn’t wander into my flea market because you were in desperate need of a mounted boar’s head—although if you are, I’d be happy to work something out with you.”
“Do you do your own taxidermy?” I asked. My head was reeling. Meeting Bon wasn’t as big of a coincidence as it seemed. Our kind of people have always frequented flea markets and rubbish sales, since they’re a great place to trade the things we’re likely to need. I just hadn’t been braced for someone with quite this much of a connection to my family history.
“No, I buy it from a family of Sasquatch up near Vancouver,” said Bon. “It keeps me running the West Coast twice a year, and helps them clean out their garage. Everybody wins.”
“Nice,” I said. I looked around one more time, assessing the people around us, before I focused on Bon. “I’m in town because I’m appearing on a reality show—Dance or Die. There’s a situation at the studio. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Now we get down to it,” said Bon. “My cards told me not to skip the flea market this week. Come in.” She walked back to her tent, sweeping the curtain aside with a grandiose motion of her hands. The gauzy ribbons danced and fluttered in the breeze from her passing.
I followed her.
Dominic followed me.
The air was at least four degrees cooler inside Bon’s tent, which was lit by a pair of camp lanterns hanging from the roof. A carved wooden table occupied the center of the space, presumably for tarot readings. There were two chairs on one side of the table, and a single chair on the other side. All of the furnishings were plain, not buried in lace or doilies: this was a practical place in a very impractical location. The noise-dampening qualities of the tent were more surprising than anything else about it: once the gauzy curtain fell back into place behind us, I couldn’t hear a thing from outside.
My surprise must have shown, because Bon smiled and said, “I keep track of my space in other ways. If I need to deal with a customer, I’ll duck out.”
“What about shoplifters?” I asked.
Her smile turned feral. “I’ve been coming here for a long, long time. People know better than to steal from me. Now what is it you needed to know?”
“Have there been any rumors of a snake cult starting up in Hollywood?”
