The Fortune Teller's Daughter by Jordan Bell Page A

and
probably faster. They were the same after all.
    Twice they
stopped so Sera could get sick. He knelt next to her, captured her wet red
curls in his hands and held them away from her face while she retched. It would
be later, in the middle of the night when he watched her sleep restlessly in
his bed that he’d wonder about this moment. He’d wonder why he held her tightly
against his chest, trembling and tearlessly sobbing. He could not remember ever
holding someone’s hair back before, could not imagine tolerating the smells or
the sounds, both of which were maybe the worst smells and sounds in the world.
    Worse, he
couldn’t stop thinking that if he did not hold her hair back and comfort her as
she got sick on her knees in some back alley, no one else would, and that made
him so damn angry.
    Amazing that
this girl had shown up in his life only hours ago when it felt, oddly, that
she’d always been there, waiting patiently to be noticed. Hours ago when she
tripped security, he’d been ordered to distract her, waste her time, and then
escort her out the back gates after he’d figured out why she was there in the
first place. And now he was holding her shoulders as what sounded like a horde
of demons tried to escape hell by way of her mouth.
    Weirder
things had happened in his life, but not much weirder.
    It was
almost dawn when they reached the train yard. Yellow, like an old bruise,
colored the horizon beyond the surrounding copse of trees. It struck the top
tents. Home . He’d bedded Russian ballet dancers in Moscow, artists in
Paris, and princesses in the East. At the height of his legends he’d performed
for the royal family in London, the Tsar before the last fall, and deep within
heady, smoke-thick clubs of New York City in the 20s, high on hedonism and the
occult.
    None of
them, no matter their wonders and beauties, their riches and rare treasures,
made him ache the way Imaginaire could.
    Sera made it
only a few steps into the tall, dead grass. She swayed, her lovely green eyes
unfocused, one dilated, one not. She inhaled his name, Eli , like a
question. Like she couldn’t remember if she got it right or if he’d hear her or
if he’d care.
    Then she
went down.
    He caught
her before she hit the gravel. She was pale anyway, but her cheeks looked
bloodless, dark circles, like thumbprints, in the hollows of her eyes. She
shook her head as if to clear it, then snuck her arms around his neck.
    The Magician
pressed his face into her hair, scraped together the last ounce of strength he
had in him.
    “I’ve got
you,” he promised. “I’ve got you, Sera.”
     He didn’t
believe that any more than it was true. He’d proven that already when he let
Castel within a mile of her, when he’d lead Castel’s men to her doorstep. She
could have lived anonymously for the rest of her life, never crossing into his
brother’s knowledge, until he’d screwed that up.
    Eli left her
bags, lifted her into his arms, and carried her the rest of the way.
    Meer, an
effeminate scale-skinned member of the Strange troupe, stood when they
approached. That the least intimidating member of the crew had guard duty on
the front gate proved how little anyone took Castel’s threat seriously. 
    He was
within shouting distance before Meer even reached for his keys. Fool.
    “Open the
goddamn gate.”
    “Eli what…”
    The look he
gave the Strange silenced all remaining questions. Meer fumbled with the
elaborate lock mechanism; a thing deliberately designed that it could not be
picked by even the most skilled thief also meant that it could not be opened
quickly. Her body was heavy in his arms and her hold around his neck weakened
as she slipped in and out of a fog he was almost certain was caused by a
concussion.
    She moaned
softly and buried her face into his chest. He squeezed her against him.
    The lock
snapped open and Meer shoved the gate wide enough for Eli to maneuver Sera
inside.
    “Send
Georgianne to my tent. Wake Rook. Wake