Twisted Fates Page 8

  Natasha, 1920s cocktail dresses, read the label on one. Another said, India, 500 to 600 BCE.

  “That’s from when we picked up Chandra, remember?” Ash said, nodding at the box.

  Zora didn’t say anything. Ash glanced over in time to see her flick a hand across her cheek, blinking.

  He looked away. It seemed wrong to watch her cry.

  “I didn’t think it would feel like this,” Zora said. “To see her things . . .”

  “We don’t have to do this right now.”

  “It’s a masquerade. We need costumes.” Zora cleared her throat and stood up a little straighter. “Let’s take them all.”

  They dug the boxes out of the closet and then carried them into the kitchen, where Willis and Chandra were waiting.

  Chandra was blinking very quickly. Willis ran his fingers over Natasha’s faded handwriting but said nothing.

  Ash’s throat felt tight as he dug through the old clothes. The last time they’d played dress-up like this had been the morning of the earthquake. The Professor had laughed as they’d all tried on loose-fitting T-shirts and faded denim. Roman had pulled on a pair of bell-bottoms and asked Ash what he thought while, behind him, Zora had snorted into her fist. Natasha had joked that none of their hair was the right length to be in fashion.

  “Sideburns!” she’d shouted. “No one will believe you’re children of the sixties without sideburns.”

  The memory hurt to think about. Ash grabbed one of the Professor’s old suits without looking too closely at it and stalked from the room to get ready alone.

  It wasn’t a bad suit, as far as suits went. It was charcoal-colored wool, and closer-fitting than anything he’d ever worn. It looked like it was from the turn of the century, early 2000s, but he’d never been an expert on fashion, so he couldn’t tell for sure. The tie was black silk, and it stubbornly refused his attempts to twist it into something resembling a knot.

  Zora appeared behind him, head cocked to the side. “You look alarmingly like my father.”

  “I don’t think I ever saw your dad wear anything except for that tweed jacket with the elbow patches.”

  “He used to dress up to take my mother out.” Zora touched the sleeve of Ash’s jacket, her expression wistful. “Long time ago.”

  Ash pulled the tie apart, again, starting over. His eyes drifted down. Zora wore a floor-length sequined cocktail gown with a plunging neckline. Strands of pearls dripped from her neck.

  He whistled through his teeth.

  She was holding a mask attached to a long, thin stick in one hand, and she lifted it, hiding her face behind peacock feathers and rhinestones. “You like?”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to fix a motor in that getup.”

  “It’s possible that the ladies of the 1920s weren’t terribly interested in fixing motors.”

  Dorothy would have been twenty-three in 1920, Ash thought. He gritted his teeth, pulling the tie apart a little too violently.

  “Stop, you’re going to strangle yourself.” Zora came up behind him and deftly tied the tie with just a few twists of her hands.

  “How’d you learn to do that?” Ash asked.

  “Hmm . . . Mom taught me.” Zora dug out a top hat and a pointed black mask from the open box beside Ash’s feet and handed them over. “Here. We wouldn’t want anyone recognizing you.”

  Ash pulled the mask over his face, finding himself grateful when the black fabric hid his expression.

  What he wanted to say but couldn’t because Zora wouldn’t understand, was that he was afraid. He was afraid of meeting Quinn even though, at the same time, he wanted to meet her—needed to meet her.

  He was afraid of the next six days—afraid to die but equally afraid of standing still.

  He settled the hat on his head, jerked the knot of his tie to the center of his neck, and took a step back, considering himself.

  “Now you look perfect,” Zora said.

  Perfect wasn’t the word he would’ve used. The person who stared back from the mirror wasn’t like any version of himself he’d seen yet. He looked . . . grown up.

  He looked ready.

  People filled the docks outside the Fairmont, dressed in a wide array of thrifted ball gowns, mismatched suits, and handmade masks, chattering excitedly. There were more people than Ash had seen in one place since the earthquake. He felt his breath catch as his boat tore past, rounding the dock and slowing to a stop around the back of the hotel, where they parked beside a line of others. Zora had already pulled up on her Jet Ski, and she was leaning over to help Chandra climb off.

  “I should’ve made you take me in the boat,” Chandra muttered, ringing the water out of her skirts. She was dressed like a Renaissance woman, with a corset tightening her waist and a massive powder-white wig balanced on her head. She wobbled on ridiculously high heels.

  “Ack,” she muttered, pulling at her skirts. “How do people walk in these?”

  “You didn’t need to wear heels,” Zora said.

  “No, you didn’t need to wear heels,” Chandra said. “You’re nineteen feet tall. I’d like to dance with an actual human man, not his knees.”

  “I like dancing,” Willis sniffed. He wasn’t joining them inside but had opted to come along anyway and stay with the boat in case they needed a quick getaway.

  Ash couldn’t help but notice that he’d glanced longingly at the entrance to the Fairmont and was tapping his foot in time with the music drifting through the hotel’s windows.

  And now Willis’s eyes traveled up the sides of the Fairmont’s outer walls, and he frowned slightly. “I wonder how difficult those would be to climb.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ash said. He switched off the engine, but it took a moment for his ears to adjust to the sudden stillness left in the wake of the motor. Distantly, he heard voices talking and laughing.

  “I wouldn’t go to the party,” Willis murmured. “I’d just . . . poke around a little.”

  “You’d just dance around the halls like a crazy person,” Chandra pointed out. “And you can do that out here.”

  Willis made a face at her but didn’t press the point.

  Ash readjusted the long, pointed mask on his face. “Are we ready?”

  They were.

  A line of people snaked around the side of the hotel, waiting to get inside. Ash and his friends lowered their masks as they plunged into the crowd so they wouldn’t be recognized. Here, especially, Ash didn’t want to be challenged to defend the Professor’s stance on time travel.

  But no one seemed particularly interested in them. Everyone was murmuring excitedly, admiring each other’s masks and craning their necks to see inside the hotel. The line moved quickly and, soon, they were off the dock and through the Fairmont’s doors.

  As soon as Ash stepped inside the hotel, he saw light.

  It was real light, like they used to have before the flood. A massive chandelier dangled from the ceiling above him, lit up like Christmas morning, golden light reflected in the crystals that dripped from its brass arms. Sconces lined the walls, and ornate lamps stood beside armchairs and love seats. They didn’t flicker with candlelight. They buzzed with electricity.

  Ash wasn’t the only one staring. All around him people had stopped in place, mouths hanging open, eyes wide with wonder. There hadn’t been power in this part of town since 2073. To restore electricity to the old hotel now would have taken a miracle.

  Ash was still gaping when a tray of food whizzed past on a silver platter. He blinked, not quite trusting his eyes.

  The tray held fruit. Plump, pink strawberries and shiny apples and . . .

  “Bananas!” Chandra shrieked. She grabbed a piece of fruit off a passing tray and began peeling, as though she expected to see something else beneath the thick, yellow peel.

  Ash stared, his mouth watering. The closest things they had to fruit in New Seattle were the chalky vitamin bars sold in Center-sanctioned outposts. He hadn’t eaten a banana in ove
r two years, but he could still remember the sweet, almost creamy taste.

  “Quiet,” Zora said, dropping a hand on Chandra’s arm. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember?”

  “But, Zora, bananas.” Chandra took an enormous bite, her eyelids drooping in pleasure. “Oh my God . . .”

  “Let’s keep moving,” Zora said.

  The crowd was slowly making their way toward a wide doorway at the far end of the lobby, their chattering growing louder and more excited. Ash could feel the energy radiating off them as they inched across the room. It sent nerves prickling over his skin.

  Something was on the other side of that doorway, and he had a feeling it was a bit bigger than fruit and electricity.

  “What do you think is going on up there?” Zora asked.

  Ash shook his head. He had no idea.

  The lobby opened into a grand ballroom, with high ceilings and cocktail tables scattered about. There were more guests in ball gowns and masks, more waiters carrying silver trays. A full brass band had been set up near the front of the room. Ash caught the glint of light off their instruments from the corner of his eye. He heard a deep voice croon:

  “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear. And it shows them pearly white . . .”

  The hair on the back of his neck went up. He knew that song. It had been one of his father’s favorites. He craned his neck, trying to catch a better glimpse of those instruments.

  And then the crowd began to thin. Ash could make out the shapes of strange objects over the tops of people’s heads. The golden corner of a gilded frame. A propeller. A gleaming, black statue.

  Something cold hit the back of his throat. He stopped walking.

  It was as though time had folded over itself so that objects from all different periods, things that never should have been in the same room together, suddenly . . . were.

  There was a row of pinball machines set up against the far wall, lights flashing. Between them stood black onyx statuettes of Egyptian gods. A massive, white tusk hung from the ceiling.

  Mammoth? Ash thought, frowning. It looked too large to belong to an elephant. He glanced down and saw a man hunched over what looked like a small, leather box a few feet away, squinting. It appeared to be some sort of camera.

  Another silver tray drifted past them. This one was covered in snack cakes—Twinkies, Ho Hos . . . Little Debbie fudge brownies covered in nuts.

  “Those brownies,” Zora muttered, turning to follow the silver tray with her eyes.

  Ash swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly tight. The Professor used to love them, but they’d stopped making them after the flood.

  A bell clanged, quieting the crowd. Ash inched toward a gap in the people. Through it, he could see that the brass band had stopped playing. Someone else stood in front of the microphone. Ash felt a strange, cold anger move inside him.

  Roman wore a tuxedo. His dark hair was slicked back from his face, and he had a white mask perched over one eye and cheek.

  Ash’s hands curled into fists. Before he’d joined the Black Cirkus, Roman had been the Professor’s assistant and one of Ash’s best friends. And then he’d betrayed them all by stealing the Professor’s research and joining the Black Cirkus.

  “What’s happening?” Chandra murmured, pushing up beside Ash. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Quiet,” muttered Zora. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Roman raised both hands. He grinned, but his eyes stayed cool. “Good evening,” he said.

  Ash’s eyes passed over him and landed, instead, on the figure standing beside him on the stage. Quinn Fox.

  For the first time that Ash could remember, she wasn’t hidden beneath her dark cloak or mask. Instead, she wore a floaty blue gown with loose skirts. She had her head tilted toward the back of the room, tangled white hair cascading over her bare face.

  Look at me, Ash thought.

  “. . . want to thank you for coming,” Roman was saying. “I hope you’re enjoying the refreshments. We spent hours this morning going back in time to bring back all that fruit.”

  A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, like he’d told a joke. Ash shouldered through the people just ahead of him. Someone said something, but the voice barely registered. This moment didn’t feel real.

  Turn, damn you.

  Quinn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Now, Ash could see the corner of her scar. The line of it cut through her eyebrow and twisted over her eye before curling into the skin at the top of her lip.

  Roman continued, “. . . have brought back luxuries from the past, items most of you might only ever dream of.”

  Quinn’s lips curved. They were red, just like the rumors said they would be.

  Blood, Ash thought, and he felt something sour hit the back of his throat.

  Turn and look at me.

  Quinn lifted her head. She turned.

  For a moment, Ash didn’t understand. It wasn’t Quinn Fox standing onstage at all. It was, unbelievably, Dorothy. Her skin was paler than he remembered it being, and her hair had turned white. And, of course, there was that awful scar twisting down the side of her face. But it was her.

  Ash’s lip twitched and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. He felt an instant jolt of ecstasy—she was here; he’d found her, finally—but it was followed immediately by confusion. Why was she pretending to be Quinn Fox? He looked around, waiting for someone else to notice.

  Roman was talking again, and the crowd around Ash had started to cheer. Dorothy whispered something into Roman’s ear.

  Ash started shaking his head. Something was taking shape in the back of his mind. A memory.

  He was lying in bed after they’d crash-landed in New Seattle, and Zora was tucking a white braid behind her ear.

  I think it has something to do with the energy in the anil, she’d said . . . Strange, right?

  Ash blinked, absently reaching for his own lock of white hair, just below his ear. If someone had fallen through an anil, would all of her hair turn white?

  He took a sudden step backward as the realization grew larger and larger in his head.

  Dorothy wasn’t pretending to be Quinn Fox.

  Dorothy was Quinn Fox.

  His mind still felt sluggish, struggling to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. Dorothy couldn’t be Quinn Fox. Quinn Fox was supposed to kill him, and Dorothy would never kill him. None of this made any sense—

  “No.” He said this out loud, but the crowd was cheering again, and he doubted anyone heard him. He said again, “No.”

  He felt a hand on his arm. Someone was saying his name but Ash couldn’t form the words to answer. He didn’t think he could move.

  He wasn’t going to fall in love with Quinn Fox tonight.

  He was already in love with her.

  He’d been in love with her all along.

  11

  Dorothy

  Dorothy stood on a platform at one end of the massive ballroom, trying very hard not to look as uncomfortable as she felt. She wasn’t wearing her mask. She’d made the impulsive, last-minute decision to leave it behind.

  It was meant to be a statement, a way of facing the paradox at the heart of her identity head-on.

  Beautiful and hideous. Devil and saint. Monster and savior.

  Both. She was, and always would be, both.

  And, perhaps, there was some small part of her brain that thought Ash might be here tonight, that he might see her and realize that she’d never needed him after all. She’d become the most powerful person in this city all on her own.

  Petty though that might be, it had seemed brilliant when she’d thought of it. Now, though, she was beginning to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake. Her fingers twitched as she pictured the slight silver mask, lying on the dresser back in her hotel room, where it was little use to her.

  She lifted her chin, trying to regain her confidence. The overhead lights were bright, almost blinding
, and she felt rather than saw the crowd of people surrounding her. Watching her.

  All those eyes were making her fidgety. Even before she became Quinn Fox, Dorothy had never liked standing before a crowd. Con artists tended to avoid being the center of attention, as a rule. It was too easy to be spotted, for one person to point and say things like, “Hey, I think that’s the girl who stole my wallet,” which, generally, led to more people pointing and realizing and . . .

  All in all it was better to stay out of the spotlight. And yet here she was now, standing beneath a very literal spotlight. She wanted to pull her hood low over her face, but, of course, her hood wasn’t there. She felt exposed. Vulnerable.

  Smile, she told herself.

  Even she had to admit that the display they’d put together was impressive. It’d been her idea to decorate their masquerade with all the amazing things throughout history that no longer existed. All this time she and Roman had been looting the past so that they might dazzle the people of this city with what they’d managed to bring back.

  “It’s important to open a con with a show of strength,” she’d explained to Roman, in the beginning. “People naturally trust the rich and powerful. If we want to bring them over to our side, we’ll need to do something impressive.”

  “But this isn’t a con,” Roman had told her in return. “We really do want to fix the city.”

  It might not have been a con in the strictest sense of the word but, structurally, it was similar enough. First, they created a need, and then they made it clear that they were the only ones who could fill it.

  It had taken the better part of a year to plant the seeds. And, now, everything was finally ready.

  The sound of applause crashed over her, and then Roman was taking her hand, beaming. She snapped back to attention just in time to hear him finish the speech they’d prepared together.

  “Those of you who’ve lived here long enough will remember that Seattle was broken long before the mega-quake flooded the city. The 2073 earthquake had already wiped out our power, ruined our homes, and killed thousands. Some of us lost everything.”

  The crowd fell silent, their attention rapt.

  Roman went on. “I was just a child when the earthquake of 2073 destroyed my family’s home and killed my parents. Like many of you, I was forced to take refuge in an emergency pop-up tent on the grounds of the old university while the people in power promised me that they had things under control.”