Crystal Caves (17 page)

“
I am not passé!
” he roars, and as he does, thunder booms overhead. Everyone—and I mean everyone—looks up. He sees that and grins. Lightning flashes across the sky, which is really eerie, since there are no clouds.

“See?” he says to me, a little softer now. “I’m not passé.”

My little brothers have gotten out of the car and are standing on the curb. They were staring at Daddy, but now all three of them are looking up.

I’ve seen Daddy be this petulant before. It doesn’t faze me.

“So,” I say, “you can’t handle the petition on your own. You can’t expedite it or anything?”

He frowns at me, apparently annoyed that I’m unimpressed. “No,” he says. “I can’t do that these days.”

“I want to talk to Megan,” I say.

“Megan can’t help you,” he says. “She has no magic.”

“She’s an
empath
, Daddy. She has magic.”

“Stupid magic,” he says. “
Girl
magic.”

That makes me mad. I almost say,
There are boy empaths, right?
but I don’t know, and there are gender-based magic rules that Daddy helped install thousands of years ago (men get their magic around 20; women have to wait until menopause. I want to say to Mr. Rosenfeld—
that’s
why you hear about hags, you jerkwad—and then I remember, he’s not the one who said anything about hags. That was Weird Girl Donato, at least with the negative comment).

“Empathy is still magic, Daddy. It bested you,” I say, using Kit’s word. “Bested.” Interesting word.

“
Megan can’t help you
,” he says, and people on the sidewalk look at him. New Yorkers usually ignore stuff unless it gets too out of hand. I guess Daddy’s getting out of hand.

The boys are watching him now, and Ron has moved away from the driver’s side of the car to the curb. I guess he thinks Daddy might do something to me.

“Empathy is not magic,” he says. “Not the kind you want that’ll bring all your powers back. Just come home. We’ll work on it.”

“You didn’t answer my other question,” I say. “Where will I live?”

“We’ll worry about that later, honey,” Daddy says. “I’m sure Athena will have an opinion—”

I make a disgusted noise. In other words, he doesn’t know.

“You’re just here to undercut Megan, aren’t you?” I ask. “To have some kind of control in the decisions with me and Tiffany and Brittany. You don’t like that someone else won.”

“No, honey, that’s not true,” Daddy says. “I remembered how difficult Monique is, and I figured you needed someone in your court.”

That phrase—that
American
phrase—brought tears to my eyes.

“But you’re not in my court,” I say. “You don’t even know what a court is.”

“It’s for kings and queens,” he says. “And you’re my little princess.”

Really? I’m appalled. He actually
said
that? To me? He barely knows my name.

“You want to help me?” I ask.

He nods.

“Do you really want to help me?” I ask again.

“Yes,” he says, sounding annoyed.

I take a deep breath and ask for something I never thought I’d ask for in a million years. “Then take me to the Fates.”

FOURTEEN

“OH, HONEY,” DADDY says, “the Fates can’t help you.”

He looks a little odd. I’ve never seen that particular expression on his bullish face. He looks…scared? My dad—the great God Zeus—is afraid of the Fates? What kind of punishment did the other members of the Powers That Be assign to my once all-powerful father?

People are still passing on the street. The boys have moved closer. Gordon’s really close. He clearly wants to hear this. Ron has a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

“Well,” I say to Daddy, “if you can’t get me to the Fates, you can’t help me either. So either get the hell out of here or take me to see them.”

He opens his mouth and almost immediately closes it. Then he looks at my hair and says, “Redheads. I’m plagued with redheads.”

He waves a hand, just like I had done in my bedroom the night before, and says in a booming voice, “To the Fates!”

He disappears in a big white cloud of drama, and I’m still at the table, with his empty plate, full coffee cup, and my half-eaten bagel. Of course, I can’t go to the Fates. They don’t want to see me. I stole their job.

Then a hand reaches out of that big fluffy cloud, grabs my arm, and yanks me upwards. For a half minute, we’re actually in a cloud. It’s not fluffy at all, but damp and misty and I can see everyone on the street staring at it.

And then thunder booms, and we tumble into that damn library where I spent the last I don’t know how long trapped with my sisters before we managed to talk to Megan.

The library doesn’t smell like old dog pee, pizza, and bubblegum anymore. It smells like rich wood and books. I kinda like the smell, even though I shouldn’t. And it almost feels like home. The huge shelves that go up several stories, the pretty wood floor (polished now), and the fog that appears as the shelves vanish into the distance.

That fog used to intimidate me because we were supposed to read all of those books, but it doesn’t now since I don’t have to read them anymore.

Me and Daddy are standing in front of a huge raised desk, which Tiffany always called “The Bench.” She hated the bench, said it made her feel old, and when we were near it, we sat on top of it.

The Fates stand behind it. They’re wearing white tunics that run all the way to the ground, like the Fates in the books everyone is making me read at school.

The Fate to my left is Atropos. She has dark hair and black eyes, and once upon a time (not that long ago) Tiffany stood in for her, probably because Tiff has dark hair too. Daddy is nothing if not superficial.

According to the books (and the magic), Atropos cuts the thread of life when everyone dies. I’ve never seen the thread of life, but Clotho, Brittany’s counterpart (whom I have trouble looking at even now), is the one who spins that thread. If you ask me to spin anything, I can’t do it. I never learned any of that female stuff.

In fact, when I first became an Interim Fate, I thought spinning meant (you know) going round in circles. Sigh. We really were too stupid to live.

Clotho is staring at me. She is as thin as Brit, just not quite as pretty. Clotho’s eyes are a bright blue, almost like they have power all their own.

My gaze hits hers for just a minute, then floats on to Lachesis. She’s really pretty. I wish I were as pretty as she is. Her red hair shines beautifully, and her green eyes are more emerald than forest.

It feels like she can see all the way into your soul, which she probably can, considering she’s the one who actually figures out the future. Or as the Fate instructions say, she’s the disposer of lots, giving everyone a destiny.

I’m still not sure what a destiny is or how to figure it out, but I had enough integrity when we were Interim Fates not to assign anyone anything before I understood what it was.

That used to make Daddy really mad because he said he would assign lots, and we wouldn’t let him.

“Zeus,” Atropos says with great disgust.

“Are you going to try to demote us again?” Clotho asks.

“Because we’re not going anywhere,” Lachesis says.

As they speak, I shudder. When we were Interim Fates, we had to speak in a prescribed order. It was part of the magic, and it drove me crazy. It was one of the reasons I decided we needed to leave the job.

“I didn’t decide to come here,” Daddy says. “My daughter did.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, and I jump.

“If you need me to get out of here, you just say so. If they pick on you, you call me by name. If they forbid you from doing that, I’ll be back here so fast—”

“Do not threaten us,” Atropos says, her voice echoy and powerful.

“Oh, I’m not threatening you.” Daddy’s sarcasm makes me wince. He really shouldn’t be sarcastic when he’s talking to the Fates. “I’m making sure my daughter remains safe.”

“He’s pretending he cares,” Clotho whispers to Atropos.

“I can hear you,” I say to Clotho.

“You don’t know how heartless your father is, child,” Lachesis says.

“Oh,” I say, looking at him. He’s got a mighty frown on his face. “I have a clue.”

“I know when I’m not appreciated,” he says and vanishes. This time there isn’t a cloud or a puff of smoke. One minute he’s here and the next he’s gone.

“You asked to see us, child?” Atropos asks.

“You know we can’t help you,” Clotho says.

“The Powers That Be have already determined your fate,” Lachesis says.

I glare at her. She used the word “fate” on purpose, I just know she did.

“Yes, I know what the Powers decided,” I say.

They all stare down at me, like I’m a bug. I flash on what it was like to be them, how annoying it is to have someone seek you out when you just want to do something else. Especially if you can’t do anything. Especially if the Powers are involved.

“Well?” Atropos asks.

I take a deep breath and bow my head. “I’m…I’m really sorry,” I say.

“Apologies mean nothing to us,” Clotho says.

“Shut up, Clotho,” Lachesis says. “An apology is nice.”

“But unnecessary,” Atropos says. “If that’s why you’re here—”

“It’s not.” I keep my head down. “I know you can’t do anything about the circumstance I’m in. Daddy says he can take me back to Mount Olympus, but I’d have to petition for my powers—”

“As if that will do you any good,” Clotho says.

“Petitioning can take hundreds of years to resolve,” Lachesis says, as if I don’t know that. Maybe that’s a fair assumption. There was so much that we Interims didn’t know.

“It’ll just ensure that you won’t have your powers for centuries instead of decades,” Atropos says.

“Oh, jeez,” I mutter, using Agatha’s favorite curse. “Of course. Daddy’s sooooo helpful.”

“Well, now that we’ve resolved that,” Clotho says, “we can send you back—”

“No!” I say quickly. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?” Lachesis sounds surprised.

I raise my head. All three Fates are staring at me in shock.

“Then why are you here?” Atropos asks.

I swallow hard. I don’t know how to do this. But I’m going to.

I take a deep breath.

“No one wants me around,” I say, trying not to sound self-pitying. “Mother tells me she didn’t even want to give birth to me—”

“Oh, that woman is foul,” Clotho says to the other Fates. “I told you we should—”

“Shut up, Clotho,” Lachesis says.

“Yes, let the child speak,” Atropos says.

I nod a thank-you at them.

“And,” I continue, trying hard not to get sucked into their verbal rhythm. It feels almost natural to me. “We all know what kind of person Daddy is.”

“If, indeed, you can call him a person,” Clotho says.

“Fair enough,” Lachesis adds. “But ‘god’ elevates him to a pinnacle that he doesn’t deserve—”

“
Stop
!” Atropos says. “Let. The child. Speak.”

I nod at her again. I decide I’m only going to talk to her.

“I don’t belong in either place, Mount Olympus or my mother’s home,” I say. “And they’ll both take care of me, but neither will let me be me.”

“You don’t even know who you are,” Clotho says. She does not sound sympathetic.

“I know,” I say. “And that worries me. I’m not sure if I should go home—”

“Where is that?” Lachesis asks.

“Mount Olympus,” I say. “Where my family is.”

“Like it or not, child,” Atropos says, “they’re all your family.”

I sigh. It’s almost like talking to three versions of Megan.

“I don’t know if I should go home,” I repeat, “or if I should stay in New York.”

“We can’t help you with that,” Clotho says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not asking for that,” I say. I turn toward Lachesis. “You know things. You can see the future. Megan said to me that we three girls were on our way to becoming evil, and if we get our magic too early, we will be because we don’t know our limits.”

Atropos shakes her head. Clotho looks down. But it’s Lachesis’s turn to speak. “She should not have said anything like that to you.”

“Is she wrong?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” Atropos says. “You won’t get your magic early.”

That makes my heart ache. I really want my magic. But I don’t say that.

“It does matter,” I say. “I don’t like to think of myself as evil.”

“You’re not,” Clotho says. “Yet.”

Lachesis glares at her.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“You have a bit of trouble with your temper,” Lachesis says.