FOUR

THE GYPSY

The door to the carousel was padlocked and decorated with yellow police tape, neither of which presented Aster with much of an obstacle. The alarm that went off was much more of a concern, so she tried to size the situation up quickly. She could feel the itch of magic on her skin.

One of the animals was missing—one of the horses, she thought. And beyond the empty space, in the shadows near the calliope, something glimmered, something familiar.

She bent and picked it up. It was an iridescent orb of silver about the size of a large marble.

“What’s that?” Veronica asked.

“It’s mine,” Aster said. “Remember when Errol and I came to get you from the vadras? He chased us, and I threw this at him. It slowed him down.”

“Some of that is a little fuzzy for me,” Veronica said. “After all, I had just gotten my skin back. It was all a little confusing.”

“I thought it was gone for good. And now here it is.”

“What a wild coincidence.”

“Or not a coincidence at all,” Aster said. “A message. Whoever took Errol wants us to follow them.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Veronica said. “Let’s go.”

“Right,” Aster said.

“But, um—how?” Veronica asked.

Aster turned back to the merry-go-round.

“I think we ride it,” she said.

“I remember this thing,” Veronica said. “Mom and Dad brought me here—well, I guess it was a long time ago. It’s hardly changed.”

“That’s the point,” Aster said. “Pick an animal. Quickly.”

She ran through the Whimsies she knew, trying to figure out which one might work, and settled on the most obvious.

“Geiyese,” she said, the Whimsy of Brief Life.

Nothing happened.

She heard sirens in the distance. Veronica was sitting up on one of the tigers, looking pleased and not at all concerned.

It struck her, then. It wasn’t life the carousel needed.

“Zemeryese,” she said. Suddenly all of the lights came on, and the music started blaring.

Not life, but remembrance.

She swung up onto the nearest beast, a giraffe, as the carousel picked up speed. Through the door, blue lights of police cars were flashing, but Aster knew it didn’t matter anymore.

Veronica woke to find herself riding a tiger. The last she remembered, the merry-go-round had been whirling wildly, and she had laughed, and then she had become very, very sleepy, closed her eyes for a moment . . .

Also, the tiger had been made of wood. Now it was not. Its fur was stiff and warm; powerful muscles pulled beneath the beast’s skin as it padded along, very quietly, apparently unaware it had an entrée on its back. The stars were out and a sliver of moon, so she could see they were on a dirt street with houses on either side.

And something big and dark was walking right beside her.

“Aster?” she asked.

“Is that her name?” someone said.

Now that she was looking at him directly, she could make him out, and even in the dark she knew him and his long, black hair. Up close, his eyes looked huge, and dark only as a starry night was dark. He had high, strong cheekbones and an enigmatic smile. He was no longer shirtless but dressed in an old-fashioned looking suit—black pants, jacket and vest, white shirt, no tie.

He, too, was riding a tiger.

“What have you done with Aster?” she asked.

“She’s well,” the boy said. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Shandor Mingo King Michaels,” the boy said.

“That’s a lot of name,” she said.

“I’m a lot of fellow,” he replied. “May I ask—again—what you go by?”

“Since you ask more politely this time,” she said. “I’m called Veronica. Veronica Hale. What’s on your mind, Mr. Michaels?”

“Why, you are, Miss Hale,” he said.

“Well, I am so flattered,” she said. “But I really would like to know where my friend is.”

“Soon enough,” Shandor said. “Look, we’re almost there.”

Veronica saw the street ended ahead, and a vast field opened up beyond, where what looked like a circus was camped, complete with wagons, tents, and bonfires.

Shandor’s tiger took the lead, and soon they approached a huge tent, red-and-black-striped. There the tigers settled on their haunches. Shandor dismounted and held out his hand for her.

She took it and was surprised by what felt like a little shock of cold.

Inside, the tent was rather opulent, if dimly lit by candles and a few lanterns. Shandor gestured for her to sit on some pillows. Once she was settled, he sat down cross-legged across from her.

“I would offer you refreshment,” he said, “but we both know you don’t need it.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I would love some lemonade.”

Shandor raised an eyebrow then shrugged.

“Fetch her some,” he said.

A girl she hadn’t seen stirred from some cushions nearby and padded off into the darkness.

“There’s no need to pretend,” Shandor said. “I know what you are.”

“I’m glad someone does,” she replied. “So what, pray tell, am I?”

“A goddess.”

“Oh.”

“Not what you were expecting?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve been called lots of things, but never that.”

What she had been called most often was nov, which Aster defined as the undead spirit of a dead virgin. Most everyone else who used the word said it like it made their mouths feel dirty. She sort of got that—after all, she had spent decades, dead-but-not-dead, luring men to watery deaths. Now, thanks to a half-dose of a magic potion, she was alive in the daylight, at least. She wasn’t even sure Aster had a name for something like that. If she did, she’d kept it to herself.

“You’ve never met anyone who could truly appreciate you,” Shandor said. “Not until now.”

“You’re making me all embarrassed,” Veronica said. “I fear I may become faint from all of this sugar talk. But maybe you can just skip along to the part where you tell me what you want.”

“To the point,” Shandor said. “I approve. So I will also be brief. I want you to become my queen.”