Chapter 3

By the window in a cafe, Chris nursed a cup of coffee and watched the darkened teashop across the way. He had tried the door and found it locked. He would wait.

It was a shabby little shop, with dusty windows and peeling blue paint on the door. To Chris's eye, the sign JD had spoken of as colorful was faded, nondescript. He was surprised the kid even noticed it. This was surely the place, though, near the hotel as he described it. Tearoom Belarae.

Belarae.

Chris frowned. He didn't have time to spend on thoughts of the name or why it bothered him. A spark of light had appeared from inside, and all his attention went to it. He was out of the cafe and across the street in seconds, a strange sense of deja vu pulling him through the now unlocked door of the shop.

Coming out of the sunlight, Chris found the shop to be strangely cold inside. The dusty windows dimmed the room. The only light came from dripping yellow candles on the tables. The only sound was the scrape of his boots on the gritty floor. And his own suddenly harsh breath. He stopped, feeling ill, shivering as the cold enveloped him.

"It's a touch chilly in here." The veiled woman appeared, seeming to glide from behind a curtain. "I have hot tea." She set a laden tray on a table. "Or did you come for a love spell?"

The words, the accent, stirred something loathsome in him. Chris advanced to stand toe to toe with this – fortune teller – and spoke roughly. "I'm here to get what you stole from my friend. You told him to send me for it."

"I see." Clearly not intimidated, Madame Belarae turned away. "You must be the man who has lost at love." She indicated the table. "Please, sit."

Chris stood where he was, glaring. "I want JD's medallion."

"Then you must sit."

The anger welled again, instant, fierce, overpowering. Chris felt himself drowning in it, losing civility. He latched onto the back of a chair to keep from putting his hands on the woman. "I'm not here for any fortune telling," he ground out. "I don't believe in it. You can't tell me anything I don't already know."

Laughter sounded low in her throat. "When you sit down and let me take your hand, you'll know more than you can now remember."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It will." Madame Belarae sat down and tipped tea into a cup. From under the table she produced a bottle from which she added a liberal amount of whiskey.

Chris hesitated. His head hurt. His resistance was low. He often used alcohol to cope with emotions. He sat down and studied the woman. The veil she wore today was dark, obscuring. He could see nothing of her face, but sensed she was patient and could wait a long time. Chris was not patient. He would settle this now. But he wouldn't drink her tea. In a swift movement, he snatched up the bottle, took a long pull, and slammed it back down. He dragged a sleeve over his mouth before flinging his right arm out and letting his hand drop, palm up, flat on the tabletop.

Without comment, the woman lifted it. For a full minute, she ran fingers, cool and smooth, lightly over the lines of his hand and finally said, "You fought in the War."

Chris snorted. "Easy to guess."

"You returned bitter and disillusioned. You'd seen too much destruction, suffering of others, and suffered yourself, mentally."

"Who didn't?"

"When you were fourteen years old, you went with your friend Freddie to visit a fortune teller."

To anyone watching, the slight jerk would have been imperceptible, but Madame Belarae was holding Chris's hand; she tightened her grip before he even twitched. He stared, unblinking, eyes still trying to penetrate the veil. It was not possible this was the same woman. The fortune teller in his town had been old, ancient – she must have been a hundred. He spoke very low. "How did you know that?"

"None of you boys ever quite remembered the day we met, did you? In fact, not one of you ever spoke of it again."

"There was nothing to speak of. Freddie backed out, so we all left."

"Freddie backed out." The words hung in the air. Then, "Not you."

"No!" Chris sprang up, nearly upsetting the chair. He leaned forward, hands braced on the table. "I have no idea who you are, lady, or how you know my business, but you wanted me to come here, and I did. I'm here, and all I want is JD's necklace back."

"Let me help you remember more."

Chris scoffed. "You don't get it, do you?" He watched with scorn as, lightly, she touched a chain lying against her neck, letting her fingers play at it.

"That's it?" he said.

In the muted light, the gold of the fortune teller's rings glowed. In the deep opening of her blouse, her skin bore a sheen of sweat and seemed almost to shimmer. "Touch it and see."

"I won't play your games." Chris's hand shot out to grasp the chain. It was delicate; a quick jerk should snap it readily, and it did. Too late he realized JD's chain was much heavier, to hold the weighty medallion, and what he held, what dangled from this chain was –

An old penny. Pierced to wear as a charm.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"You should recognize it."

"Why? It's a penny! Like a thousand others!"

"Because, Chris, this is the payment you gave me at our first encounter, and I must tell you, this coin has become very dear to me." Madame Belarae reached for it. "Now, if you want JD's charm, you'll have to return mine."

Furious, Chris slapped the coin into her palm.

She held the penny before her face, gazing at it, all the while rubbing it between her fingers. "There's very little left of what you gave me," she said in a forlorn way. With a languid gesture, she let the penny fall. "Look." The fingertip she held toward Chris was dotted with tiny brown flecks, and at once Chris knew them for what they were – traces of the blood of his own youth.

Speechless, he stared. If he felt sick and cold before, it was nothing compared to this.