Free The Zodiac Collector by Laura Diamond Page A

such a bad liar.” Mary closes her textbook, hops off the bed, and crowds the mirror to check the collar of her white blouse and apply her grape-flavored lip gloss.
    The only thing similar about our outfits is our jeans—dark wash, skinny cut.
    â€œWell…you wouldn’t be all dressed up if you didn’t think Evan would be there!” I tease her back.
    â€œShut up.” She tosses a Robin Hood hat at me.
    I catch it mid-air and toss it on the desk.
    â€œWhat, you don’t want to wear it? Then you can say to William, ‘does this hat make my eyes look greener?’” She bats her eyelashes.
    â€œShut. Up.” I narrow my eyes at her, but smile.
    She laughs and slips her camera into her pocket. Always on the lookout for some random snapshot.
    I affix a pin in the shape of a Gemini symbol to my lapel. We wear them on opening day every year. I forget why we started doing it, but now it’s tradition and we have to.
    She puts on her own pin, then holds out her hand for a fistbump. “We cool?”
    Warmth seeps from deep in my soul, down my limbs, and kindles a smile. A truce. A connection. A reboot to factory settings. I extend my arm. “Always.”
    Our knuckles collide, and a clap of thunder almost snaps me out of my shoes.
    â€œHoly crap!” Mary dashes to the window. “Weird. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.”
    My stomach goes all wobbly. “Yeah. Weird. Come on, let’s go.”
    Before things start flying around the room again.
    * * *
    The park is close, so it only takes a few minutes for us to walk there.
    We present our merchant passes to the security guard. He examines them for a full minute before waving us through. His executioner’s mask hides his expression. His chainmail shirt does not hide his gut. I try to ignore the fact that he’s wearing pale gray tights. Yikes, what a sight!
    We follow the dirt trail marking the outer rim of the grounds toward the jousting arena. To our left is the forest. To our right is a “street” of merchant shoppes and tents. Some buildings are sided with dark-stained planks, and others are Tudor-style plaster and timber. The gypsy tents are thick canvas stretched over wooden stakes pounded into the ground. Layers of brightly colored fabrics line the fences nearby. The only stone structure is the one-story castle replica that provides a backdrop to the arena. Its central gate is arched and decorated with Dad’s wrought-iron designs.
    Mary veers left along a trail winding into the trees. Multi-colored streamers hang from several branches. A wooden sign nailed to a trunk reads “Enchanted Forest.” She reaches for her camera while her head tips back to the canopy above.
    â€œHey, where are you going?” I follow her. Though I’ve been in these woods dozens of times, it’s different during faire weeks. Like the collective imagination of the actors, patrons, and period players primes the trees, making them take on the role of a magick-laden dark forest. My skin erupts in goosebumps and my breath hitches. I reach for my inhaler and try to shrug off the heavy, oily sense that someone’s watching.
    â€œThis is neat,” she calls, already focused on whatever it is she wants to photograph.
    â€œWhat’s neat? We should be looking for William.” I scan the area, searching for anything remotely unique. Then again, through her eyes, something ordinary could become extraordinary in the correct lighting or at the best angle. Veined leaves, mushrooms growing out of bark, birds’ nests made of string—who knows what will trigger her inspiration? The sooner she finds it, the sooner we can get back to the main path. I squeeze the inhaler, almost to the point of cracking the plastic.
    She pauses. “Shoot, I must’ve scared it off.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    She twists to me, eyes wide. “I saw a fairy, but it flew away.”
    I