Tempestuous

  Tempestuous

  KIM ASKEW AND AMY HELMES

  F+W Media, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Prologue: How Camest Thou in This Pickle?

  Chapter One: Hang Not on My Garments

  Chapter Two: O Brave New World

  Chapter Three: What a Spendthrift Is He of His Tongue

  Chapter Four: Good Wombs Have Borne Bad Sons

  Chapter Five: Now My Charms Are All O’erthrown

  Chapter Six: These Are Not Natural Events

  Chapter Seven: Come, Temperate Nymphs, and Help to Celebrate

  Chapter Eight: All Men Idle, All. And Women Too

  Chapter Nine: Make Yourself Ready … For the Mischance of the Hour

  Chapter Ten: They’ll Take Suggestion as a Cat Laps Milk

  Chapter Eleven: Now I Will Believe That There Are Unicorns

  Chapter Twelve: The Rarer Action Is in Virtue Than in Vengeance

  Chapter Thirteen: Unless I Be Reliev’d by Prayer

  Chapter Fourteen: A Thousand Twangling Instruments Will Hum about Mine Ears

  Chapter Fifteen: You Cram These Words Into Mine Ears Against the Stomach of My Sense

  Chapter Sixteen: Sweet Lord, You Play Me False

  Chapter Seventeen: Untie the Spell

  Chapter Eighteen: ’Tis a Villain, Sir, I Do Not Love to Look On

  Chapter Nineteen: Hark! Now I Hear Them—Ding-Dong, Bell

  Chapter Twenty: We Are Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  How Camest Thou in This Pickle?

  The handcuffs chafed my wrist, but that was nothing compared with the irritation I felt regarding the cretin to whom I was currently shackled.

  I finally broke my silence, not with a word but with an—“Ow!”

  “Jeez, Miranda, what now?”

  “Would you stop yanking your arm around for two seconds?”

  “I barely moved!”

  “It’s like you have Tourette’s or something. My god!”

  Caleb directed his green-grey eyes at me in a flash of annoyance.

  “Listen, princess—I’m not enjoying this any more than you are. Now let’s think.” He shifted his glance to the towering cardboard boxes surrounding us. “There’s got to be some way out of here.”

  “For the record, I don’t think the psycho who locked us in here conveniently left an escape route for us to find. By the way, if you call me princess again, I will scream.”

  “At least maybe someone would hear us in here and let us out. Anyway, I thought you’re the one who’s supposed to have all the answers. Can’t you wave your magic mascara wand and conjure us out of here?”

  “Very funny. Sorry, but being handcuffed to your ass for the last six hours has robbed me of my powers—not to mention my will to live. And don’t think I wouldn’t kill to have some mascara right about now. I’m sure I look like a hot mess.”

  “Quite the opposite, actually.” His unforeseen compliment threw me off guard. Flustered, I redoubled my efforts at cynicism, shifting awkwardly on the cold cement floor.

  “With my luck, there are rats lurking around here somewhere. Maybe they can chew through these handcuffs and liberate me. I still cannot believe we don’t have the key.”

  “We’re not having this conversation again.”

  I sighed and shifted uncomfortably on my butt bones.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Nothing. My back hurts.” Caleb abruptly leaned away from me and started rooting in the corner of the storeroom, as far as he could reach, with his one free hand. Just as I was about to blast him again for jerking me around, he hoisted up a clear plastic garbage bag filled with Styrofoam packing peanuts. This he proceeded to wedge behind my back like a makeshift beanbag chair.

  “Better?” He made a few adjustments as I nodded, unwilling to acknowledge his act of chivalry. I rested my hands in my lap, letting his right hand—manacled to my left—graze my outer thigh. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have tolerated such close physical proximity from a guy like Caleb, but in one short night, he and I had already been through an extraordinary saga of events. I leaned in to touch my shoulder to his as the reality of the situation sunk in.

  “Caleb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m scared.” Without looking at me, or saying a word, he rotated his wrist to clutch my hand in his. It was strong and guitar-calloused, and I knew that it was my one saving grace in this absurdly surreal night. At least we were in this together.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hang Not on My Garments

  Singing along to the latest overplayed indie rock tune pulsing from the stereo speakers, I pulled my car into a spot at the far end of the parking lot reserved for mall employees and then let it idle, dragging out my last few minutes in the cocooning warmth. The song ended and the deejay’s grating baritone voice kicked in:

  “That was the latest from a local group, the Drunk Butlers. We’re interrupting this music marathon to let you know about a winter storm advisory in effect for tonight, lasting until five A.M. tomorrow morning. Bundle up! It’s going to be a B-R-R-R-R-utal one tonight! Grab someone hot to keep you warm, and we’ll keep things real with more nonstop hits comin’ atcha.”

  Snowflakes the size of quarters drifted onto my windshield as I contemplated the slushy expanse between my vehicle and the mall’s main entrance. I could think of about a million other things I’d rather be doing on a Saturday night than working a five-hour shift serving lukewarm hot dogs to mall rats before driving home in possibly blizzard-like conditions. Unless I literally broke a leg—I wistfully imagined slipping on the ice and being rescued by a cute EMT—there was just no getting around it. I reached into the backseat and grabbed the ridiculously tall, absurdly colorful hat I was forced to wear as part of my Hot-Dog Kabob uniform. Sadly, my recent fall from grace and subsequent mandated employment had coincided with a lack of decent part-time jobs. I’d at least hoped to be spritzing perfume from behind a beauty counter at one of the department stores or playing hostess at the “high-end” chain restaurant Teasers, on the other end of the mall, but all the less-humiliating positions were already taken—so I was resigned to looking like an escaped circus lunatic in head-to-toe garish blue-and-yellow stripes. Have I mentioned the worst part? The fake plastic wiener that sits atop the hat, spinning on an axis? It’s basically a fashionista’s worst nightmare come to life, but try telling that to my dad … or the school superintendent who insisted I take a job as part of my “reparations.” I sighed deeply, turned off the engine, and wrapped my coat tightly around me.

  Stepping gingerly out of the car, I lowered the towering hat onto my head and, shivering, pinned it into place with bobby pins from my coat pocket. I usually waited until the very last second to don this monstrosity, but frankly (pun intended) it was just too damn cold to go without it. I looked to the right and left, hoping no one was observing me. As I glanced behind me, I was startled to see someone standing behind the car.

  A creepy-looking guy in a long black wool overcoat stood about six feet away, staring at me. I self-consciously realized that my hot-dog propeller must have been spinning in the wind, and I flushed, as if I’d just been caught with my pants at half-mast. Damn this hat! But still, it was seriously rude of him to stare. I glanced again, and he was still standing there—tall and broad-shouldered, with a mass of thick black hair. I couldn’t see his eyes, which were shrouded by a furry cap, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty. Snowflakes were collecting on his shoulders—or was that just colossal dandruff? His coat hung open, revealing faded black jeans and bulky black boots. An indistinguishable piece of black fabric hung limply from his fist. As if bored, he slowly turned on his heel and lumbered toward
the mall entrance. Whatever, loser!

  I clicked my key fob to lock the door and started off across the wintry expanse of the parking lot. The howling wind swirled around me. I shrieked and placed one hand on top of my hat, lest the propeller somehow succeed in lifting me up off the ground. Small eddies of snow spiraled at my feet on the blacktop, but I walked in baby steps, not wanting to fall on a slick patch. The regulation navy blue sneakers I was wearing offered zero traction. Shivering, I wrapped my down parka closer to my torso, but my legs were freezing, clad only in bright red tights under a polyester, royal-blue-and-yellow-striped jumper. The wind stung my face and brought tears to my eyes. At least, I think it was the wind causing me to well up. I thought about this time last month, when I might have come to the mall only to supplement my wardrobe or hang out with my friends, not to shovel greasy food across a counter at people who seriously needed to rethink their carb intake.

  Brian Bishop was to blame for all of this. Correction: Brian along with the girls formerly known as my best friends—Rachel, Britney, and Whitney. I scowled thinking about them and tried to avoid stepping in the big piles of gray, wet slush near the curb. My life had metaphorically turned to slush in recent weeks, and I held them personally responsible.

  Approaching the entrance, I recognized a faux-deputy uniform on the other side of the glass door. It belonged to Grady Pfeiffer, a member of the mall’s Keystone Cop security team. He looked unnerved as he glanced out at the snow, but when he saw me, he threw me a chipper nod and leaned on the door to open it for me.

  “Thanks,” I said, already exhausted and chilled to the bone.

  “Afternoon, Miranda. Cold enough for you, huh?” Stamping my feet to get a bit of feeling back in them, I wasn’t in the mood for his congenial chit-chat, but he failed to take notice. “How are things?”

  “My life is a complete cataclysm, but thanks for asking,” I grumbled as I walked past him into the mall.

  “Well, uh….” He was stymied by my dose of attitude, and since I wasn’t inclined to elaborate on my troubles I decided to issue a momentary gag order on my grousing. Grady hadn’t done anything to deserve it, after all.

  “Just kidding. I’m freezing my ass off, but other than that I’m fine. Really.”

  “Well, that’s good,” he said, joining me as I trudged on toward my destination. “Not for your, er, ass, I mean, but well … uhh … you know I’m always here to help….”

  “Thanks, Grady, I know.” I flashed him one of my famous smiles, guaranteed to melt butter. “Oh, actually—there is one teensy, tiny thing you can do for me….” I paused dramatically. I normally tried not to abuse my power on people as defenseless as Grady, but every once in a while I had to flex my muscles.

  “Anything! If it’s something the law and the sweet Lord above allows of course.” He blushed to the roots of his brown hair, which was close-cropped, military-style.

  “My request is innocent enough, I can assure you. It’s Ariel’s birthday, and I want to surprise her after work with an ice cream cake from Just Desserts. Think you can swing by and pick it up for me on your rounds a few minutes before nine? I can pay you later,” I added, feeling up to adjust my idiotic chapeau. The Hot-Dog Kabob refrigerator was crammed full of frozen wieners and some rubbery pasteurized processed cheese—I didn’t want a perfectly good mint-chip cake getting tainted by being stored in the same fetid freezer space.

  “Weeellllll,” Grady drew out the word as if it contained five syllables, shifted on his heels, then concluded the performance with a broad wink, “I’m really not supposed to do anything like that while I’m on duty. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” It wasn’t as if I was asking him to steal the cake for god’s sake, but Grady was a tad obsessed with “protocol.” We were both relatively new employees here, but unlike yours truly, he couldn’t take his job more seriously if he were guarding the perimeter at Fort Knox.

  I thanked the rent-a-cop and headed past Treasure Hunt Antiques & Collectibles and its display window full of creepy china dolls, rare coins, and mint-condition baseball cards. I poked my head in to look for Mike, the store clerk who usually worked this shift, but he wasn’t at his usual spot behind the counter. Next door was Hair Apparent, the mall’s only salon with its attached Glamour Puss portrait studio. No matter how many times I passed by, I never failed to snort with derision at the decade-old display photos meant to entice middle-aged moms to doll-up like models for their hubbies. The women were plastered with makeup and wrapped in feather boas like a bad Vegas act, wrinkly cleavage spilling out of low-cut sequined gowns.

  “Miranda! Miss Fabulous!” Alfredo burst from Hair Apparent and traipsed toward me for a hug and a swoopy air kiss on the cheek. Dressed to the nines as usual, he sported a purple tie and matching sweater vest. “Check out the cufflinks,” he said, holding out his arm for inspection. “They’re mermaids.” The boy did have exquisite, if colorful, taste.

  “Nice,” I said admiringly. “Hey, I’m throwing a surprise birthday party for Ariel after we close tonight. Can you come by?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, pushing his long, razored bangs out of his face. “I have a scorchingly hot date tonight.”

  “Stop by, pleeease, and you can have the challenge of a lifetime—giving Ariel a makeover,” I wheedled.

  “Well, you know I can’t pass up the chance to turn that duckling into a swan. I’ll swing by, but just for a few minutes. How old is the tiny thing, anyway? Twelve?”

  I made a face.

  “She’s turning seventeen and you know it. Oh, by the way, I was going to ask Mike, too, but it looks like he’s on his break. Can you let him know for me?”

  “Sure thing.” Alfredo sauntered back inside Hair Apparent and I continued my forced march down the wide hallway. The piped-in easy listening tunes were already giving me a killer headache, and I could hear the faint screeching of kids at the Cheeze Monkey pizzeria/arcade on the other side of the mall. Oh well, I thought optimistically, at least I’m not working again until Tuesday night. I mentally added up the amount I’d make tonight. Five hours of work equaled just about forty-two bucks—it would barely make a dent in what I was expected to pay back in restitution. Back when I’d had an allowance, fifty dollars had been chump change, approximately what I’d spend on a sushi lunch during a shopping spree with my friends. My former friends, that is.

  I wondered, a tad wistfully, what Rachel and the “Itneys” were doing today. Probably planning their annual winter ski trip to Aspen or breaking in matching pairs of whatever high-priced boots Vogue deemed “must-have” this season. They didn’t have a care in the world that their daddies’ AmEx cards couldn’t fix. As shallow as it sounded, sometimes I wished I could still say the same.

  CHAPTER TWO

  O Brave New World

  I hung a right at the corner by the Bead Bungalow and headed toward the escalator leading down to the food court. Like the Greek goddess Persephone, I was constantly forced to return to this underworld. A garishly painted plaster arch curved ominously around the escalators as though it were the very mouth of hell. The smell of grease wafting up triggered my gag reflex.

  “Hey, Miranda, wait up!” My coworker Ariel’s chirpy voice interrupted my fleeting sense of nausea as she half skipped up beside me, her matching uniform hat swaying level with my shoulder. I teasingly flicked her hot dog propeller and sent it spinning. A gung-ho grin spread across her perky face and revealed the astonishing shimmer of orthodontia, which caused her to speak with a breathy lisp. Ariel’s brown hair curled around her face in waves, and her cheeks were always rosy, as if she was in a constant state of having just finished a ten-yard dash. At a diminutive five-foot-two, she reminded me of a mischievous pixie. She was still wearing a pair of mittens, which were attached to her coat cuffs by Hello Kitty clips.

  “Don’t you love the snow? I love the snow!” she as good as squealed. “Snow angels and snowmen and snowball fights and snow forts and snow angels and….”

  “Sto
p! What are you, like, seven?” I remembered Alfredo’s earlier quip about her childish nature.

  “As a matter of fact, today’s my….”

  “Your birthday. I know. You don’t have to remind me.”

  “I just love that it’s snowing on my birthday. It’s like getting the whole world covered with the universe’s magic birthday frosting!” Oh boy. At times, Ariel’s naively chipper disposition grated on my nerves. Her boundless enthusiasm and my healthy sarcasm went together about as well as a helium balloon and a bucket of rusty nails. Then again, her happy-go-lucky attitude had singlehandedly propped up my defeatist one during the duration of my always-hellish shifts. And given that she wasn’t exactly up to speed on my recent academic offenses, it was actually somewhat refreshing to be in her nonjudgmental presence. Truth be told, the girl kind of idolized me, and I knew it.

  “Because it’s your birthday, and only because it’s your birthday, I won’t make you drain and clean out the fryer.”

  “But you hate doing that.” Ariel looked astonished. “Toxic sludge, you called it. You’d do that for me?”

  “I didn’t say I’m going to do it! We’ll just, you know … conveniently forget! Let Sunday’s crew deal with it.”

  Ariel’s eyes widened gleefully, as if we’d just hatched a plan to rob the Louvre.

  “You think we can?”

  “Of course!”

  “Wait….” she seemed confused. “Aren’t I your manager?”

  “Semantics.” Ariel had been working at Hot-Dog Kabob for about nine months, which technically made her my supervisor when we worked shifts together. But we both knew who was really running the show. C’est moi.

  As we hopped on the escalator and started our descent, I glanced over at Got Games and noticed a guy standing just outside the shop. Where had I seen him before? Oh yeah. The creep from the parking lot! I almost didn’t recognize him because he was now wearing a stupid black sorcerer’s cape with glittery crescent moons emblazoned upon it. Given his brooding stance, he could have been mistaken for a bar bouncer or a Secret Service agent. What a ridiculous getup, I scoffed, before it occurred to me that I had absolutely no room to talk. I pulled my back straighter and held my head up trying to project a sense of dignity while simultaneously avoiding eye contact. I could tell he was staring at me again.