I look at Traven.
“What do you say, Father?”
“You were brought here for a reason,” he says. “Do as they say.”
I shake my head. “You people have a shitty way of treating guests. I’m never staying at this hotel again.” But I put out my left hand. The heat hits me at the edge of the bowl. I hesitate.
“Daja. If he does not put his hand into the flame, please shoot the father.”
I hear her pull back the hammer on the pistol.
I push my hand forward.
“Mr. Pitts,” says the Magistrate. “I believe that you are right-handed. Please use that hand.”
I look at him.
“Is Magistrate your real name? Why don’t we both put our hands in the fire?”
Daja grabs my shoulder.
I put out my right hand.
“At least I’m not going to die in Fresno.”
And in I shove my mitt into the tornado.
I’ve been burned before. I’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, beaten, chewed on, and called rude names. I want to say that because of my vast experience in getting my ass handed to me that the fire is no big deal. But that would be a lie. This fire is a big deal. A huge deal. A giant, flaming, goddamn, piece-of-shit, agonizing, I-want-to-rip-my-own-head-off deal.
I lower my head. Close my eyes and grit my teeth. I’m sweating like a hog tap-dancing in a sauna. I want to scream the paint off the fucking walls. But I don’t make a sound. If I’m going to end up Captain Hook at the end of this, at least they won’t get that little piece of satisfaction.
I open my eyes. The flames are more intense than before and have changed color from a deep orange to a pale blue.
I lock eyes with Mimir. She nods and waves her hand again. I start to pull my hand back, going slow because I’m not looking forward to the sight of my charred stump. The moment I move, the Magistrate leans across the table, grabs my wrist, and shoves my hand back into the flames.
I’m close enough that I could lunge across the table and shove his smug face into the tornado until his eyes burn out. But Daja has the gun on Traven. I really want to do something, but I don’t know what. The pain is really getting to me and I think about Candy and everything I’ve lost and left behind, and it’s all so goddamn sad it’s like a Roy Orbison song, so I do the only logical thing.
I start singing “In Dreams.”
The Magistrate’s face shifts to somewhere between pissed and puzzled. But I keep singing, staring into the fire. Mimir sees an opening and snatches the bowl off the table. She douses the fire and slams the bowl down hard. The Magistrate lets go of my
wrist and sits down, staring at Mimir. Fuck ’em both. I pull back my hand and look it over. Not a scorch mark or even a blister. The Magistrate’s oracle has some good hoodoo.
Mimir slaps the table. “If you wish to keep my services, do not interfere with my work again,” she shouts at the Magistrate.
He holds up his hands.
“My apologies, Mimir. It will not happen again,” he says. “But what did the flame tell you?”
The oracle gets up and dumps everything outside again. When she sits down she looks at me.
“He is who he says he is.”
I feel Daja shift her weight. I don’t have to look to know her pistol is now pointed at me.
“He is Mr. Pitts?”
“Yes.”