Fortune

“You better watch it,” she said, “or I’ll get my mom to put a curse on you.”

Rick snorted with amusement, but only after a moment’s telling hesitation. Showmen were notoriously superstitious. They believed in bad luck and gris-gris and witches. And the truth was, her mother’s ability scared them silly. They thought that, somehow, if Madame Claire could see their future—which she could—she could also change it. For the worse.

Because of that, they kept as far away from Madame Claire as possible.

Skye grinned. Silly, superstitious delinquents. It didn’t work that way, of course. But if they wanted to believe it did, that suited Skye just fine. Her mother wasn’t interested in being one of them, and Skye liked being able to yank their chains every once in a while. Sometimes a girl needed a little threat to hang over a bully’s head; it was a way to even the odds a bit.

Skye knew using the other trouper’s fear of her mother’s ability that way didn’t make her too popular, but that was tough nuts. She was used to not being liked, to not having friends. Besides, when she and her mom left, she wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. Goodbyes were a real bummer.

But detest Rick or not, she was part of the troupe. And he needed her help.

Skye took one last look at the direction the mystery kid had disappeared, sighed and turned back to Rick. “Go already. But hurry back. I’ve got things to do.”

Chapter Five

Chance had taken one last glance behind him—the woman at the concession stand appeared to have forgotten all about him—and tossed the remainder of his perfectly edible hot dog in the trash.

This had to work. Abner Marvel had to give him a job.

He had no contingency plan.

Chance wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his newly resurrected blue jeans. He had dug them, a T-shirt and the remainder of his pre-Lancaster County things out of storage, dressed, packed, then written his aunt and her husband a note. Then he had headed out into the night to hitch a ride.

From there he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival’s owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.

Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.

If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.

Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.

Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.

Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.

A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt’s, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn’t even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he’d been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.

Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.

Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival’s owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.

Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”

“The next show’s not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”

“I’m not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I’m looking for the boss.”

“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man’s face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone’s bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.

“That’s right. You know where I might find him?”

The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.

“You already did,” he said.

“You’re Abner Marvel?”

At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man’s mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”

“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.

“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”

“I’m looking for a job.”

“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”

“Any kind.”

“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”

“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.

“Funny, I’d have guessed you to be younger than that.”

Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a hard worker.”

“Your parents know you’re here? They know you’re wantin’ to run off and join the carnival?”

“I don’t have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I’ve been living with my aunt.”

The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’m eighteen.”

“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”

“So do I. I’ve been around.”

“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.

“My aunt is. I’m not.”

“And I take it you don’t have any carnival experience?”

“No, sir.”

The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I’ve seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It’s in my blood. But if it wasn’t, I’d be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

He looked Chance in the eye. “There’re lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of ‘em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don’t need any help.”

“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”

“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”

He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed.

Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.

“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I’ll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”

Abner Marvel’s ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I’ve got nothin’. No jobs. I’m sorry.”

“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It’s good to have an extra person, just in case.”

“Can’t afford a ‘just in case.’” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man’s face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God’s country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that’ll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin’ on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin’ that either, at least not that I’ve seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”

He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I’ve got things to do.”

This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival’s owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.

Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.

A miracle.

Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn’t going to be like his mother and spend his life wishing for the things he didn’t have, the opportunities that had never come his way.

Sometimes in life, you had to make your own opportunities. Your own miracles.

His mother hadn’t understood that. He did.

Chance turned and headed back out to the midway. He wandered the wide aisle, aware of each minute ticking past. Tonight was the carnival’s last night in Lancaster County. Tomorrow would be too late.

From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.

“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he’d dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won’t have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, ‘cause that’s the only taste you’re going to get.”

The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like

one

 joint is really going to impress her.”

Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.

Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.

Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn’t…

This might be his only shot. He had to take it.

He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl’s attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.

But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.

They weren’t long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.

“Motherfuckin’ asshole! Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”

“I don’t have your stupid little prize. I’m the one who doesn’t need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”

With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth’s shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.

“That’s enough!”

The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.

“Get up! Both of you.”

The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One’s nose was bloodied, the other’s eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing with that bat.

A trick he had probably learned from his father.

“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”

“I didn’t take nothin’! He’s just jealous ‘cause Marlene—”

“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I’ve taken all I’m going to from you two, you’re out of here!”

The two rowdies’ expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn’t budge. “You’re out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”

Chance didn’t even wait until the two ousted boys skulked off, to jump forward. “Mr. Marvel! Wait.”

Abner Marvel stopped and turned, his face fixed into a fierce scowl.

“I couldn’t help hearing what happened,” Chance said quickly, all too aware of Marvel’s beefy fist curled around the baseball bat. “It looks like you might need…I mean, it looks like a position has suddenly…opened up.”

“That it does.” Marvel narrowed his eyes. “You have a point?”

“Yeah.” Chance held the man’s intent gaze, never wavering or breaking eye contact. “I’m your man.”

Marvel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off one end, spit it out, then lit up. Through a cloud of noxious smoke, he studied Chance.

“In the carnival,” the showman said after several moments, “you’re either with-it or you’re a towner. A rube. A sucker. There’s a term in the trade, called the First of May. You have any idea what it means?”

Chance scrambled to come up with a reasonable guess. “The beginning of the carnival season?”

“It means rookie. Outsider. Rank beginner. It means you have to prove yourself before you’re accepted. You won’t be with-it until you do. Initiation can be…rough.”

Chance squared his shoulders. “I’ve had to prove myself before. I can handle it.”

“And I won’t be able to protect you,” Abner continued, puffing on the cigar. “These boys will eat you alive.”

“You can’t scare me off.” Chance took a step toward him. “I need this job. I need it bad. If you give it to me, I’ll work my ass off for you. I’ll do the job of both those losers. You’ll see.”

Marvel laughed, the sound deep and rusty. “I’ll be damned. You’re one cocky piece of work, aren’t you?” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “The job of two, you say? I’d like to see that, I really would.”

“Give me the job and you’ll see it.”

“If you get caught drinking, you’re out. If I catch you fighting or fucking with paying customers, you’re out. Leave the local jailbait alone. No second chances.”

“I won’t need one.”

“You have to bunk in a trailer with five other roustabouts. If you can’t hack it, it’s not my problem, you’re out.”

“I can hack it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chance McCord.”

“I’ll tell you this, Chance McCord, you’ve got guts.” Marvel gave him one final, measured glance, then a smile touched his mouth. “What’re you standing around for? There’s work to be done. You can start by cleaning up this mess.”

Chapter Six

Skye sat cross-legged on her mother’s bed, her sketch pad laid over her knees. She moved her charcoal pencil across the page, enjoying the feel of the pencil in her hand and the soft, scratchy sound it made as the tip rubbed against the paper.

She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn’t afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.

Usually Skye took the couch. But not always. Sometimes they shared the bed, other times her mother offered to sleep on the couch.

Skye missed having her own space. Not that she was accustomed to a palace, or anything. But they had never lived in quarters this tight before; they had never had to travel this light before. Storage inside the camper was limited to two narrow wardrobes, one built-in chest of drawers and several cubbyhole-type compartments.

This summer, her big box of art supplies was a luxury.

Skye cocked her head, studying the image taking shape before her—a monarch butterfly. Skye moved the pencil again, this time automatically, quickly and with certainty, as if her hand possessed a will of its own. The image grew, changed. Within moments she had transformed one of the butterfly’s wings into an ornate, curvy letter.

The letter “M.”

Skye stared at the image, the letter, heart thundering against the wall of her chest, beating frantically, like the wings of a butterfly against the sides of a glass jar. Skye recognized the “M”; she had drawn it hundreds of times before, the first time three years ago. She recalled the day vividly. She had been in art class; her teacher had commented on it. Skye remembered feeling breathless and sort of stunned. She remembered staring at the “M” and thinking it both beautiful and ugly, remembered feeling both drawn and repelled.

The way she felt now.

Skye sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She had been drawing the image ever since, sometimes repeating it over and over, until she had filled the entire page of her sketch pad.

Why? What did it mean?

“Skye? Honey…are you all right?”

At her mother’s voice and the rap on the bedroom door, Skye looked up, startled. “Mom?”

Her mother opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. It’s almost time for lunch.”

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Skye returned her gaze to the image. “I’m almost done. I’ll be there in a second.”

Instead of returning to the kitchen, her mother crossed to stand beside her. She gazed silently down at the tablet, at the ornate butterfly, and Skye stiffened. She didn’t have to glance up to know that her mother’s expression was frozen with fear, stiff with apprehension.

It always was when Skye drew the “M.”

Skye swallowed hard, fighting the fluttery, panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut, fighting the beginnings of the headache pressing at her temple.

Skye moved her pencil over the page, starting on the other wing. Within moments, the drawing was complete.

Still her mother stood staring; still she said nothing.

Her mother’s silence gnawed at her. It hurt. Skye had asked her about the “M” about a million times. Her mother always answered the same way—she said she had no idea why Skye drew it.

Skye brought her left hand to her temple.

If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?

Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.

“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”

“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”

“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”

“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.

Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.

But how?

She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding.

Why couldn’t she remember? Why?

“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”

But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”

Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”

Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”

But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.

Why?

Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.

“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”

A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”

“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”

Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.

“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.

“A little. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”

Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”

“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”

“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother’s hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won’t you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.”

For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye’s eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”

“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother’s fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but…how? What happened?”

“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I’ve told you that before, too.”

“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother’s hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”

For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”

Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”

Why wouldn’t her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…

“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…

murdered

?”

Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye’s heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”

“Don’t be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”

“That’s why we’re always moving, isn’t it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we’re on the run from the mob!”

“That’s enough, Skye!” her mother’s voice rose. “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”

Tears flooded Skye’s eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all,

I need my rest

.”

Claire sighed. “Your father wasn’t a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I’ll only say that I’m glad they’re out of our lives forever. That’s why I don’t like to talk about them.”

Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn’t…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”

“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye’s face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won’t even tell me where I was born?”

“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye’s. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you’re older, I’ll tell you more.”

“Promise?”

She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup’s probably boiled over by now. I’d better check it.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”

Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother’s eyes.

“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn’t the life I wanted for you. It’s not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have—”

Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn’t have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”

Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I bugged you about…you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”

Skye tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”

Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It’s only the past. And the past can’t hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”

Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d—”

“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You’re my whole life. Didn’t you know that?”

Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.

Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing:

Would you fight the monsters for me?

 And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.

She tipped her face up to her mother’s and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”

“The bigges