Shifting Fate

by Melissa Wright

  He glanced over his shoulder at me, grinning. “It’s my last name.”

  Oh, I mouthed, and he jerked his head toward the door.

  When we entered the archive, I felt my intake of breath. Brendan had shown me photos, but the sheer volume of books could not have been accurately portrayed.

  “What’s wrong?” Logan asked from beside me.

  My hand fell from my chest. “How will I ever find what I need?”

  Logan looked disappointed. “I thought you were a prophet.”

  I stared at him, mouth agape, and he laughed. “There’s a catalog, Brianna.”

  Chapter Four

  Archives

  Catalog notwithstanding, this was going to take me much longer than a few days. The room was immaculate and organized, but shelves and shelves lined three of the four walls, not to mention the other door that I had a pretty good idea held encased documents that needed to be protected from the environment because of their age.

  I flipped through the index, not sure where to start. I guessed there were at least mentions of what the ancients were capable of, some reference to powers that I could use to help Emily. It would probably be fairly old, maybe around the time their gifts had started to fade. But I wasn’t even sure they’d realized it right away. If they had, did they have the knowledge to understand it? Even today, with science and doctors, Morgan had been unable to advance his talents on his own. He’d only been able to use what my mother had given him.

  I concentrated, trying to remember what she’d told me about them, but suddenly realized Logan was studying the way my eyes scrunched up. “You know,” I said, “this is going to take a while. You could go—”

  The expression on his face stopped me, a clear no.

  “Right. Okay then.” I stood, walking to the far wall to retrieve several of the old records of the dragon line, Aern’s line. And Morgan’s.

  When I returned to the table, I spread them out, hoping one would jump out at me. It did not. I slid a random one forward, opening the carved leather binding to slightly yellowed pages. It wasn’t written in the ancients’ language, so I knew I hadn’t gone far enough, but I read a few bits anyway, trying to get a feel for how they kept records. Before long, I was engrossed in the lengthy Council reports and goings on, forgetting about Logan, who’d taken to pacing the shelves at the far side of the room.

  I carefully turned the pages, reading of births, deaths, and transfers of power among the various leaders. But nothing detailed their gifts, or lack thereof. Evidently they’d still possessed a stronger sway, because they controlled their lands, the people, everything, but it wasn’t clear whether they’d held any other talents.

  Logan’s pacing had moved closer, and I glanced at the clock, surprised a full hour had already passed. I closed the book I’d been reading and moved to another, this one older than the first. It contained more detailed birth records, a family tree of sorts, and listed the bloodlines much further back than anything I’d seen. It must have been copied from some other record, probably a scroll or …

  I looked up, surprised to find Logan perched on the chair across from me, peering onto the page.

  “Is there … something I can help you with?” he asked.

  I laid the book flat, glancing again at the clock to find another half hour had passed. “I really don’t know what I’m looking for,” I said.

  He shifted, sliding a hip onto the table, and spun a tome with his finger to read the title. “But you think it’s in the records?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “Mostly I’m just hoping something will spark an idea.”

  He nodded, leaving me to my work. By the time I’d read through the handful of books in front of me, my back was getting stiff. I stretched, glancing around for Logan, and found him sitting in what appeared to be a far more comfortable chair by the side wall.

  “Nothing here,” I said, gesturing toward the volumes on the table. “I think I’m going to try some of the older ones.”

  As I returned them to their place, searching for new material, Logan stopped me. “Brianna, the section here is actually older than those.”

  I followed his direction, pleased when the first documents I pulled from the shelves were handwritten in the ancient text. Logan stood, reaching over my head for a sizeable black book with leather tied binding. He pointed at the markings on the first page. “This says ‘The Blood of the Dragon’ and these are the symbols for the specific time period.”

  I looked up at him. “You can read the ancient language?”

  He smiled. “Don’t you think it’s odder that you can?”

  I didn’t, but only because my mother had taught me. Trained me to hear the prophecies. “Do all of you know it?”

  “No. Aern, Morgan, most of the elders.” He hesitated, knowing the answer was leaving something out. His gaze went back to the shelf. “And I was shown because of my duty.”

  He pulled down another book, this one bulky and worn-edged.

  When it became apparent he was done explaining, I asked, “Your duty?”

  His eyes met mine, waiting. “To protect the heir to the dragon’s name.”

  Morgan.

  I winced, but instantly regretted it.

  Logan sighed, stacking the three books together on his arm. “I refused. Long before any of this. I would have stayed, had it been Aern …” He glanced at the symbol etched into leather. “But it wasn’t.”

  We were both silent after that, but Logan stayed beside me as I worked through the pages of archaic text. It was slow going, as I’d not studied the language since my mother’s death. Before that, I’d only seen it in her hand, in the modern curves of a ballpoint pen, not the scratches and arcs of quill and ink. I knew I had to find something, understood that if I didn’t find a way to change Emily, to fix those connections, then I couldn’t save any of us. And I knew something else, something the rest of them didn’t.

  Time was running out.

  The words blurred together and I reached up to massage my temples. Logan’s hand touched my forearm. “Brianna.”

  I looked up, blinking against the black swirls that marked my vision.

  “We should get going, you’ve got to meet Emily in a few hours, and you’ve worked through lunch.”

  I glanced at the clock. Almost four. My eyes fell back to the books.

  He reached over to slide them out of the way. “Tomorrow.”

  I followed Logan numbly back to the garage, grateful for the movement at least, and rubbed my eyes one last time for good measure before finally settling again into the soft gray leather if the car’s seat. It must have been a half hour later when I got an odd sense we were heading in the wrong direction.

  I pressed my feet into the floorboard, rising out of my relaxed position to see the road. I didn’t recognize it, but the sun was on the wrong side of the car. I glanced at Logan, still apparently at ease, and then through the window, focusing on the side mirror. There was a line of cars behind us, nothing out of the ordinary, but I couldn’t shake that strange feeling.

  Logan pulled into the left lane to pass a minivan, and took a hard right onto a two lane road. I looked at him again—no noticeable signs of distress—and back to the mirror. I’d about given up, decided I was being paranoid, when a black sedan turned too fast onto the road several blocks behind us. It disappeared behind a truck, but Logan’s foot pressed the accelerator, and we were whooshing past the marked speed limit signs. He glanced at my seatbelt before turning a sharp left.

  It wasn’t scary, not yet. The car was built for fast maneuvers, and Logan was calm and confident, unquestionably a good driver. But when a second car appeared, this time cutting across a street in front of us, the car jerked hard to avoid it, throwing me against the door. Logan pressed a tiny black gadget into his ear as we swerved left, and then right, dodging slower traffic before veering off onto another street. Logan was reciting numbers, picking them from the navigation screen on the dash, and spun mid-intersection, tak
ing us back a half block to a narrow alleyway.

  He barely slowed, spinning again to land us in southbound traffic on the other side. I pressed my hand to the door, finding and gripping a handle I was fairly certain was made for exactly that. I glanced in the mirror and saw a third car join the chase. Well, maybe not exactly that.

  A minute later, a Suburban cut in front of us and I cringed, but it kept speed and Logan stayed on its tail. When two more appeared behind us, I realized they were the Division cars. The cavalcade. We played a short game of cups, and then the front SUV veered into the turn lane and Logan sped past it. I looked back, nothing except a solid wall of black Chevrolet, and over at Logan.

  He reached up, slipped the device from his ear, and dropped it into the console. Two streets later, he slowed, looking over at me.

  “Okay?”

  I stared at him. I wasn’t sure.

  He pulled over. “Brianna?”

  I glanced out the back, no sign of any suspicious vehicles or black SUVs, and then again at Logan with a shaky laugh. “I guess Brendan knows where we are now.”

  His brow drew down, and then he realized my mistake. “Those aren’t Division men.”

  “They’re not?”

  He shook his head. “That’s my team.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll explain it later, I promise. Right now, we have to get you back to Division before anyone finds out you’re missing, or it won’t be easy to go back to the archives tomorrow.”

  He reached for the shifter, but I put a hand on his arm. “We’re going back? After this?”

  “You’re safe with me, Brianna.”

  I drew my fingers away. “But those men. Why would you risk it?”

  His gaze never faltered. “I was under the impression what you were doing was important.”

  I glanced at my hands. The ancient symbols marking the inside of my wrists. Back at Logan. “Aern told you to do what I asked.”

  “At all cost.”

  Chapter Five

  Connections

  When we got back to Southmont, Logan stood under the awning, looking mournfully at the car. I stopped beside him, looked at it, and then at him. “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed. “I liked that one.”

  The corner of his mouth turned down, and he tossed the keys to one of the waiting men. The guard shook his head, apparently sharing in the lament, and slid the keys into his pocket. “Stay safe,” he said to Logan, and Logan nodded in return.

  A few minutes later, we were in my room, and it was time for Emily to show up. Had she been early, we’d have had to explain our detour. As it was, I only had a moment to splash my face and straighten my appearance. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, running a brush through my hair, when the vision came.

  It was so brutal, so intense and graphic, that the stillness I usually tried to maintain was nowhere to be found. I doubled over, brush clattering against the tile floor, and felt cold, hard marble on my cheek as I fought not to retch.

  I heard the solid thump of wood, a cracking splinter, and Logan’s voice. “Brianna,” he gasped.

  I squeezed my eyes shut hard, felt the cool solidness of the counter beneath my palms, the pain from pressing so hard against it, and the fear in Logan’s grip. I opened my eyes again, raising my head to slowly peer into the mirror.

  My face. Not Emily’s.

  “Brianna,” Logan repeated.

  My eyes met his in the mirror, and I was suddenly trembling. I turned to him, wanting to explain, but my knees gave. He caught me, drawing me into his arms.

  It was worse this time. Worse than my mother. Worse than the others. It was Emily, face pale and wet with blood, eyes vacant, empty, hair matted against her bruised neck, shirt torn and bloody. It wasn’t like the others. It was too close. It was too real. Logan’s hands were on my back, and I tried to focus on that touch, that steady pressure, instead of the image of my sister. I buried my face into his chest, but it was no use. It was as if the picture were seared into my vision.

  It was too close. It was too soon.

  I felt another hand on my shoulder, a light, gentle touch, and I knew it was her. I took a deep breath before I turned to face her. My stomach was in knots and my muscles ached, but I had to do this.

  “It’s fine,” I said, unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

  Emily took my arm to pull me to her, but Logan seemed reluctant to let go. “It’s fine,” I said again. “I’m okay.”

  It was the first time I’d seen a trace of doubt in his face, but he stepped back to let Emily walk me from the room. I did my best to lock my knees and smooth my expression. “No,” I told Emily when she turned toward my bed. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Bri,” she started, but I pulled from her grip.

  “No.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, unwilling to understand the urgency and demand in my tone. Finally, she let out a tortured breath and nodded. “Fine, but you need rest.”

  “I will,” I said softly. “After.”

  Logan left us and we sat cross-legged on the floor opposite each other as I grasped her hands. Emily closed her eyes, breathing deep and steady, and tried to relax as I worked. I closed my eyes as well, still unable to banish the image of her hollow stare, and attempted to visualize the connections that threaded through her.

  I had researched the others, pored through every scrap of information I could find, every detail my mother had to offer, but I was no closer to understanding it. The Council had their own doctors, their own scientists. They had studied them for years, but even their understanding was limited.

  Human brainwaves were no more than electrical pulses, so it stood to reason that those of the Seven Lines were somehow thrusting those pulses into another’s system. By focusing on a person, or touching them, they could generate the pulse, and therefore the impulse, to act out a certain objective. It made sense, as a theory. Unfortunately, there was no proof to it. Beyond that, there were the other things. Their ability to heal faster and sleep less, as well as the talents they had since lost.

  And then there were the visions.

  I may have been lacking answers, but there was one thing I knew for certain. Morgan’s men had to be stopped. Aern had to be able to prevent war. And Emily was the center of it all.

  The problem was, I didn’t know if it was magic. I didn’t know if it was science. I didn’t know, and so I didn’t have a clue what to look for, no idea how to fix it.

  “Think about something else,” I said to Emily, eyes still closed.

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking about,” she said.

  I slid my grip up her arms to the base of her wrists. “I can feel your heart rate. I said it’s fine. I am fine.”

  Emily let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Think of …” I stopped, because there was nothing I could tell her to think of. Nothing that didn’t bring to mind the death of our mother, the time we’d spent running, the danger that was coming.

  My eyes came open to find Emily watching me, the same troubled expression I wore. “Is there something I can do?” she asked, after a minute of heavy silence.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “God, Emily, I don’t know.”

  She turned our hands, the tattoos at the base of my wrists staring back at us. They had saved her for a while. Some outcome my mother had seen, some premonition had warned her to hide us, to mark her second child as the chosen. To mislead the very men we were helping. “I can’t believe this is all for nothing, Brianna. I can’t believe we’ve come this far, only to fail.”

  “I don’t think I can do it,” I said. “You’re not the same as the others, there’s something … different about our makeup. With them, it’s only a matter of finding connections, fusing them in place. But with us, those fibers are different. I can’t see them. I can’t see what I should do.”

  “You will,” Emily said. “I know you will.”

  I stared into her sea green eye
s, past her attempt to hide worry and concern, and knew she was telling the truth. She believed I could do it. She believed I would save them.

  And if I didn’t, she would die.

  Logan came back within minutes of Emily leaving my room. I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep at all, but he looked as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. When he came closer, the fresh scent of soap confirmed it.

  “Your sister said you needed rest,” he offered.

  I nodded. “I’m just going to sit here for a while. I have some thinking to do.”

  He sat on the small table beside where I was curled into the couch. After a moment, I realized he was examining me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, pulling a pillow onto my lap. “They aren’t usually that bad.” A shiver ran through me at the thought, the recalled image, and he moved to reach for a woven throw. I wrapped it around me, not wanting to admit it wasn’t the cold.

  “Is there anything I should do … the next time?”

  “No,” I said. I thought of the busted door, his arms around me. “You did just fine.”

  It was the last thing I remembered until I woke hours later. I was stretched out on the couch, throw tucked tightly under my chin, and—I realized when I stretched—barefoot. I glanced at my boots, standing neatly on the floor at the end of the couch, and sat up, finding the knife that had been stowed there lying on the side table.

  Logan saw me looking at the blade, but made no comment.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Almost four.” At my yawn, he added, “You sleep like the dead.”

  I nodded. It happened every time I worked with the connections. The magic took something out of me. And it wasn’t just that, I was starving.

  “You need to eat,” Logan said, though I wasn’t sure if he could read the hunger in my expression or it was simply the knowledge that I’d worked through lunch and slept through dinner.

  “I can wait for breakfast.”

  He frowned.

  “I’m not going to wake someone up to cook for me.”