He stared down at her instead of through the crack to the rest of her loft. “Why are you so defensive?”
“Because. You're just like...” She flailed a hand. The man was exasperating. “You don't know when to stop.”
“Whatever. So sue me for being worried you'd do something stupid.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He propped his hands on his hips.
“You can see I'm fine. Your job's done here.” She stepped back to close the door.
Emerson caught it and brushed brusquely past her. “What is all this? I'm not leaving until you go up to the farmhouse.”
“Emerson! I didn't invite you in!” Gaping, she stared after him, then caught his elbow before he could really investigate.
He shrugged her off and stalked over to a table, helping himself to one of the paper clipped stories on the top. “You a writer?”
Farris' stomach dropped to her toes. Horrified, she watched his big hands on her fragile papers, watched him start to scan her neat handwriting. She hadn't let anyone read her stories. Not yet. Not until—well she didn't know when the time would be right to publish them, but she wasn't ready to share them with anyone else.
“You're just one of those bullies, huh? The kind in school that likes to harass weaker people than him. I wouldn't have pegged you for it, but that's what you are. A bully.”
He stopped reading. Snapped a look at her. “Is that what you think?”
“That's what I know. Otherwise, you wouldn't be doing that.”
An awkward pause hovered between them.
He set the story back on the pile, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looked around her loft. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he met her eyes again.
“What a shame. I kind of thought your place was charming and that I helped you earlier. I'll see myself out.” He stalked over, brushed by her, and opened the door.
Squeezed between the open door and the wall, Farris experienced a sudden pang of guilt. Why was she so defensive? Emerson had saved her butt at the diner, saved the garage and the loft, and saved her precious stories.
He'd probably saved her life.
“Emerson, wait.” She rubbed her forehead. Men were so confusing. None more so than this one.
He paused at the top step, staring out over the dark acres of Henson farmland.
“What is it, Farris?” he asked.
“I...I didn't mean to be...”
“Abrasive?”
“Yeah, abrasive.”
“No harm done. You must have had some rough times growing up to make you like this, though.”
She frowned. “Like what?”
He twisted his head around to make eye contact. “You keep people at a distance. Hold them at arms length. And you like it. You don't want anyone to get close—though I can't fathom why.”
“I have my reasons.” Farris was stunned Emerson had such insight into her psyche after so short an acquaintance.
“I guess,” he replied, nonchalant.
“You're a little on the blunt, pushy side yourself. You don't see that, though.”
“No, I know how I am.” He smiled.
She could see the gleam of his teeth in the darkness.
“Then you have to realize some people might not like it.”
“Are you saying you don't like me?” He cocked an eyebrow.
Farris shocked herself by laughing. He caught her off guard. “You're all right, I suppose.”
His smile stretched wider. He'd taken her comment for the offhand tease it was. It relieved her. In turn, she decided to be honest with him.
“I just have issues with people other than Bee in my house.” She propped one arm up along the edge of the door.
“Ya think?”
She laughed. It was hard to stay irritated at him when he grinned like that. “Just so you didn't think it was you.”
“C'mon. I'll walk you over to the farmhouse. I still don't think you should stay here tonight.” He gestured with his head in a 'let's go' manner.
Farris debated it. There really wasn't any reason she couldn't stay here. The bedroom was at the back of the loft, untouched by the fire.
“Don't even tell me you're considering staying here.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“My bedroom's at the back--”
“Farris...”
“Emerson. There you go being pushy again.”
“For your own good. Let's go.” He stared at her, unrelenting.
Farris bristled. She wasn't used to anyone ordering her around. After stuffing her feet into her shoes, she stepped out onto the landing just to appease him. With a quiet click, she closed the door. The key was back on the desk but she wasn't worried anyone would break into the loft. Most people didn't even know it existed.
She thought she heard Emerson mutter something about stubborn women, and just when she was about to interrogate him about it, she heard a sharp crack beneath their feet.
. . .
Emerson reacted much faster than she could even think. He reached back and plucked her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
Screeching in surprise, she found herself slung over his shoulder. Another crack in the wood sent a jolt through the stairs that she felt even upside down. Emerson leaped three steps and propelled them forward as the charred wood underneath splintered and crashed down, bringing the staircase with it.
Emerson landed on his feet, stumbled forward, then caught his balance.
Farris hung onto the back of his coat for all she was worth, dying of embarrassment that he'd gone all caveman on her.
“The staircase is gone!”
“I told you it wasn't safe.” Emerson turned around with her still over his shoulder. He carried her like a sack of potatoes.
“I got it, I got it. You can put me down any time.” Distressed, Farris tugged on the tails of his coat. His shoulder dug into her ribs. Even though her hip throbbed, she refused to complain.
Instead of putting her down, he marched across the muddy ground for Henson's farmhouse.
“I'm gonna make sure you get inside. And stay there.”
She hung her head. It was impossible to argue with him. He was the most stubborn person she'd ever met.
The Henson farmhouse was a classic study of country living. Two story, it boasted a wrap around porch, a balcony in the front and the back, and shutters on each side of the windows. Painted white, it all but glowed in the darkness.
Emerson trudged up the steps, his boots thudding on the wood.
“Where's the key?” he asked.
“Set me down and I'll get it.” Farris tried to arch upwards so she could slide off his shoulder.
Emerson wasn't having it. He shifted his weight to throw hers off balance. Like she weighed nothing, he crouched down to start searching under the door mat and a few pots on either side.
“Emerson!” Exasperated, Farris kicked her legs in protest.
“Found it.” He stood up after finding the key under a pot of autumn colored marigolds.
“He probably didn't want you to know where it was. Did you ever think about that?”
“Is he home? Doesn't look like he's here.” Emerson ignored her question, fit the key in the lock, and swung the door inward.
Only then did he bend forward and let her slide through his arms until her feet were on the floor. Wrapped in his arms, she caught his shoulders with her hands and stared up into his eyes.
Again, there was a frozen few seconds where she couldn't move. He didn't let her go right away, and didn't break eye contact until she cleared her throat and pulled out of the embrace.
What was going on here? He was irritating and bossy and all but a stranger. She didn't even know his last name.
“He's not here. Probably got caught in town and is helping people after the tornado. That's the kind of guy Mister Henson is.” Farris brushed her hands over her arms then put her hands on her hips.
“You should let me check the h
ouse before I go.”
“Check it for what? No one comes out here.”
Emerson scoffed and walked past her. “You don't know that. I came out here, didn't I? If I can, others might, too.”
He had a point. Except no one had bothered the Henson place as long as Farris could remember. Following in his wake, she switched on the kitchen light and the living room lamp. Emerson stalked from room to room, checking the pantry, the closets and then started up the stairs.
“Don't you think this is a little invasive?” Despite her protests, Farris would feel better knowing Emerson checked the whole house before leaving. She'd stayed here several times when the power went out on the property and found the farmhouse a tiny bit eerie. It had to do with the rumors Henson's wife haunted the property because she'd died in an upstairs bedroom.
Old man Henson scoffed at the notion.
“You'll get a better night sleep if I make sure everything is cool,” he called down the stairs.
Farris waited at the bottom.
A moment later, Emerson trotted down the stairs. “Everything looks good. I can sleep on the couch or something if you're afraid.”
Farris gaped.
He stopped on the last stair, palm on the banister, and didn't smile or laugh.
“I'll be fine. Really. Thanks for...everything.”
Emerson studied her face. She wondered what he was thinking. Then he nodded and stepped off the staircase.
“Your truck is up here in front of the farmhouse. I'll see you later.” He caught the back door and exited into the night.
Emerson, Farris decided, was a lot like a freight train. He steamrolled through life and anyone in the way got pulled under the wheels.
Belatedly, she ran to the front door and yanked it open. Parting the screen from the frame, she stepped out onto the porch in time to see him stalking down the drive toward the street. He didn't appear to own a car—but then he wouldn't if he'd flown in for his visit. She couldn't recall him mentioning whether he'd flown or driven into town. The man was an enigma. She couldn't second guess him and couldn't figure him out.
“Goodnight!” she called.
He lifted a hand in a parting wave without turning around.
Farris watched until the darkness swallowed him whole.
In the house, she locked the front door and went to do the same to the back.
Trudging up the stairs, she headed to the guest room Henson had designated as hers if she ever needed it.
She had a lot to think about. Sleep would be a long time coming tonight.
Chapter Seven
Chaos Manor, nestled deep into a wooded copse on ten acres of private land, was the house Devon called home. She loved the tall spires, gothic inspired architecture, and the carved stone ravens that sat sentinel on all four corners of the roof.
For the last seven months, she had lived within the manor walls, learning a new way of life.
A life she had wholly embraced and had come to adore.
When she arrived home from Oklahoma, it was via the large oval mirror in her bedroom on the second floor. The reflective surface rippled like liquid silver.
Devon jumped through and landed with a satisfied thump on both feet.
A moment later, the mirror rippled again, warping from the middle to the edges, and solidified once more. It had taken her weeks and weeks to learn that trick.
Soon, she would be able to travel long distances without the aid of a physical object.
Her bedroom embodied everything Devon was at heart and then some; slightly hectic, dark, intriguing and bold. The canopy bed was king sized with carvings of ravens in the posts and across the headboard. Ivy twined throughout, a whimsical touch echoed around the edges of her desk, the chair and a divan situated catty corner near the window.
Several shades of gray made a monochrome color scheme. It soothed and excited her at the same time.
Ever since she could remember, she had a passion for black. Clothes, shoes, hats, coats. Even jewelry.
It was the bedroom she'd always wanted but never had as a child.
Pulling back her hair, she secured it into a ponytail and exited the bedroom. A long hallway filled with antiques, paintings, vases and intricate runners on the floor led to a broad, sweeping staircase that wound down to the first floor.
Riding the banister down, she hopped off before she crashed into the post at the end and jogged through the foyer into the kitchen.
The spacious pantry set into the wall had a door hidden behind a movable shelf, and after pulling it out a few feet, she reached for the light switch.
Light illuminated a set of stairs leading down.
Stepping onto the landing, Devon pulled the shelf closed behind her and trotted down to the basement.
The basement was the best part about Chaos Manor.
What made it awesome were the miles of underground catacombs spreading out from a main room like octopus tentacles. Hundreds upon thousands of Destinies were stacked atop each other in arch shaped recesses.
The main room, enormous by her standards, boasted tables against every wall. More Destinies sat on each one, piles and piles of them, all neatly arranged. Sometimes the neatness of the stacks jarred her inner Chaos, and she struggled with the desire not to make a mess of it all. The papers were precious, however, and she always succeeded in keeping order in this sacred place.
In the middle of the basement stood a pedestal. Eight stone carved ravens in flight balanced a stone bowl on their beaks. Circling the base, drawn into the stone floor, were depictions of black runes.
Tonight, no Destinies burned in the bowl. It was used only for specific ceremonies and rituals, none of which she was comfortable performing.
Not yet.
Across from the pedestal sat her desk. Made of wood, it had a distressed surface the color of ashes. The legs had been carved into the shape of skinny ravens, like the pedestal, and engraved runes ran the perimeter. A small, glowing turquoise ball of glass had been embedded between each rune, casting off a minor glow. The desk top, where her current Destinies in progress sat, boasted a stunning painting of a world beset by Chaos: distant mountains erupting with lava, tornadoes ravaging flatlands, violent storms with bolts of lightning streaking toward earth. A coat of lacquer protected it all.
Devon adored the old world artwork.
Shucking her brocade coat, she hung it off the back of a chair and spun the seat around by the leg. Straddling it backwards, she leaned against it while rifling through a shorter stack on her desk.
There it was. The Destiny she needed.
Farris Landry.
It drove Devon crazy that she couldn't do anything with Farris' Destiny other than stare at it. Nothing she wrote or added would change the course of Farris' life.
She could read it, however. Read any and all changes after they occurred. Flipping to the back page, she scanned the stylish, slanting handwriting (not her own) and looked for the passage she wanted.
There should be a paragraph about Farris' death along with the destruction of the garage.
Fire strikes the garage. Burns outer southern perimeter. Advances toward the roof where a deluge of rain douses the flames. Farris and Beelah Bosley escape injury or harm. Loft is saved. Artifacts are spared.
Devon read it again.
And again.
She couldn't believe her eyes. Farris and Beelah had escaped. Devon sat straighter in the chair and narrowed her eyes. In her mind, she went over her conversation step by step with Emerson.
He was not lacking in skill or talent with his control of Chaos, therefore, he should have succeeded burning down the loft. What had gone wrong?
Emerson hadn't seemed all that anxious to perform for her—not that it was his duty—and she decided he must have had a change of heart at the end.
Seething with fury, she tossed down Farris' Destiny and shuffled through those of the people closest to her. Devon couldn't fiddle with Farris' life directly, but she could fiddle wi
th belongings, vehicles and the people in Farris' inner circle.
Larissa Miller.
Devon remembered reading that little Miss Larissa Miller had snatched Farris' old boyfriend right out from under her nose. A sudden grin stretched Devon's lips.
Perfect.
She would teach Emerson a lesson about messing with the Fate of Chaos.
Snagging an ink pen, she found the spot in Larissa's life she needed and drew the pad of her index finger over the ink. Like magic, it faded, leaving her a clean line to write on. She wrote in a newer Destiny. The amount of Chaos Devon was adding to Larissa's life was minor, all told, but it would be more than enough to drive Emerson up a wall.
Larissa Miller falls in love with Emerson, Devon wrote.
If only she could make Emerson fall for someone, too, it would create a beautiful wreck of emotion and havoc. Emerson, after experiencing all that torment and pain, would come around to her way of thinking.
Alas. The Weavers of Chaos' Destinies were not hers to touch. Emerson and his brethren were off limits, just as Farris was.
Still. She could get to him through all the people he became involved with.
Humming a gleeful tune, she finished off Larissa's new addition to her Destiny and set the page aside to dry.
By tomorrow at the latest, Larissa Miller would start to have uncontrollable feelings for Emerson. Maybe if Emerson fell for Larissa, and got his heart broke after Devon changed Larissa's fate back, he would be more amenable to helping her in the future.
It was great to be the new Fate of Chaos.
. . .
A series of bangs woke Farris up out of a dead sleep. Sitting up on the bed, she suffered a few moments of disorientation when she realized she wasn't in the loft.
The tornado, the fire, the farmhouse.
Oh yes.
Another bang drew her off the mattress to her feet. She'd slept fully clothed, without bothering to take off her shoes or even peel the comforter back. Pushing wild strands of her hair from her face, she blinked the fuzziness out of her gaze and hurried down the stairs to the front door.
The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) Page 6
