The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  Farris couldn't imagine who would be here at this hour.

  “Who is it?” she called at the last second, when self preservation kicked in.

  “Sheriff Tooley, Farris.”

  She'd known the Sheriff her whole life. Unlocking the door, she swung it open and stared at Tooley through the screen. His kind, angular face wore a pained expression. Built on the stocky side, Tooley had a grandfatherly air that put most people at ease. Farris had seen just how skilled Tooley was at his job, which made his looks a little deceiving.

  “Hi, Sheriff. Sorry, I just woke up.” The shine of the sun was brighter than she expected, leading her to believe it was a bit later than she first thought. She squinted against the glare.

  “Can I come in for a second, darlin'?” he asked. Tooley reached up to sweep the hat off his head.

  For one reason or another, alarm bells started going off in Farris' head. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling Tooley wasn't here to just 'check in on her'.

  “Of course, Sheriff. What's going on?” Was it her grandmother? Her Mom? Holding the screen open, she waited until he'd stepped in to close it. She left the door open and followed Tooley into the formal living room to the right.

  Old man Henson's wife had decorated the entire farmhouse and all her touches were still present: sturdy furniture with a feminine flair, decorative wall hangings, and lamps with pretty, patterned lampshades. Farris chose a wingback chair to sit on the edge of.

  Tooley sat on the edge of the couch, confirming with his obvious unease that something was wrong.

  “I have some bad news, Farris,” he said. “Old man Henson died in the tornado last night.”

  Whatever Farris had expected to hear, it hadn't been that. Her relief that it wasn't her grandmother or her mother was short lived. Henson had been a kind and helpful man. “Oh no! That's awful. What happened? I wondered where he was last night.”

  “He was right in the path. Couldn't get out fast enough. Trying to help the young widow Harper and her three kids to safety, it cost him his life.” Tooley turned the hat around in his hands by the brim. “That's not all.”

  Farris' mind was running a hundred miles an hour. If Henson was dead, then he would have left the farmhouse to someone in his will, which meant she was probably going to have to find somewhere else to live.

  Soon. Very soon.

  “What else?” She braced herself.

  “The bank is auctioning off your house today. They're over there clearing out what you guys couldn't move before you had to leave.” Tooley looked displeased to have to deliver that particular bit of news.

  Hearing about Henson had been bad enough—this news devastated her. She'd lived in that two story house since birth. Farris hadn't known what was going on when the bank came to take the keys all those months ago. Her grandmother had tried valiantly to keep up the payments, but her income was inadequate, and so the bank gave them twenty-four hours to get what they could out of the home before they took it over.

  It hadn't been nearly enough time to get everything out.

  “You all right, Farris girl?” Tooley asked.

  She blinked back to the present and rubbed her palms on her thighs. “Uh...yeah, Sheriff. I'm...I mean, you know? It's just hard.”

  “I know it is. Anything the department can do to help?”

  “You said they're taking out the stuff we didn't have time to remove—what are they doing with it?” she asked.

  Tooley exhaled and slapped the hat back on his head. “They're sellin' it.”

  “Like, in the front yard, or--”

  “In the front yard. Then they're havin' the auction for the house.”

  Farris lurched up off the couch. “When does it start? I don't even know what time it is.”

  Tooley stood up. “It's nine-forty-five. Sale starts in fifteen minutes. Auction starts straight up noon.”

  Farris went over to hug Tooley, who had been like an uncle to her since the foreclosure of the house. “Thanks, Mister Tooley. I'm going to go over there.”

  “You need a ride?” He grabbed her up in a bear hug and then set her down.

  “I have the truck. Plus I have to change quick. Thanks though.” She smiled, more for his benefit than her own.

  “I'll be stoppin' by to check on things. Be careful.” Tooley patted her arm and saw himself out.

  Farris wasted no time. She darted out the back door of the farmhouse and ran to the small barn. Old man Henson had two; one larger barn where he used to keep horses, and a smaller one for maintenance.

  From the small barn she carried a tall ladder. It wobbled in her arms and twice she stumbled, barely regaining her balance before going down. At the garage, she propped it near the 'good' edge of the balcony, made sure it was stable, and climbed up.

  In broad daylight, she had a great view of just how much damage had been done to the loft. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, or as bad as she'd thought last night. The charred stripe on the far corner had stretched along the outer edge of the balcony, but besides the destroyed staircase, the loft was otherwise intact.

  Flinging a leg over the banister, she stepped to the door and went inside. The scent of smoke still hung in the air. Her stories were safe, as were her belongings and her clothes. She could still live here until someone took the farm over—if she could get the stairs outside fixed.

  Rushing through a three-minute shower, she changed into a pair of black skinny jeans, a burgundy ribbed sweater and snagged a cream colored knit scarf to twirl around her throat. Dragging on a pair of lace up boots, she stuffed her feet in and wound the laces through the hooks. Although her hair was wet, she grabbed her cell phone, keys and went back to the balcony.

  A moment later she was running across the ground toward the truck near the farmhouse. Hopping in, she turned the engine over and sped off the property toward town.

  She might get there in time to salvage at least one piece of memorabilia.

  . . .

  “You shouldn't be meddling in this,” Emerson told his reflection. Staring at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, he scowled. “I mean, what are you doing? She's gonna catch on if you keep showing up at her house when you're not supposed to be there.”

  Talking to himself in the empty hotel bathroom, he ruffled the towel through his hair and tossed it on the counter. Already in a fresh pair of jeans, he brushed his teeth with vigorous rotations, spit and rinsed, then left the bathroom in long strides. On the hastily made bed sat his duffel bag. Pulling out a steel gray Henley, he tugged it over his head, shoved his feet into socks and boots, and snagged his coat on the way out the door.

  The Rusty Spur Hotel, an L-shaped structure on the outskirts of Newcastle, was one of those almost-but-not-quite seedy places with parking slots right in front of the hotel rooms. Emerson had been staying here since his arrival less than a week before. As luck would have it, the tornado missed the hotel by a quarter mile.

  His cherry red Charger, parked five steps across the sidewalk, glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Emerson noticed, however, that his car had a new adornment that hadn't been there the night before.

  Theron, his brother-in-Chaos, leaned against the driver's side door. They weren't blood brothers, but their status had driven them together at a young age and they had passed the years as the best of friends. Theron, standing six feet even, had ink black hair to his shoulders, tattoos out the wazoo, and had a penchant for what he called 'busted' jeans. Meaning the knees were always blown out and the denim looked a lot like it had been drug behind a semi for a hundred miles or so.

  “What are you doing here?” Emerson asked Theron. He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and waved Theron away from the door.

  “That's a nice way to greet your best friend. The question is, what are you doing here? We're supposed to be in New York right now.” Theron tilted out of his lean and took two steps away from the Charger.

  “Jeez, did you scratch it?” Emerson bent over to look at the metalli
c paint with a critical eye.

  Theron scoffed. “I didn't scratch anything. You didn't answer my question.”

  “That chick, the new Fate of Chaos? She contacted me. Sent me here with a 'request'.” Emerson unlocked the car and opened the door. He paused before getting inside and eyed Theron across the hood. “Did she call you here, too?”

  “Nah. I just wanted to know what you were up to and why you're here instead of in New York.” Theron walked casually around to the passenger side and got in the car. He closed the door with a thump.

  Emerson slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. “She wanted me to help her out. I'm pretty sure she lied to me, though.”

  “What's she like—what do you mean, lied to you?” Theron slouched in the seat, tucking his long legs under the dash.

  “She's not like Audrinne at all. And I think she lied to me about where someone was supposed to be. Another girl almost died last night because I set fire to her house and she was home.” Emerson pulled out of the parking lot and onto the two-lane highway toward town.

  “No kidding. Huh.” Theron scrubbed his fingers over his clean shaven jaw. “So what's up with the Fate of Chaos--”

  “Devon. The new chick's name is Devon.”

  “...what's up with Devon, then? Why does she want this other girl--”

  “Farris.”

  “...Farris, dead?”

  “Don't know yet. Are you sure no one sent you?” Emerson didn't trust Devon at all after last night. Although he conjured Chaos on a regular basis, Emerson never did so with the intent to kill anyone. If people got caught in the catastrophe, that wasn't his doing, it was simply Fate.

  “No, man. No. I got your phone signal locked into my GPS, so I didn't have to track you down through a vapor trail. Isn't it unusual for the Fate of Chaos to, I don't know, take an active role in someone's demise? Sure, they do it on paper, but...” Theron trailed and glanced at Emerson.

  “Yeah. Yeah, at least I think so. I don't remember Audrinne ever getting personally involved. Devon showed up here last night. Told me off.”

  Theron gawked. Theron never gawked. “What?”

  Emerson nodded. “I'm telling you, something isn't right.”

  “What did she tell you off about?”

  “Because I pulled the girls to safety from the Rocket.”

  “What rocket? They have a rocket here?”

  Emerson laughed. “It's a bar. A tornado—which I called up—ripped the place apart. Farris and her friend Beelah were there and I helped them out of the path. Devon was furious.”

  “What the devil kind of name is Beelah?” Theron frowned.

  Grinning, Emerson looked at Theron. He was always getting distracted from the main point of the conversation. “She's a good girl. Beelah I mean. I think Devon targeted her in hopes of getting to Farris.”

  “Why wouldn't she just go after Farris?--and why do you care what happens to these chicks so much?” Theron narrowed his eyes.

  Emerson shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. I mean, I'm not cold-hearted, for crying out loud.”

  “You never stick around after you wreak havoc, man. Never.”

  “Neither do you,” Emerson pointed out. Debris littered the street ahead. He could see damage to homes in the distance and knew they were approaching the swath the tornado took through town. He made a right at the stop sign and increased speed.

  “Nothing to stick around for.”

  Emerson grunted. “There's something going on. Something out of the norm. I want to know what it is.”

  “Looks like I got here just in time, then.” Theron rubbed his hands together. “What are we doing first?”

  “Getting food. I'm starving. Then we're going out to the farm to check on Farris.”

  “Right on, man.” Theron flipped down his visor to block the sun.

  Chapter Eight

  “He came back to the loft?” Beelah stared at Farris.

  “Uh huh. He woke me up by pounding on the door.” Farris, who had picked up Beelah on the way into town, sped along the back road toward her old house.

  “Wow. So what then?” Beelah pushed her glasses up on her nose. A blue and green plaid sweater worn with jeans would have made her look a little scholarly if she hadn't left her hair down around her shoulders.

  “He came in.”

  Beelah gasped. “What?”

  “Yeah. Just pushed right past me. He saw all my stories.”

  “Did he read any?” Beelah's voice rose an octave in surprise.

  “I don't think he read anything. But he saw them! So now he'll wonder what they are, and I'll have to tell him.”

  “Well. You're going to have to let someone else see them sometime, Farris, if you ever want to get them published.”

  Farris squirmed in the driver's seat. “Maybe. I'm just not ready yet. Anyway, he got offended and started to leave. He was standing on the landing. I went out there with him, because he was gonna walk me to the farm, and all of a sudden the stairs collapsed.”

  “Ohmygosh!” Beelah looked horrified. “Did you get hurt?”

  “No. He threw me over his shoulder and like...leaped to the ground.”

  Bee started grinning. “Oh, oh, an act of heroism. He's a hero. Again.”

  Farris scoffed. “He wouldn't think so. But he walked me up to the farm and helped himself to the key and went right inside.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “I know what you're asking, Beelah Bosley.” She feigned a stern expression. “I did not kiss Emerson. I don't even know his last name.”

  “So ask.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “You're not that shy.”

  “Yes I am.”

  Beelah guffawed. “Whatever.”

  Farris slowed at the next stop sign and turned left. This side of town had been spared the violent path of the tornado. She could see a few houses dotting the landscape on both sides of the road.

  Less than three miles to go.

  The amusement between the girls faded the closer they got to the house. Their morning had already been fraught with news of Henson's death and the auction. With every mile Farris put under the Chevy's tires, the reality became a little more real.

  Two turns later, Farris cruised down Clear Lake Road. The homes here sat on at least a fourth of an acre, leaving some breathing room between each one. Many homes had an acre or two, and most people owned horses.

  Farris' childhood home was a two story with faded blue clapboard, white trim and a stained glass window in the gabled roof where the attic was. It wasn't a large house, and it had always needed something fixed, but Farris was attached to the place. Compared to the other homes on Clear Lake Road, it looked a little tired and worn out.

  Shocked to find the front yard packed with the things she and her grandmother had not had time to remove from the house, Farris pulled to a stop against the curb and stared.

  “Oh Farris,” Beelah said. She sounded pained.

  Three auctioneers stood around the yard, haggling over prices with buyers.

  Nostalgia hit hard; Farris watched two people get into a bidding war over her mother's heavy, three piece china hutch. The only possible consolation was that she didn't recognize any of the people bidding.

  “C'mon, Bee.” Farris got out of the truck and pocketed the keys. Several neighbors—all of whom Farris knew—stood at the outer edges of the property, or even in their own yards, sympathetic expressions on their faces.

  None of them were taking the opportunity to score cheap furniture and other items, probably because they didn't want to hurt her. Secretly thankful, she stood at the edge of the winter dry grass and looked over the selection.

  She was looking for something in particular.

  “Farris!” Beelah said, nudging her in the arm with an elbow. “There's your hope chest!”

  Sure enough, next to a tiny nightstand and a headboard, was her hope chest. She'd been forced to leave it behind in favor of taking
more important things—like clothes and shoes.

  Her mother had given her the hope chest when she was four. Many beloved things were ensconced in the pine box with flowers carved and painted on the top. Dishes, knit blankets, silverware handed down from her grandmother. Anything and everything that belonged in a girl's hope chest.

  She and Beelah had carved their initials on the inside of the lid when they were eight.

  “Are you gonna bid on it, Farris? You have to. Think of all the stuff that's still inside,” Beelah said. She had her organizer tucked into the crook of her arm.

  “I am. No one else is taking that home today but me.” She pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows.

  “Sold! One headboard for nine dollars.” The auctioneer accepted money, and the buyer hauled the headboard off to a waiting truck. There were several—and even one moving van—parked on each side of the street.

  Farris fidgeted with the scarf around her throat. She shifted weight foot to foot. Nervous. The headboard had been her mother's.

  Beelah cracked open her organizer, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and flipped pages to the one she wanted.

  “Nine dollars,” Beelah muttered. “Who sells a perfectly good headboard for nine dollars.”

  “They do,” Farris whispered. A different auctioneer moved over to an iron baker's rack. In the early years of Farris' life, when her mother hadn't been quite so...crazy...she had baked cookies and cupcakes with Farris, utilizing the rack to store the treats on.

  Farris, agonizing over the memories attached to so many things, mentally took a tally of the available money she had. Her bank account totaled three hundred and sixty-three dollars. A hundred of it she needed to save for food, another fifty-two for insurance on the truck. That left two-hundred eleven.

  She'd pulled two hundred out of the ATM on the way in.

  Two hundred dollars that she really shouldn't be spending on these things. She had no where to store them and with Henson gone, she was probably going to have to apply for an apartment in town which required a down payment.

  Up went her arm to make the first bid on the baker's rack.