“...here we are, the first bid is in! Ten dollars. Do I hear twelve?”
One of the men perusing the goods flashed his hand in the air.
“Twelve!”
Farris raised hers.
“Fourteen! Do I hear sixtee—sixteen to the gentleman there. Eighteen to the lady—twenty!”
Every time Farris bid, the man glared and outbid her again.
The price went to twenty-five.
Thirty.
Farris felt light headed. She could almost smell the cookies and cupcakes.
Thirty-five.
The more she spent on the rack, the less she had to barter for her hope chest.
“SOLD to the gentleman for fifty-three dollars!”
Farris watched the baker's rack get hauled to one of the trucks. She rubbed her temple while Beelah whined her discontent.
“That's just not fair.”
“I'll get the chest. That's what matters most,” Farris said.
“Awwwww. Farris, I wish there was something I could do to help,” Larissa Miller said.
Farris and Beelah both snapped a look over their shoulder at the same time.
Larissa Miller stood on the sidewalk with three of her closest girlfriends, smirking.
Farris hadn't even heard their truck pull up. Palmer sat in the driver's seat, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses.
Great. Just what she needed. Larissa Miller there to goad her about losing pieces of her life one item at a time. Farris said nothing. She looked back at the yard, willing herself to pretend like Larissa didn't exist.
“Be quiet, Larissa,” Beelah said with a sharp note of warning in her tone.
“Do I hear ten dollars for the wingback chair?” an auctioneer called. The chair in question was one Farris had lounged in after school on too many occasions to count. Cream colored, with a floral pattern, the chair wasn't critical to her survival but she hated to see anyone else take it home.
She raised her hand. Ten dollars.
“Thirty,” a gruff man countered. He was a different buyer than the one who bid on the baker's rack.
“Thirty-three,” Larissa chimed in.
Beelah gasped.
Farris groaned.
No. No. Larissa wouldn't be that cruel.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Forty.”
The way Larissa crooned her bids grated on Farris' nerves. She stopped trying to win the chair, deciding to save all her money for the hope chest.
That was the thing that mattered more than a piece of furniture she could replace.
“SOLD to the young woman for fifty-six dollars.” The auctioneer pointed Larissa's way.
“Thank you!” Larissa walked across the grass and examined the chair with a critical eye. “Palmer, come help us put it in the truck.”
Palmer slid out of the driver's seat, adjusted the glasses, and crossed the yard toward the chair.
Farris refused to look at either of them.
Beelah muttered under her breath. “Don't worry, Farris. She'll leave now that she feels she got the upper hand.”
Palmer hefted the chair with a grunt onto his shoulder and toted it to the truck. Setting it in the back with a thump, he brushed his hands off and got back into the driver's seat.
Farris gnawed on a fingernail when another auctioneer went to stand near her hope chest, marking something off on his clipboard.
“Who'll give five dollars for the chest?” he asked.
Five dollars? Farris, insulted that her prize would start at such a cheap amount, raised her hand.
“Five, do I hear—fifteen!” He pointed at Larissa, who hadn't left after all.
“Maybe her diaries are in there,” Larissa said. She and her friends burst into laughter.
“I wonder if she wrote about Palmer,” one of the friends said.
The girls guffawed. All delicate and mean-spirited.
Farris raised her hand to up the bid.
“Seventeen, do I hear nineteen? Nineteen to the lady!” He gestured at Larissa.
“Fifty,” Farris countered, hoping that would cut the bidding off early.
“Fifty-five,” Larissa said with a cocky grin.
“Sixty.” Farris started to sweat.
“Seventy-five.”
Beelah gasped and glanced at Farris.
Farris didn't look away from the hope chest and the auctioneer.
“Eighty,” she said.
“One hundred dollars.” Larissa rocked back and forth on the soles of her stylish boots.
“Oh yeah, she's got diaries in there,” one of Larissa's friends said.
Larissa all but cackled.
“Why would she leave her diaries in there? Don't be stupid,” Beelah snapped.
“Ooooh, Miss Beelah Bosley has spoken!” Renee Prentice, Larissa's best friend, stuck her arms straight out and made bowing motions. It tipped the girls into another round of caustic laughter.
“One hundred going once, going--”
“One hundred fifty,” Farris blurted.
“One-sixty.”
“One-eighty.” Farris was getting close to her limit, and Larissa seemed determined to outbid her. She gnawed on her nail again, bracing herself for Larissa to counter her.
“Two hundred dollars!” Beelah announced, thrusting her Hello Kitty organizer into the air.
“Beelah! What are you doing?” Shocked, Farris glanced at her.
“I have some money from work saved,” Beelah whispered.
“Two-twenty!” Larissa said. Laughing. She was laughing.
Farris felt sick. Larissa, the daughter of a prominent doctor, probably got that much for allowance every single week.
“Two-twenty-five!” Beelah said.
“Two-fifty!”
Everyone at the auction had paused to watch the bidding war escalate. In between the shouted bids, the silence was so complete that Farris could hear the dry rasp of leaves across the sidewalk and hushed comments from people standing somewhere behind her.
“Two-fifty-five!” Beelah started to look nervous. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and glanced at Farris.
Farris knew what the look meant. They were approaching their limit. Even with both of their savings, Larissa was on the verge of outbidding them. She smiled, a sad little curve of her lips.
“Three hundred dollars,” Larissa countered. She sounded smug.
“I have three hundred dollars!” The auctioneer piped up, trying to goad Farris or Beelah into another offer. “Do I hear three-ten?”
Farris fiddled with the end of her scarf. She stared at the hope chest instead of the auctioneer.
“Three-twenty!” Beelah blurted out an even higher number.
“Three-fifty.” Larissa came right back with no hesitation.
Three hundred and fifty dollars for her hope chest!
Beelah mewled in discontent.
They were at their limit.
Tears stung the back of Farris' eyes. Larissa Miller, of all people, was going to take her hope chest home. The thought infuriated and humiliated her. There were no diaries in there but that didn't matter.
“Three fifty going once! Going twice! SO--”
“Five hundred,” a masculine voice interjected.
With a collective gasp, everyone turned to look at the new bidder.
“Oh my gosh!” Beelah clapped a hand over her mouth.
Emerson stood at the curb, hands in the pockets of his coat, looking as casual as if he'd just bid five dollars.
Farris couldn't believe it. She met Emerson's eyes, just for a second. He communicated without a word that she would be going home with the hope chest.
Larissa, who should have been glaring over being one upped, studied Emerson closely.
“SOLD to the gentleman for five hundred dollars!” The auctioneer ended the bidding.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd.
Farris mouthed Thank you.
Emerson smiled, a half crook of his mouth. He tugged on the elbow of a dark haired man that Farris didn't realize was with him and walked toward the hope chest.
“You want it in the truck, Farris?” Emerson asked. He lifted one end of the chest and the dark haired man lifted the other.
“Yeah, that would be great.” Farris, relieved beyond good reason, trotted over to the back of the Chevy and fought with the gate to lower it. The latch had been busted for years.
“Emerson! Hi!” Beelah, also looking relieved, waved her organizer.
“Hey Bee. Girls, this is a friend of mine, Theron. Theron, Farris and Beelah.”
Theron grunted and jerked his head to move wayward strands of dark hair out of his eyes. “Farris, Beelah. Nice to meet you.”
The men carried the chest to the back of the truck.
“Nice to meet you, Theron. Thanks for the help.” Farris moved out of their way.
“Hello, Theron!” Beelah hovered behind them all.
“What's this all about?” Emerson asked, closing the gate with a thud.
Farris fidgeted with the end of her scarf. Uncomfortable about blurting out the intimate details of the situation, she tried to figure out what to say.
Leave it to Beelah to beat her to it.
“It's her old house. The one she lived in with her mom,” Beelah said.
“Why are they selling your stuff?” Emerson asked. He leveled a look on Farris. Leaning against the tailgate, he crossed his arms over his chest.
In the background, the auctioneer continued to hawk the items scattered on the lawn.
“It's a long story,” Farris said, attempting to down play it all.
“The bank foreclosed on her house. So today they're selling what Farris and her grandma couldn't get out in time, then they're going to auction the house itself.” Beelah was just a fount of information.
Farris wished a giant rift would open up under her feet and swallow her whole. How embarrassing.
“That sucks,” Theron chimed in. He folded a piece of gum into his mouth.
“I really just wanted to save my hope chest, so thanks, Emerson. Thanks for doing that.” Farris crossed her arms over her ribs.
“What's a hope chest?” Theron asked with a perplexed crease on his brow. He didn't seem like the type of man who would know those kinds of things. His tattoos, only partially visible past the cut of his shirt, made him look more like a rock-star than anything.
“You're welcome.” Emerson mumbled his reply between Theron's question and Beelah's answer.
“Oh! Don't you know? It's a collection of things our parents or loved ones give us to keep for when we get married or get out on our own. You know, 'hope chest'” Beelah said, using her fingers to mime temporary quotes.
Theron glanced at Emerson, lifted his brows, then nodded at Beelah.
“Sure, sure. Right. I get it. I'm glad you got it back anyway, Farris.” He copped a lean against a tail light a foot from Emerson.
“Thanks. What are you guys doing here?”
“Looks like half the town is here,” Theron pointed out.
More cars lined each side of the street now. Larissa, her girl friends and Palmer were all gathered together talking near their truck.
Farris noticed Larissa hadn't tried to buy anything else since Emerson's arrival, and she also saw her glance their way several times.
Probably annoyed with Emerson's intervention.
“Yeah, we saw all the cars and the sign at the end of the street, so we came this way to investigate. We were coming out to make sure you were all right after last night,” Emerson said.
Farris looked away from the yard. She met Emerson's querying gaze. “I'm fine. Everything was quiet after you left.”
Theron coughed as if he choked on the gum, then speared a sharp look at Emerson.
“Good. You want us to follow you back to the farmhouse to help you unload the chest?” Emerson asked.
“Wow, that would be a grea--”
Farris cut Beelah off. “That's a nice offer, thanks Emerson. Actually, I have to be to work in a little while.”
She wanted to stay and see who bought her old house. As painful as it was, she couldn't fathom leaving before it was over.
Emerson glanced at the house, then back at her. Like he knew.
“We have like an hour and a half--”
“Beelah.” Farris added extra emphasis to her best friend's name along with a wide-eyed look.
“Oh. Oh. Right. Farris and I can get it inside ourselves later, after work. Hey, you guys should stop by the diner. One drink on the house.” Beelah beamed a smile at Theron in the same way she'd done to Emerson in the Rocket.
Farris pinched the bridge of her nose. Beelah was impossible.
“Is there anything else here you can't live without?” Emerson asked Farris when he pushed away from the tailgate and dropped his arms. “We'll do it, Bee. Thanks for the invitation.”
Theron flipped a salute from his brow for Beelah's offer.
Farris glanced at the menagerie on the lawn. There were several more items she would have liked to keep. But he'd spent five hundred dollars on the hope chest and she wouldn't ask him for one more thing. Guilt was already eating at her.
“No thanks, Emerson. All I really wanted was the chest.” She shared a smile with him that she hoped conveyed her gratitude.
He didn't look convinced. Regardless, he cut her a wink and hustled Theron away from the Chevy.
“See you girls later,” Emerson said.
Farris watched while he and Theron departed.
She didn't miss the way Larissa homed in on Emerson, tracked him all the way to the cherry red Charger.
A strange spike of jealousy hit Farris. Why should she care if Larissa was interested in Emerson?
Because Larissa snatched Palmer right out from under your nose, a little voice whispered inside.
Emerson honked once as the Charger passed.
Farris waved, as did Beelah.
“Gosh, that Theron is cute in a bad boy, musician sort of way, isn't he?” Beelah said, gushing a little.
Farris smiled in amusement. There went Bee, crushing on another boy.
“He was pretty cute,” Farris agreed. “Maybe you should invite him out on Halloween.”
Beelah's mouth made an 'o' of surprised consideration. “Not unless we all four go. I'm not leaving you alone on your birthday.”
Farris could have hugged Beelah Bosley for her loyalty.
Once the Charger disappeared from sight, Beelah turned her attention to the house. “Are you really going to stay and watch them sell the house, Farris?”
Larissa and her group hadn't left yet, Farris noted. They were probably waiting around to see her reaction when the house sold.
Suddenly feeling like a bug under a pin, Farris shook her head.
“No, let's go check in on O'ma then head to work. It's pointless to stay and watch.”
Beelah hugged her with one arm, a tight squeeze of sympathy, then headed around to the passenger seat.
Farris climbed behind the wheel of the Chevy and started the engine.
A moment later, with the auctioneers selling off her memories, Farris drove away.
. . .
Detroit was a city under siege. Fully half had become a scene from a post apocalyptic nightmare; the buildings that hadn't been outright demolished resembled structures in a war zone. Graffiti marked the crumbling brick and all the windows were reduced to jagged pieces like the teeth of fierce monsters.
Gangs, pimps and the homeless were the Kings of the street, striking fear into the heart of anyone daring to invade their territory.
Gardens had sprung up in vacant plots of land, a desperate attempt to feed an ever decreasing population. Murders and robberies occurred on a minute by minute basis. Trash and other debris turned a once thriving metropolis into an enormous skid row.
The situation was so severe that the district restricted police activity to
just eight hours, always in the daytime, leaving the city extra vulnerable when the sun went down.
Devon would have preferred to do her business after dark, but time was a pressing issue. So she oozed out of the liquid-like pane of a window, stepping from obscurity into an alley. The glass rippled and became solid once more.
A bum, wrapped in five layers of coats, two beanies with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, stared as if he'd just witnessed a minor miracle. He blinked several times, looked down at his bottle, then swerved his attention the other way.
Devon smiled, even though the bum couldn't see it, then struck out for the opposite end of the alley. She traversed the maze of the city using every backwater thoroughfare she could, careful to stay off the main streets.
It was just three blocks she had to travel by foot anyway, not a long haul in the grand scheme of things.
Arriving at a corridor separating two derelict buildings, she cut into the opening and made her way to the first door on the right. Steel bars attached to a sturdy frame served as a 'screen door', an extra layer of protection.
Devon rang the dingy bell and listened for the chimes inside.
She rang it again three minutes later when no one answered. Devon knew Rowley was here.
Rowley Valero was a Weaver of Chaos. Like Emerson, Rowley could influence the elements. He had the ability to guide storms, cause the earth to shake, make electrical outlets surge and a multitude of other things that all wreaked havoc on the unsuspecting.
Unlike Emerson, Rowley had gotten into huge trouble with the Lord of Chaos, the overseer of all the Weavers, and suffered banishment from the brotherhood. Rowley, more often than not, created too much Chaos. His control over his own ability was so unpredictable that even the other Weavers steered clear.
His reputation had suffered irreparable damage.
And he was perfect for what Devon needed. She'd worked with him once before when he was still a part of the brotherhood.
She rang the bell again.
Rowley opened the inner door and leaned his arm against the edge, half a foot above his head. He looked a wreck: wrinkled blue tee-shirt, faded jeans, no shoes and the strands of his long, sandy blonde hair looked as if he hadn't brushed them in three days. He exuded something edgy, as all the Weavers did, making it seem like you could never guess what he might do next.
The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) Page 8
