“No brothers or sisters. My folks died when I was young. I'm telling you—there's nothing really spectacular about my life.” Emerson ran a hand through his hair. What he told her hadn't been a lie, exactly. He didn't have any brothers or sisters that he knew about. His parents, according to Driscoll, had perished when he was two. It was like that with all the Weavers of Chaos. Emerson preferred not to know if his parents had been killed off intentionally, as an act of the Fates, so that children like him wouldn't have anything to go back to when they were old enough to understand what was going on.
This was his life, had been his life for a long time, and he preferred it that way.
Larissa cast him a quick glance that he caught when he looked across the car to see her reaction. He detected vague disappointment, probably because he wasn't a sports star with big family connections, on his way to a promising life as a doctor, lawyer or celebrity. The look changed as she found the road with her eyes; determination replaced the disappointment and there was something undeniably fond in her voice when she spoke next.
“So you're the rebel type. A devil-may-care rogue kind of like James Dean. Yeah, I think it fits you.” By the time she was done with her reassessment, she was smiling.
Emerson hadn't ever considered himself a rogue, but for those who didn't understand the Chaotic ways of a Weaver, it could be easily misconstrued.
He ran with it. Why not?
“I guess so.”
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I'm a mechanic.”
“You own your own business?”
“Nah. I move around a lot. You know, like devil-may-care rogues are wont to do.” He almost snorted at the cheesy line. Theron would have never let him live it down if he'd heard.
Larissa seemed to love it. Her laughter trilled over the smooth roll of the engine. She flipped a long length of silver-blonde hair over her shoulder, the way girls do when they think it'll impress a boy.
Emerson just wanted to get to her house. Pronto.
The faster the better.
Several large, impressive houses dotted the landscape, the kind of homesteads that could only belong to the affluent. Many acres separated each one, giving a feeling of privacy along with wealth. These were newer construction, with pristine paint or brick and manicured lawns segregated from the rest of the property. Expensive cars sat in some of the long, curving driveways and in one instance, it appeared there was a guest house or an in-law suite set apart from the main residence.
He shouldn't have been surprised when Larissa slowed the Mercedes down and turned into the extended driveway that belonged to that particular house. A big barn and several other outbuildings could be seen beyond the two story, colonial style structure. Columns lined a broad, wrap around porch decorated with iron benches and hanging plants.
“That's my house over there,” Larissa said, pointing to the guest house. It looked like it sat on its own five or six acres.
“Your house?” Emerson didn't necessarily care if it was her house or what. His attention was on the barn where the decorating was supposed to be happening. There were no cars out there near a large sliding door that had been left open for preparations. Maybe Farris and Beelah were inside, dropped off by someone else.
“Yeah. Daddy built it for me in my junior year, said I could move in when I graduated. I got to pick all the tile, wallpaper and paint. It's really cool. My future husband and I will have it made. At least until we get married and get something bigger.” Larissa, sounding smug, slowed the Mercedes near the barn.
“Mm,” Emerson said, noncommittal. Were they really talking about tile and paint right now? Before the car could come to a full stop, he launched himself out of the seat and over the side of the door. Landing with a thump of boots on the ground, he stalked toward the gaping hole leading into the barn. “Farris! You here?”
“Wait, Emerson!” Larissa huffed, exasperated, and put the Mercedes in park. After shutting down the engine, she got out with a bit more aplomb and followed.
Hay bales sat scattered close to the walls, as if someone had started dragging things in but got distracted before they could finish. It was a large barn, with two different ladders leading up to a loft where a lot more hay was stored. Everything else that might have been in the barn before had been moved out, leaving the concrete floor barren for Halloween decorations and a dance floor. The walls were finished off, the construction newer instead of older.
Farris and Beelah were nowhere in sight. In fact—no one else was there.
He twisted a look back at Larissa. “Where are they? You said they'd be here.”
“I said they were on their way,” she corrected. Brushing past, she slanted a coy look up into his eyes as she sank into the shade of the barn. “We can find something to do in the meantime until the rest of them get here, can't we?”
Emerson ground his teeth when he realized what she was up to. Larissa knew the whole time that none of the other people would be here before them. She thought she could lure him into the shadows for a few kisses, work her charm out of the public eye.
He stepped right up to her, towering over her much shorter frame.
“How long until they get here?”
“I don't know. Does it matter--” Just as she set her palms on his chest, staring up into his eyes, Emerson cut her off.
“Of course it matters.” He let her hear his displeasure. Emerson wasn't sure when Farris and Beelah would arrive—it could be hours—and he didn't have time to wait. Anything could happen between now and then.
Like death.
Wrenching himself away from Larissa, he stalked out of the barn. She tugged at his elbow in protest.
“Emerson, wait! Don't you want to be out here with me? It's just us until the rest of them get here.”
He yanked his arm out of her grasp. Taking a few jogging steps toward her car, he vaulted the driver's door and slid down into the seat. Her keys were still in the ignition. He would have preferred traveling in the same manner he did to get to Driscoll's castle; flaunting that in front of Larissa wasn't wise, however, so he had to resort to usual means of transportation.
It was frustrating and time consuming.
“What do you think you're doing?” Larissa demanded, stalking toward the Mercedes in his wake. She looked irritated at being shrugged off.
The engine growled to life. Emerson scowled at her, put the car in reverse, and backed out much faster than she'd driven in. Over the motor he could hear Larissa shouting for him to stop.
Flipping the front end around, he jolted forward, aggravated at this unexpected detour. If anything happened to Farris, he was going to extract his revenge out of Larissa's hide.
Devon's little threatening whispers filtered through his mind as the car picked up speed. How she'd said she would make a girl fall in love with him, hoping to hurt his heart.
He had news for Devon. Larissa wasn't his type. However, Devon's ploy managed to divert him from his task and for that, he would never forgive her.
Pushing the Mercedes to its limit on the straightaway, he headed for the only place he could think to start looking for Farris besides town: Henson's farm.
Chapter Twenty
Farris peered around the corn stalk toward the farmhouse. This particular field of corn butted up against the road—or close to it—which gave the girls a little bit of cover. She judged the distance to the front door to be about forty-five yards, far enough to allow any wild dogs time to burst from the corn field in another direction and get them before she and Bee could get inside.
So far, they hadn't heard or seen the pack. No howls echoed through the day, no barks or rustling through the stalks.
“Think they're gone?” Beelah asked behind her.
Farris scanned the far field of corn, out past the damaged garage. That was roughly the place the dogs had come from before.
“I can't tell. They might know we're here and are waiting for us to get away from the road.
But I don't hear anything--”
“Me either. And I've been listening for the last half mile,” Bee added.
Farris knew she wasn't the only one still shaken up from the accident. Beelah had been eerily quiet during the walk. Although neither one of them suffered cuts or broken bones, Farris' body protested the constant motion with aches and shooting pains that would likely double by tomorrow.
They might feel like they were hit by a truck, come morning.
“The longer we stand here and wait, the more we risk them catching our scent. If they're still around.” Farris surveyed the area one more time. “You ready? When we go, we need to go.”
“My legs feel like they're full of lead. But I'm—wait, what was that?”
Farris tensed and listened closer. “What did you hear?” she whispered.
“I'm not sure,” Bee whispered back.
Intent on the landscape, Farris didn't realize storm clouds were moving in until a gray pall doused the golden sunlight. She glanced up and back at the sun.
Or where the sun had previously been. A nasty bank of pewter clouds rolled across the sky, moving swift, like galloping horses. Thunderheads lead the way, billowing white against the darkness.
“Wow,” Bee said, following Farris' gaze.
“That sure came in fast.”
“...yeah. We should go.”
“We should,” Farris agreed, yet neither girl moved. It was impossible to see the storm come in and not think of the night the tornado swept through.
In the seconds they stood there, debating, the clouds passed overhead, cutting more and more light from the day.
A violent streak of lightning blitzed through the ominous bank, startling a yelp from Beelah. She huddled close to Farris, one hand flat on her back.
“Just stay close, we'll take off in three, two--” Before Farris could finish her countdown, a spear of light cracked the ground to her right. She couldn't tell how far away it hit, she only knew it was close. The energy humming in the air felt hot and heavy; she screamed and stumbled forward when Beelah shoved her into motion.
Then they were running, bolting past the edge of the corn field while another bolt of lightning slammed into the earth somewhere behind them. Close enough to make the hair stand up on the back of Farris' neck.
“Go, go, run!” Beelah shouted in panic.
“I'm going!” Every yard seemed like a mile. Farris ignored the protests of her body to run faster. Halfway between there and the house, another flash of light blinded her. Shouting in surprise, she threw her arm up to protect her face and zig-zagged to the left, thinking to take a wide berth around the now blackened spot on the grass.
“It's chasing us! It's trying to get us!” Beelah screamed.
After the tornado and the diner and the out of control truck—Farris almost believed it. There were so many strikes in such a small area. What were the odds? Determined to reach the house, she reached back for Beelah's hand. Clasping it, she pulled Bee with her, still on a leftward track.
What sounded like a bomb scared her so bad that she hit the ground, rolling from the rock onto the dirt driveway. Bits of a tree near the end of the porch flew out every direction, raining shredded leaves and bark over the ground. One of the heavier branches cracked in the wake of the lightning and snapped off.
“Beelah! Run, come on!” Farris rolled over once more and jumped to her feet. Fear pulsed through her veins like an adrenaline drug, speeding her up instead of slowing her down. Beelah, she discovered, was sobbing as she tried to get to her feet. Sliding an arm around Bee's waist, she steered them toward the steps on the porch.
Twenty yards to go.
More lightning struck to the side of the house, missing the tree. Farris thought her skin was going to crawl right off her body. The rain came then, so hard and savage that it soaked through their clothes immediately.
Hair plastered to her skull, she tugged and pulled Beelah with her, panting for breath past the panic to reach safety. Glancing at Bee, who tripped over a rock, Farris caught a glimpse of something darker than the day around them back near the edge of the corn field they just left.
The silhouette of a man lurked there, staring straight at them. That was the impression Farris got through the storm. It was just like the glimpse she'd had out of the corner of her eye right before the accident; someone standing on the side of the road, watching—waiting—for the Chevy to go out of control.
Now he was watching and waiting for lightning to strike. Farris wasn't sure how she knew, but she did.
This man wanted them dead.
What a crazy thought.
“Beelah, come on.” Farris surprised herself with the urgency in which she ushered Beelah the rest of the way to the steps. The paranoia in her tone must have gotten through to Beelah, who snapped a look at her face.
“Up, up, inside. He's here.”
“Who's here?” Beelah wrenched a look around behind them. When she too saw the eerie figure near the edge of the corn field, she gasped.
Farris dove for the spare key under the mat. If she didn't act fast, she was afraid fear would paralyze her into a statue, incapable of moving or breathing. Fumbling the key, she opened the screen and stabbed it into the lock. It took three tries before the bolt clacked over.
“He's coming! Farris!” Beelah pushed from the side.
Farris grabbed the knob and rushed in, bringing Beelah with her. As she turned to slam the door closed, she saw the man walking toward the house. With the rain spiking down from the sky with such fury, all the fine details were hazy. She couldn't see any features or other defining characteristics.
Lightning continued to streak through the heavens and thunder crashed like giant war drums—all Farris could think about was that Death himself was coming; she slammed the door closed in his proverbial face.
So this was how it happened when it was your time to die. Death stalked you through storms and accidents and fire, determined to take your life whether you wanted him to or not.
Farris wasn't ready, not by a long shot, to say goodbye to everything she knew. In this extreme time of stress, Farris' mind clicked into another gear. Survival mode. Determination to live. She wasn't giving up, or giving in, without a fight.
“Grab a chair!” Farris pointed at the sturdy chairs around the table while she used her body to brace the door. Lightning struck close to the sides of the house, bright illumination flashing through the windows inside.
Beelah grabbed a chair and hauled it across the floor. Farris snagged it from Bee and tilted the back up under the knob, making a temporary brace. The man, Death as she thought of him, had to have reached the porch by now.
Why wasn't he pounding on the door?
“Bee, go check the back door. I'll check the windows down here, although I think they're still locked from last night.” Farris met Beelah's eyes and they parted ways.
As Farris thought, all the windows were locked. Not just locked, but braced with dowels. She checked the porch at each window but didn't see the man again. Where had he gone? If he was Death, he probably didn't need to worry about doors and windows. Death could simply sink through the walls or down through the roof.
What crazy thoughts. Her imagination was running away with itself. She didn't believe Death walked among people as a person like everyone else.
Get it together, Landry. You're not like your mother.
“Do you see him, Farris?” Beelah called from the other room.
“No. Nothing. It's like he just disappeared.” Farris ran into the hallway and into the other room where Beelah was checking windows.
“He's still out there somewhere,” Bee said. Finished with the windows, she came to stand next to Farris.
“I know. He can't get inside though without breaking a window or bashing in a door, so we'll hear him. Maybe we should call the police,” Farris said. In periphery, she saw a dark shadow flit across the window.
“Did you see that?” Beelah asked with a shaky voice.
“Yes. We should find weapons and check the phone line, see if it's working yet.” She didn't want to part from Beelah again, not with someone stalking them around the perimeter of the house. Fighting off panic, she tried to keep a clear mind.
Clutching Bee's arm, she tried the phone first. Attached to the wall in the kitchen near the back door, it was an old rotary kind with a cord linking the handset to the receiver.
Farris plucked the handset up and put it to her ear.
Nothing. No dial tone, not even any static.
“It's dead. We have no way to call anyone.” Goosebumps spread down Farris' arms. They were out here alone, cut off from town, with no way to contact the police.
“Look, there are kitchen knives, and I know Henson has guns somewhere in the house. Let's each get one,” Bee said, gesturing toward a wooden block with handles of many knives sticking out.
“Maybe we should make a run for it. Are the keys in the Charger outside?” Farris asked. There was something frightening about holing up, loaded with weapons, while they waited for the intruder to try and get in. She and Beelah both knew how to shoot, thanks to Bee's dad and brothers, but it was the waiting that Farris hated. The waiting, the listening. The wondering. Was he inside yet? What did he want?
Beelah stopped to consider it. “I don't know if the keys are in it. Wait—I think they are, because when we pulled up behind you guys in the truck, Theron shut the engine off and got out of the car right away.”
“It's a big risk we're taking if we run outside and they're not there,” Farris pointed out. She realized she was clutching Bee's hands as hard as Bee was clutching hers.
“I know. But it's not a bad idea. Maybe we should get the guns and then make a run for the car. That way, if the guy comes for us, we can at least defend ourselves.”
“Okay. All right, let's do it.”
. . .
The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) Page 18
