The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  “Targeted? By who?”

  “Why would anyone target me?” Farris jumped in after Beelah's questions. She was starting to get restless. Wanted to fidget. To give her fingers something to do, she released Beelah and plucked the wet edge of the scarf away from her throat. The end, already frayed, became more so when she picked at it.

  Emerson exhaled. He seemed to pause, to think about his answer longer than he needed to.

  “Again, it's complicated. Suffice to say--”

  “Hey wait now. If this has to do with Farris' safety, you should tell us everything,” Beelah demanded.

  “I can't tell you everything. Not right now.”

  “Why not?” Beelah asked, frowning.

  “Because I just can't. You'll have a lot more answers in a few days. What I can tell you is that we need to be really cautious for the next twenty-four hours or so. Okay? Just trust me.” He glanced over and met each of their eyes, lingering on Farris longer.

  “I don't understand,” Farris finally said. “Why you? Why me? And what are you saying—that you can do magic, or that there are flying unicorns, and that Leprechauns are real?”

  “Don't take what you see in front of you, around you, for granted. There are things you don't understand, that you can't grasp because you've never been exposed to it. Not in obvious ways.”

  “So is that a yes?” Farris asked. She couldn't wrap her mind around it. Magic, Chaos, Weavers?

  “I wouldn't call it magic, exactly. I influence changes. I can manifest storms--”

  “Tornadoes?” Beelah asked with an arch expression.

  Farris gasped, glancing away from her friend to Emerson. He stopped pacing and faced them. A cold, uneasy feeling inched along her spine.

  “Yeah. Yeah, tornadoes. I'm responsible for the one that hit the Rocket.”

  His confession had the same effect a nearby bomb drop would have. The concussion hit Farris hard. So hard she swayed on her feet. Beelah snatched her elbow to steady her and glared at Emerson.

  “You! Get out right now! I can't believe you're standing here admitting you did such a horrible thing,” Beelah shouted.

  “Wait, just wait--”

  “Get out.”

  “Bee, we have to hear what he has to say. I...I need to know what's going on. We both do, so nothing bad happens. If he leaves, we won't have any answers. We may never have any answers.” And that would drive Farris crazier than her mother.

  Beelah, huffing and puffing with fear and indignation, clapped the knife down on the counter. She hadn't brandished it or made any threatening gestures toward Emerson. Beelah really wasn't the stab-his-heart-out type anyway.

  Farris looked expectantly at Emerson. Waiting for him to continue.

  “You've got a bullseye on your back, Farris. I was lied to in the beginning, told to conjure the tornado for different reasons. When I realized so many people would get hurt, I jumped in to help you and Beelah and whoever else I could.”

  She remembered that night like it happened five minutes ago. How he'd hovered over her, staring down into her eyes, before hauling her up off the ground. He'd saved her that night—saved her many times since.

  However, another uncomfortable thought struck.

  “Did you set the fire, Emerson?”

  He pressed his lips together and stared at her from under the ridge of his brows. Emerson didn't have to say a thing. His actions spoke loud and clear.

  Beelah made an agonized sound in the back of her throat. “This can't be happening. Seriously?”

  “So why? Why did you do it again when you knew we might die?” Farris asked.

  “I didn't know you were in the loft at the time. I swear. I was told you were at Beelah's house—and I'll be honest. I didn't want to do it.”

  “But what's the point? My stories are in there!” Farris came to the defense of her stories, too. They were as important to her as breathing. “And who told you to do it? Why do you follow such...such...insane orders?”

  “I can't explain that part. Not until the day after tomorrow.”

  Farris, growing exasperated as well as fearful, gestured with one of her hands. A dismissive wave. “No, you don't get off that easy. You can't come in here, say all that, and not give us a solid reason for doing it.”

  Emerson changed direction. He advanced on her with long steps, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Farris realized she wasn't afraid of Emerson—or what he might do. She was afraid of the unknown, of what he wasn't saying.

  Grasping the outsides of her shoulders in a gentle but firm grip, he brought their faces closer.

  “You're going to have to trust me, Farris. Trust that I know what's going on and that I won't let anything happen to you. In the beginning I was oblivious—now, I'm not. But I can't tell you a few certain things. What I can tell you, is that we need to get out of here. He was doing something around the house and I'm not sure what. And he'll probably be back, too, because he knows how to open and close Rifts.”

  Farris expected to feel some kind of jolt when he touched her. All she felt was the heat of his palms sinking into her skin through the sleeves of her shirt. No magic, no electric buzz. She still wasn't sure she believed in magic—in any of this—anyway. It was a lot to take in.

  From the front of the house, someone banged on the front door, startling all three of them. Emerson thrust Farris behind him and tugged on Beelah's arm to encourage her to do the same.

  “You both stay put, no matter what you hear, got that?” Emerson said over his shoulder.

  “I'm not staying behind.” Through all the confusion, Farris knew one thing: she needed to see everything that went on. Needed to see whatever happened so she could better accept the strangeness around her.

  “Me either,” Bee added.

  Emerson grumbled and led the way through the house. He rubbed his hands together, as if collecting heat or static, and flung the front door open with aggression.

  Theron stood on the other side of the screen, soaked to the skin.

  “Hey man. Glad you're here. We're just leaving,” Emerson said, stepping aside to gesture the girls to the porch.

  “Where are you going?” Theron asked, giving the girls a quick once over after they filed out onto the porch.

  “I told them.”

  “Told them what?” Theron asked, shaking water from his hair.

  “What I am.”

  Theron paused, then glanced from Emerson to the girls.

  “Are you one, too? The...Weaver?” Beelah asked. She folded her arms protectively over her ribs.

  Theron gave Emerson an unhappy, chiding look. But he didn't duck the truth. “Yeah. I am. Emerson's not supposed to be telling you this.”

  “I don't want to go in the car,” Farris said, interrupting the disturbing conversation about Weavers of Chaos. She felt like she was on overload as it was, and the closer they got to the Charger, the more it freaked her out. After the Chevy incident, Farris didn't trust any vehicle.

  “Why not?” Emerson and Theron asked at the same time.

  “Because something happened in the Chevy,” Beelah said. Her teeth started chattering.

  “What happened?” Emerson's gaze sharpened on Farris.

  She shifted on her feet, feeling the weight of Emerson and Theron's glances. “We're not sure exactly what happened. But I think that guy was there. The one you fought with?”

  “Rowley,” Theron supplied.

  “Whoever. I think he was there.”

  “What happened to the Chevy?” Emerson asked again.

  “I couldn't control it. It sped up and the brakes wouldn't work, nothing worked, and we ran off the road into a ditch.” Farris left out the part where Beelah grabbed the wheel.

  “So it's stranded on the side of the road somewhere?” Emerson asked, as if he doubted that was all there was to the story.

  “We flipped. Like three times. We flipped over, but we didn't get hurt. Other than muscles aching and feeling like a rag doll, we didn't get cuts or br
uises or broken bones,” Beelah replied.

  Emerson and Theron exchanged a long look.

  Farris couldn't tell what they were thinking. What the look meant. So of course, she asked.

  “What?”

  Emerson thrust a hand through his hair. “You're lucky to be alive, that's what.”

  “Why don't you want to stay here, Emerson? This is probably where you're safest right now,” Theron said.

  “Rowley showed up,” Emerson said, answering before anyone else could. “We got into a fight. I opened a Rift and locked him out. At least for now. It won't last. I'm pretty sure he was trying to do something to the house. Maybe another gas leak.”

  “He's gonna be looking for revenge when he finds you again,” Theron pointed out.

  “No kidding,” Emerson muttered.

  “I can Clean the house. Get rid of whatever nefarious plot he was conjuring,” Theron said.

  “What does that mean? Clean the house?” Farris asked. A headache started to build behind her eyes. She felt sleepy and hyper at the same time. She was also confused, unable to sort through all the details and information with any degree of success.

  “He can suck up the energy, is what he means,” Emerson explained. “Like a sponge. Then he has to get rid of it, which will leave him pretty drained for seven or eight hours. Are you sure you don't want to go in the car? I still think getting away from here is the best idea.”

  “Can you do that, too?” Farris asked Emerson of the 'cleaning'. “I can't get in the car right now. Not after the accident earlier.”

  “I can, but I won't. That leaves me pretty useless and you and Beelah vulnerable.” Emerson scanned the yard in front of the farmhouse, as if trying to make a decision. Finally, he said, “All right. Theron, Clean the house. We'll hole up here for the night and hope that Rowley doesn't come back to finish what he started.”

  . . .

  Darkness fell, cloaking the land in shadow. Running on autopilot, Farris foraged for food in the kitchen with Bee and made them all an unexciting meal of stew and biscuits. It was hot, however, and filling, and she ate the whole bowl. Silence had descended between the four of them after Theron had 'cleaned' the house, an event that seemed innocuous and mysterious.

  When he was through, she saw the toll it took on him in the ghastly hue of his skin and the sunken appearance around his eyes. Carbon monoxide, he'd said, was the hidden danger Rowley had exposed the girls to. Assured the problem was fixed, they ate without speaking, utensils clinking against ceramic.

  One by one, they each took turns showering and changing. Farris rummaged clothes for the men from Henson's closet while they all utilized the washer and dryer on the first floor.

  By the time midnight rolled around, Theron and Emerson were in their original clothing instead of the ill fitting garments of the slim farmer.

  Beelah had borrowed a sage green sweater and jeans from Farris, while Farris chose a burgundy sweater with a high neck and black denim. The domestic chores of cooking, washing dishes, showering and cleaning clothes had a calming effect on Farris, leaving her exhausted in the aftermath. Her mind shut down of its own accord, refusing to cycle through another round of questions and answers.

  Emerson insisted they all huddle in the main living room around a low fire he built in the grate. One lone candle sat on the coffee table, the only other source of light in the house. Gathering blankets and pillows, they settled in to wait.

  Beelah was the first to fall asleep.

  Theron went next, leaning against a bean bag with his pillow on his lap.

  Farris, curled into a sheepskin lined blanket, stared into the fire. The crack and pop of burning wood combined with the dance of orange flames lulled her into an almost trance-like state. She thought of nothing, just stared.

  Emerson, taking first watch, sat next to her with his knees drawn up, forearms draped around. She was aware of him peripherally. Distantly.

  “You can put your head on my lap and sleep, if you want. You should at least try to get some rest,” he said after a time.

  His voice roused her. She glanced aside. His eyes, clear and lucid, reflected the flames. Lowering his legs until they were straight, he pulled an ottoman up behind him to lean against and laid a pillow across his lap. He patted it invitingly.

  Emerson knew how to make rest look appealing. For a long moment, she watched his eyes. Searched his for answers to questions she didn't currently ask. She was afraid to get too comfortable, afraid to close her eyes. Understanding that her body and mind needed the rest, however, she tilted sideways and lowered her head to the pillow. Rolling onto her back, she drew the blanket up to her chin.

  Right away, Emerson's hand went to her hair, stroking the strands back from her forehead. Whatever Emerson was, or wasn't, she didn't mistake the affection with which he touched her. It made her wonder if this was the reason he'd come to her aid so many times, even in the beginning when he had been the one to precipitate the disaster.

  “What's on your mind?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Everything. I wonder why you stuck around. Kept coming back even if you didn't have to.”

  “It's not obvious?”

  Heat crept under her cheeks. “I don't like to assume.”

  “I don't usually stick around. Girls, I mean. I don't get involved. For obvious reasons, my life makes it difficult for me to get close to too many people.”

  She drew her gaze away from the fire and turned her head up until their eyes met. He was looking down at her, still stroking a hand over her hair. It seemed to comfort him as much as it comforted her.

  “Why am I different?”

  “You just are.”

  “That's not a real answer.”

  “It's the best answer I've got.” He paused, then continued. “I don't know. I just didn't want to see you hurt at the Rocket. It went on from there. I like your spunk, your fire. You're not perfect and you know it. You embrace the skeletons in your closet and don't care who knows you've got them. People who pretend like they don't have any just wind up annoying me. Everyone's got a past.”

  “You haven't talked about yours at all,” she reminded him.

  “It gets heavy pretty quick. Maybe that's a story for later.”

  “You mean if we make it through the rest of the night and through tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if we don't make it?”

  “We've made it this far.”

  “Sounds like you're the glass half full type.”

  “And you're the glass half empty. Opposites and all that, right?”

  “I'm not always a pessimist.”

  “Usually. But you're cute about it, at least.”

  “What if you find out later that you don't like the skeletons in my closet?”

  “What if you find out you don't like mine?” He arched a brow.

  “The magic saves you.”

  He shook with a silent laugh. “It's not magic, exactly.”

  “It is too.”

  “Not really. Magic is--”

  “I saw that hole open up in the ground. That was magic.”

  “That was a Rift.”

  “A Magic Rift.”

  He laughed again, more breath than sound. “There you go, being stubborn again.”

  “Who is calling who stubborn?” She arched a brow.

  “I'm never stubborn.”

  Farris scoffed. It was a rude but delicate sound. She grew serious a moment later. “I really wish you'd tell me what you say you can't.”

  “There's a very good reason. Trust me.”

  She considered his expression, his eyes. “I do trust you. I shouldn't, not after all this, but I do. If you hadn't come back after the fire, or helped at the Rocket—among other things—I wouldn't put myself in your care.”

  “Just promise me that you'll remember you said that when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes for what?”

  “You'll see.”

  “D
o you have the gift of foresight?”

  He winced. “No.”

  “Then why does it seem like you do?”

  “It just seems that way, Farris. By later on tonight, this will all be over. That's what we have to look forward to, right?”

  “So you're saying you're going to stick around Newcastle then?”

  “It looks that way. See how things work out.”

  Farris understood Emerson was as tentative as she was about all this. Or maybe he was cautious instead of tentative. She couldn't decide.

  “Tell me what other kinds of things are different with the world I don't know about.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She frowned. “Just one hint.”

  He smiled. “No, because if I give you one hint then you'll want another, and then another, until we're in a full fledged question and answer session. Not gonna happen.”

  “I will not do that--” In the midst of speaking, she heard the distant—but growing louder—sound of engines. “What's that?”

  Emerson ducked his hands under the pillow and raised her to a sitting position. “Wake Beelah.”

  Farris sat up and shoved off the blanket, then got to her feet.

  Emerson reached over to grab Theron's boot and give it a vigorous shake. “Wake up, man. Wake up. Sounds like someone's coming.”

  Theron stirred. He looked groggy. In the firelight, it was difficult to tell if any of his color had returned.

  “Beelah! Wake up.” Farris gently shook her friend's shoulder. Bee sat up suddenly, startled.

  “What is it?”

  “I don't know. But get up.”

  Theron accepted a hand from Emerson. Staggering to a stand, he took a deep breath in and followed Emerson to the front window. The sound of engines was louder now.

  Headlights speared the darkness outside, slanting from the road across the front lawn.

  “Cars. About five of them,” Emerson said. “Can't tell if it's the Sheriff or what.”

  Theron jumped up and down in place a few times then peered through a slit in the curtains. “He wouldn't be coming out here for you if he let you go.”

  “Well. He might. I stole Larissa's car earlier.”