The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  . . .

  A note from the author:

  Thank you for reading The Fate of Destiny! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are the lifeblood of a book, and very important to me. If you would like to leave one, whether good, bad or indifferent, know that I appreciate each and every one!

  Also: Book #4 in the Fate Series should be available by late September.

  All the best!

  Danielle

  The second book in the Fate series is available now:

  The Fate of Chaos – Amazon US - http://amzn.to/HTqRU9

  The Fate of Chaos – Amazon UK - http://amzn.to/IhNHmP

  New release! Book #3 in the Fate series:

  The Reign of Mayhem – Amazon US - http://amzn.to/MxMkCx

  Visit Danielle's website

  for updates and information:

  www.daniellebourdon.com

  . . .

  Other books by Danielle Bourdon:

  AMAZON US:

  Society of the Nines - http://amzn.to/w4CkvF

  Violin Song - http://amzn.to/xylv1Z

  Vengeance for the Dead - http://amzn.to/wooXnt

  Sin and Sacrifice - http://amzn.to/tucay6

  Templar's Creed - http://amzn.to/u95liC

  The Seven Seals - http://amzn.to/tiSkCM

  Bound by Blood - http://amzn.to/ubH9EG

  Dréoteth - http://amzn.to/uWGPqL

  Cemetery Psalms - http://amzn.to/rY8BNA

  Scavenger Hunt - http://amzn.to/slXnQE

  Hunted - http://amzn.to/dTk0AB

  Southside - http://amzn.to/sYWCaY

  . . .

  Excerpt from Dréoteth:

  (suitable for YA readers)

  Chapter One

  Fall

  The Year of the Red Leaf

  “I am called Dréoteth.”

  I enunciated each syllable slowly, unable to abide the pleasure of his death with the wrong name on his lips.

  Dray-o-teth.

  It was the first time I have uttered it in—I do not know how long. Decades. Centuries. Mister Mathan, a prominent member of society, now knows exactly who and what has been picking off the citizens of Malmsbury.

  I worry not for my safety. The dead tell no tales.

  If the villagers knew what an atrocity walks among them, as one of them, they would look upon me with horror rather than intrigue and curiosity. But they do not.

  The people have no idea that the scribe in their midst is the one responsible for their nightmares, for the dark whispers in the corners of the inns and taverns.

  I have been here for six months and have chosen my prey wisely. I have not attacked them in groups even though I have been tempted. Sometimes I want to change right before their eyes and watch them flee en masse, terror thick on the air, their screams layered one over the other.

  In this subtle way, taking one victim at a time, I can stretch out the duration of my stay and study them. The townsfolk have concocted many stories about the unexpected disappearances; one rumor insists that one of their own has gone insane. Another is that a curse has been placed upon the village by a troupe of gypsies that passed through not long before I arrived here.

  A random stroke of luck, that, since it throws any suspicion off me. As a newer member of their small society, any ill news or bad omens and strange deaths might be blamed upon the man they know the least about.

  In an attempt to blend in better, I gave them a false name when I arrived. Here in the village of Malmsbury, they know me as Nehemiah Trimble. I amuse myself with these trivial little details. Centuries past, I never bothered to try and integrate or get to know them. There is danger in doing this, which I suppose is part of the lure. In a fit of brash honesty, I admit that humans have always been nothing more than food in my mind, not worthy of my time or commitment. They are prey, and I am a predator. I found their trials and tribulations tedious. Humans fret and worry over nonsensical things.

  However, the longer I spend amongst them, the more I find myself annoyingly intrigued. There are several men in this town with intellects almost as big as their egos and on more than one occasion we have engaged in interesting conversation. I find myself seeking their company out, shockingly, and could swear that they seek mine out also. I wish that did not fill me with a sense of satisfaction. They are only men, after all, vastly inferior and I know in time they will prove that their true worth is in how well they fill my belly.

  In another contradiction, I find myself loathe to target those with artistic skill; painters, architects, musicians. I am secretly fascinated by their abilities, as much as I wish I was not.

  A woman who serves here at the inn, Eugenia Bailey, bears watching. It is almost as if she can peel open the layers of a person and take a look inside. I know, because I caught her doing it to me and it was most unsettling.

  For a rare moment, I thought she knew my secret.

  I have not lived this long to be disabled by a glance, no matter how incisive, and dismissed the notion immediately. I will see her, in fact I will see them all again on the morrow. There is a great festival planned and while they revel, I will do my best not to be incited by their energy.

  For now the candle burns low and the hour grows late.

  Dréoteth.

  The distorted image that stared back at him in the looking glass resembled a gentleman. His coat, black wool with matching trim, fit loose from his shoulders to his thighs. Layered underneath, a black vest and white shirt added contrast but he cast a critical eye on the snug breeches that tapered down into knee high boots.

  They were gray, the color of ashes, and he considered changing them to match his coat.

  When Dréoteth realized that he was dawdling over his appearance like some normal human, he snorted.

  Humans and their wardrobes, in his grandiose opinion, were too bright, too frilly, too overdone. If he weren’t careful, he would next be shuffling through wigs and ruffles and lace kerchiefs that had absolutely no business anywhere in the vicinity of a man. The thought was laughable if he’d been the type given to fits of amused whimsy.

  He was not.

  Austere. Over-confident. Aggressive. Those were words that better suited him.

  Weak fingers of light, the last hurrah of a dying dusk, painted the spartan room more orange than ochre. It turned his olive skin a jaundiced hue and streaked his jet-black hair with bronze.

  He stalked to a small desk under the open window and collected his journal from the surface. The covering, brown leather worn soft from so many handlings sported no name, no marking, no initials. He took it to the armoire and crouched down in front of it. Setting the book on the floor, he gave it a shove and watched it disappear into the space beneath. He wasn’t too concerned with someone stealing it. Any unfortunate soul daring to invade his room would meet with an unpleasant, permanent end.

  A moment later he stepped into the gloomy hallway, closing the door behind him. Mellow candlelight flickered from sconces on the walls, too far spaced to chase the shadows away. He would not have been hindered had the corridor been totally black.

  He encountered no one as he descended three floors to the main room.

  The Rose and Lion Inn was said to be the best in Malmsbury, a fact he found ironic considering there were only two. After observing both for several days prior to his official arrival, Dréoteth found that this one served his purposes better than its smaller rival, Cantley’s. The Rose and Lion backed up to a sweeping forest, giving him some sort of cover if he suddenly needed it. Cantley’s sat in the middle of the village, providing less protection if he found himself on the wrong end of a hunt.

  “Good evening, Mister Trimble.”

  The intrusion of his name into his thoughts ended them abruptly. He glanced through the empty room to the diminutive woman behind the bar.

  He smiled, a slow curve that didn’t expose any teeth.

  “Mistress Bailey. Are you not attending the festival?” he asked, weaving through the maze of vaca
nt tables with uncanny grace. Arriving at the counter, he rested a hand there, long fingers spare of rings or adornment.

  He stared across at the redheaded, gray-eyed woman and drew in her scent: apples, wine, spice, meat and rose soap. It was always some combination of food and flowers.

  She lifted her chin and maintained eye contact, drying the goblet in her hands with quick, nervous swipes.

  “When Jared relieves me of my shift, yes. You may call me Nia, if it pleases,” she said.

  He thought Miss Eugenia Bailey must not be overly fond of her given name, because this was the fourth time, at least, that she’d briskly offered an alternative. Intrigued, he watched her present a feisty façade while her fidgety body language suggested unease in his presence.

  She set the heavy goblet down, snapped the small towel onto the counter and regarded him with that look.

  The one that was too sweet to be suspicious and too knowing to be ignored.

  In one fell swoop, she set the situation on edge. He stared at her from lidded eyes, nostrils flaring. The predator in him felt challenged by her boldness, real or perceived.

  Sixty seconds passed in unrelenting tension until she glanced down at the counter and cleared her throat. The ends of the towel, already fraying, were now shredded into skinny strips. She picked and picked and pried and tugged.

  Mollified by her retreat, his aggression eased.

  “I will consider it, Mistress Bailey.” There was a scratch and rasp to his voice that hadn't been there before.

  Her voice cracked with a meek question, eyes downcast. “Will you have a drink before you go?”

  He didn’t realize he’d leaned a few inches closer until he straightened to step away from the counter for the doors. Fighting for diplomacy he didn’t feel, he said, “No, but thank you. Perhaps I will see you at the festival.”

  The woman tried his patience like no other.

  “Have a good time, Mister Trimble!” She sounded stubbornly cheery.

  He paused just before he stepped out, looking back, half expecting to see her smiling and waving. She smiled and waved when he looked, like they had not just traded several minutes of awkward friction.

  Humans were the most confusing creatures on earth. The door whispered closed on his shadow.

  ****

  Eugenia exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Positive she hadn't imagined the threat she felt in the air, she willed her heart back into a normal rhythm and released her white knuckled grip on the towel.

  Nehemiah Trimble remained an enigma. They had passed like ships in the night for months and she was no closer to knowing him, really knowing him, than she had been when he arrived. None of the other women knew him any better than she. Nor did any of the men she’d been brazen enough to ask. They knew the simple things; that he was six months new to the town, that he was living at the Rose and Lion, and that he worked as a scribe for scholars.

  Usually, she had no trouble getting to know anyone. Exuberant and merry, she asserted her goodwill and compassion onto the citizens and people responded in kind. Except for the shoemaker, grumpy Mister Rou, who scowled and fussed and tried to pretend he wasn’t charmed by her smiles.

  She wiped down the already clean bar and set a clean stack of trenchers on the back counter. Everyone was at the festival and business would be slow until morning.

  Jared, the lumbering, giant man who tended the Inn at night, ambled in the side door a few minutes later. Blocky and bulky, he had the finesse of a bull in a china shop but fists the size of warhammers; it kept any rabble-rousers in check in the off hours. He had sandy blonde hair and gray eyes so light they almost looked white. His clothing consisted of a threadbare muslin shirt and dark suspenders that helped hold up tan colored breeches.

  Eugenia perked when she saw him, putting away the last of the goblets she’d washed.

  “I am off to the festival, Jared. I do not think you will be too busy tonight.” Eugenia didn't expect a verbal answer from Jared, who preferred silence to speaking. Always.

  She patted his arm on her way by, whisked out from behind the counter, and hurried to the door.

  Eugenia left the Inn for her small cottage nestled at the very edge of the woods, hurrying past the stables where horses nickered when they heard her go by. It wasn’t her own, this little house, but she always warmed at the sight of it. Ivy twisted up the outer walls like skinny, seeking fingers. Leaves draped down from broad branches overhead, creating a whispering rustle on the roof that she’d grown used to over time.

  Now she found it charming instead of annoying.

  Most of the merry flowers lining the cobbled walk were starting to wane as the season inched toward winter. Patches of snapdragons and broad-faced pansies surrounded roses of red, pink and yellow. Morning glory twined around the post of a birdhouse in the yard.

  The lock on the door had been broken for some time and she swished inside, closing it soundly behind her.

  “I am home, Honey!” She smiled, amused at the ritual of announcing her arrival.

  A small living room sat to the right, a kitchen to the left, and a harrowing, rickety staircase between led up to the loft. Straight ahead, two bedrooms split off a short hall.

  Bypassing the living room, Eugenia all but ran into her bedroom. A plaintive meow greeted her from the bed. The cat, roused from its sleep, yawned and sat up. Honey had been her companion for six years, twelve days and four hours. They shared a great affection and she paused to pet and coo, earning a lazy lick along the end of her nose.

  Moonlight poured through the window in an elegant stream, bathing the dress she’d laid out in anticipation of the festival. It was the best one she owned, bought back in the spring after months of careful saving and planning for just this occasion. Burgundy and cream brocade, it had a fitted bodice, full sleeves and embroidery along the hem. Without any help, it took her fifteen minutes to change. At least it laced up the front instead of the back.

  She traded her dusty work slippers for a newer pair and brushed her hair without the benefit of a looking glass, leaving the wavy tresses shining gloriously down her back.

  “I will be home late, Honey. Do not wait up for me!” She scratched the purring feline gently under the chin, laughing, and had just straightened when she heard rustling outside the open window. The crack of a twig drew her gaze there immediately. All she could see were deep shadows made by the trees. Eugenia had never feared for her safety until several members of Malmsbury society went missing.

  The silence stretched thin, expectant, as if someone was standing just outside the window against the wall, listening to her. Honey’s ears flattened and she darted off the bed and under it, disappearing from sight. Eugenia saw it in periphery because she couldn’t take her eyes off the window. Any second a dark silhouette was going to blot out the moonlight, sinister and scary, intent on dragging her into the woods.

  Eugenia Bailey wasn’t having it.

  Picking up a heavy stick that she’d set by her bed, she stalked to the window.

  “Who goes there?” she shouted.

  Leaning out with the stick raised, ready to strike, she glanced left and right.

  No one waited on either side. She scoured the shadows and found nothing suspicious.

  “A deer then,” she surmised, pulling back inside with an indignant huff. It didn’t explain Honey’s strange dive off the bed or the eerie feeling of being stalked. Deliberately, she put it from her mind. She’d been listening to far too many rumors flying about town.

  She leaned the stick against the wall and briskly left the cottage; the festivities were well under way and time was wasting.

  . . .

 

 

 
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