by Tina Gower
The seer blinked. I don’t see an accident. Her brow furrowed as though she had the beginning of a headache. I don’t see anything.
There had been a nagging in the back of my mind. A little hint. A warning. I’d been in school long enough to know about the fateless. Hells, my professors openly debated, sometimes angrily about it.
Some said it was merely that we didn’t have enough oracles for a proper net and so naturally there were holes, those who were harder to forecast. Others said they were truly blanks. Held no destiny.
Then there were the whispers. The ones that speculated about the outliers. Those who could bend the fates. Were they the fateless among us?
No. Impossible. Not a single study had shown a fateless able to change anyone’s destiny. But that didn’t stop the theories. Theoretically it was possible.
It was that possibility that I held on to when the seer stared at me as though I were cellophane.
I’ll drive. See? There’s not going to be an accident if I drive.
Mom hesitated. Dad fished in his pocket and handed me the keys.
Two hours down the road we stopped to eat, got back into the car to continue our road trip. No problem. See? It was nothing.
Drove a mile down the road before I realized I’d forgotten my coat at the restaurant. Crap. We turned around to go back. It was fine. I also had to pee. I parked the car out front.
You can’t park here. A homeless man frowned as I jumped out.
I’ll just be a second. I’m sorry.
No. You have to move your car. You can’t park here.
I was inside before he could stop me, but I heard the man knock on my parents’ window. Frantic now to get their attention. You can’t park here. You have to move. Everyone moved.
Inside the restaurant I got a shiver. The first sign that something wasn’t right. No staff. No other diners. Hot plates were left untouched on the counter ready to be taken to tables. Half-eaten meals. A child’s stuffed unicorn on the floor at the bar. A stake sizzling on the grill, well past done. An egg broken on the rubber mat where the cook should have been standing.
What are you doing here? A waitress pulled me by the elbow. It will happen any second now. Come to the cellar. We will be safe there.
What? What’s happening?
An accident. Just predicted. We were told to evacuate. Please, come with me now.
My parents. They’re outside. What accident?
The crunch, bang, metal-on-metal and spray of glass seemed to come too quickly to be real. The waitress screamed. There was a moment where I thought it was me but realized it was her voice. Not mine.
I’m shaking. It’s years from the accident, but my mind puts me there, the feeling so real that I claw at Ian’s door handle to get free. There’s a truck coming. A truck. It’s going to plow into us. I’m going to die.
Logically, I know it’s not true, but the tingle down my spine tells me it’s real. The officers meander their way back to work and the group is smaller now. I know they’re returning to work, but I feel like they’re leaving because of a fast prediction. Too fast for local support to show. Too fast for a medical team. Too fast to stop the truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel.
The door lock won’t budge. The sweat on my fingers causes me to slip each time I try. It’s the impossibility of that simple task that pumps my heart a little harder. My lungs constrict, forcing the air in the cab of the car into a straw-sized opening in my throat. My own wheezing sounds like trapped sawdust. I’m underwater as my ears plug too. My vision narrows.
“Hey, Lakshay,” one of the officers calls. “Toss me the keys.”
A jingle. A crunch as the key enters the lock. The door opens and I tumble out. Hand on my heart. The world around me tilts, muted of color with the timing slightly off.
The officer crouches down, hands on knees, his neck crooked in an attempt to meet my gaze. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Kate, right? Kate, you okay?”
“I got her.” Becker pulls me up from under my armpits. His hold tightens around my chest. “Hey, shhh,” he whispers into my ear. “I’m sorry. I had paperwork from the Beatrix Morrison thing. I had to clear my schedule.” I sag into him while he babbles each reasonable excuse. I bury my head into his chest, his scent—pine and coffee and a hint of coconut oil—calms me.
Beatrix Morrison? Gods, that didn’t seem like this morning; it seemed like years ago. I’d chased her down in my pajamas earlier today, saving her life.
She’d gone on television and explained that her daughter had survived a chance occurrence because a fateless citizen had interfered with her destiny. It wasn’t true, the man hadn’t been fateless, but the damage had been done. Sensitive details of our last case had been leaked to the public and the computer system had been tampered with. Becker had to deal with all that this morning and then he got the news about me.
He rubs my back until my breath comes steadier. A whoosh of embarrassment fills the void that the fear left. Gods, I must look ridiculous. Weak. My parents’ accident happened a long time ago. Becker needed me and I’d blown it by losing composure. I peek out, mentally prepping myself for an explanation to the officers, but the garage is empty.
Becker reaches behind me, opening the passenger door. The lock disengaging echoes off the walls like in a cave.
“They left. Lunch break’s over,” Becker says, as though he can sense my question before I ask it.
I massage my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut, unable to meet his gaze just yet. “I’m a complete idiot. I don’t know why I—”
“Hey.” Becker catches my chin in his palm. “If I had a dollar for every time one of those guys panicked during a chase, hesitated on the trigger, or tossed their breakfast all over a body—I’d have a healthy retirement.”
“That’s fine. They work impossible jobs and see horrible things. But it’s not me. It’s not what I do.” I shake my head. I’m jumbling the words.
“Hale, you got a death notice—”
“That’s likely fake.”
“It’s a real threat. If they wanted to toy with you they could have said you’d get herpes.”
“Really?” I hold back a smile. “Do you have something you’re trying to tell me?”
He tilts his head. His eyebrows squish together. The question is barely on his lips for me to clarify when I see the moment he gets it. The red creeps up his neck and his eyes widen.
He clears his throat. “No. No, that’s not what I meant.”
I push at his chest. “It’s fine, Becker. I’m fine. It was just a momentary lapse. I’m not going to let them win in the psychological game playing. They don’t get to have a piece of my sanity.” I slide into the seat I desperately tried to vacate a few short moments ago.
Becker hangs his arms over the car roof and door, hunching to my level. He analyzes me. I resist the instinct to squirm under the scrutiny.
I grin. “Are we going? I’m kinda a little hungry. No lunch. Barely any breakfast. It’s catching up to me.”
He takes a step back. Straightens. “Right.”
He slams the door and jogs to the driver side, sweeping his gaze at every dark corner of the garage. He’s in his seat, starting the car. The coconut fills the cab once again.
“Where did you get it?” I tap his vent. “The fuel.” Becker converted his car to take used restaurant fry oil. A funny little detail I’d never expected when I first met him.
“A Thai place on Sixth.”
“I’m craving Thai now.”
He gives me a look like he’s unsure how to respond.
He focuses his attention to backing the car out of the space and getting out of the garage. “It will have to wait. I have something else in mind for lunch.”
Chapter 4
I don’t pay much attention to the road, still a little caught up in my memories, although I don’t care to admit it.
I turn on the local news station.
Becker turns it off.
He ducks his he
ad in silent apology. Right. He can’t hear as well if we add too many sound variables for him to filter. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s on edge. Also doing a bang up/not so bang up job of pretending to not be—like me.
Becker passes my exit and I do the follow-with-my-eyes-straighten-finger-point-at-missed-exit-maybe-we’re-taking-a-short-cut thought sequence. Except we pass the next exit too, so I tap Becker on the arm. He’s probably too lost in thought to notice.
I tap once. Twice. “Uh, Ian.” I motion to the exit.
“What?” He sneaks a look at me, but his eyes go right back onto the road. His knuckles go white, gripping the wheel. “What is it?” His eyes widen, and the color drains from his face. “Are you all right? Do you feel okay?”
“Hey, it’s nothing, it’s just that—”
“Nothing? You only call me Ian when it’s something serious.”
I shake my head and laugh. That’s totally ridiculous. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“And what else am I going to call you? That’s your name.”
“You call me Becker.”
I lean back into the seat, thinking. “That was before…are you asking me to continue calling you by your last name? Even…now?”
He glares into the distance, unsure of how to answer. His nostrils flare out slightly like he’s taking in scents as clues to my meaning. As though if he answers incorrectly there will be some punishment.
Granted it has only been a few hours since we proclaimed we’d try the relationship thing. A lot has happened since then. Maybe now that I’m expired goods with a death notice Becker might want to take it back. After all, he’s lost his pack before, maybe our focus should be on finding my replacement in the now more statistically possible event I don’t make it to the next month.
He sniffs discreetly. Head low, he leans closer to me.
I smack him away. “Stop it. You’re cheating.”
“Cheating?”
“With the sniffing thing.” I’m serious about wanting his reaction, not the one he thinks I want to hear. “What would you prefer me to call you? Now. Now that…you know.” I keep my face neutral, posture open. No crossed legs, no crossed arms, body slightly forward, tilted toward him.
He does this glance, glance, eye shift and squirming in his seat routine. “I’m, uh, fine with Becker?”
“Professionally or personally?”
“Uh…both?”
I cross my arms, press back into my seat. If I wanted a confirmation that he’s pulling away I just got it. “So you’re fine with me screaming out ‘Becker, oh gods, Becker’ in bed?”
“I’m—wait, what?” The tips of his ears flash red. He shifts in his seat. “Now? Do we have to talk about this right now? With everything else going on?”
“Yes. Now. Now is a perfect time.” I brace myself for the brush-off or the breakup.
He swallows. His foot twitches, making the car jump and speed up. My, my—we’re nearly five miles over the speed limit. I’ve really riled him up.
I sigh. “I guess what I’m really asking you is if you want to still do the relationship thing. A lot has happened since then and I understand if we need to back off given that I might not be around in the near future.”
“Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” He nods. A lot. A lot of nodding and throat clearing.
“So?” I wait for him to clarify. My stomach knots and there’s a painful thorn in my throat every time I swallow. “You want to back away. Okay.”
“I want—wait. No. I’m sorry, no. It’s too late for that.” He pauses. Bangs his fist against the wheel. Probably realizes his words might not be a glowing vote of confidence. “I mean, I want it. I want us.”
I blink, not realizing how watery my eyes were getting. Damn early northern California spring. It must be allergies. Out the window the scene changes from cityscape to thinning of office buildings, more houses on larger lots. Becker turns onto a farm road. I lower the window a crack, and the scent of rosemary and lavender fills the car. We’re out by the herb gardens. The mountain climate around this area is perfect for growing vegetables and medicinal herbs used for potions.
“Where are we going? Is there a lead on the seer we’re looking for?” Becker and I had narrowed our suspects down. We were looking for a witch who could tease apart specific fate threads and manipulate them. We were sure it had to be a practicing witch or druid working with Wyrd, an anti-fate group set on bringing down the prediction net. Maybe he found one of them.
“No. I can’t take you to your apartment.” He doesn’t look me in the eye for that admission.
It must be some werewolf reason, like the threat on my life makes it more difficult for him to see our daily routine as safe. I’ll have to ask him about it later. Eventually, I’ll need to return home for food and clothes. I’ll ease him into the idea.
He makes another turn onto a dirt road. It’s long and narrow, which means it might also be a driveway?
His hand rests on his thigh, so I take a chance and skim my fingers along his, testing. I’ve gotten into over-my-head territory with certain kinds of touch. With everything happening now I’m terrified of making a wrong move and making it more difficult for Becker while he works through emotions he doesn’t know enough about to explain. Being adopted, he doesn’t know a lot about the more intricate details of being a werewolf.
He turns his hand over and catches mine. Squeezes. “I can’t take you to my place either.”
My mouth is dry. I lick my lips. “Right. I’m sure the memory of the loss you experienced with your pack before…and me in the same house…might not be the best combination.”
He lets out a long breath. “Actually, no. Well, maybe it would have been a psychological head fuck for sure, but I’m renting it out.”
“Oh.”
“To Dalia.”
“Sure.”
“She can’t go back to her pack and if she does she’ll need to have my scent all over her. We figure we have a month. Two months tops until we really need to deal with that issue.”
“Did you tell her?”
“That I think she might be my sister? No. But she knows that we can’t have a relationship.”
I nod.
“She explained it to me. Wolves get too focused. It’s why I changed my mind. She helped me realize I can’t avoid what’s happening”—he lets my hand go and rubs his heart like it’s beating out of his chest—“between you and me. I can’t say it without it coming out creepy. Is it hot in here?” He rolls the windows down all the way.
“It’s fine, Becker.” I pull his hand back to mine. “I know you’re going to have problems with the obsessive thing. We’ll figure it out.”
We reach a house at the end of the dirt road and Becker skids to a stop, lets me go, turns off the car in one quick motion, then recaptures my hand back as if that two seconds without touch might break him.
“See?” he says. “You called me Becker just now.”
“Really?” I quirk an eyebrow and when he doesn’t react I let a low moan escape my lips. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing. I shift to face him, and try a lower throatier moan. “Oh, gods, Becker. Right there. Right there.” He bites his lip. I pant, really getting into it this time. “Becker. Becker.”
His seat belt flings off so fast, it nearly whips around and smacks me. Becker catches it and shoves it aside as he lunges over the console between us. Dregs of an old cup of coffee splash on both of us. He doesn’t notice. He grabs me, jerking me forward into him. My lips smash into his. He readjusts for a deeper angle.
That coffee cup loses its battle with balance and tips onto the floor, rolling under my feet. Thankfully, it’s mostly empty. I only focus on it briefly as Becker nearly pulls me into his lap, but there’s not enough room. He doesn’t break the kiss through his attempts to get closer. I smile against his mouth. Guess he doesn’t mind being called Becker in bed.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Someone knocks on the frame of the car o
n my side.
Becker hugs me to him so tight I can’t turn around and see who it is. But since he’s not going for his gun, I figure he must have been expecting company.
He growls. “Go away.”
“No way, pups,” says my cousin Ali. “That’s my cousin your macking on and you better check yourself.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief, turning just in time to see Ali pointing at her eyes. I turn back around, noticing the gold glow just around his rims.
Becker shoves the rear view mirror in his direction to get a peek. “Shit.” He pushes it back, but grips me a little tighter, heaving in air like he’s out of breath.
I try my best to face my cousin, but Becker’s hold makes it impossible. “Ali, maybe if you give us a minute.”
She leans down, elbows on the window. “Sure thing.” She digs into her pocket. “But not without this.” She drops the taser powder into my lap and spins on one foot, marching toward the front door.
I hold up the taser powder between us and twist back around to yell out the window. “That’s incredibly rude, Ali!”
“It’s by your boyfriend’s request,” she calls out. “See you two love birds inside.”
My cousin gone, I hold out the bag. “Taser powder? Really, Becker? I thought we settled this last night.”
He nuzzles my ear, whispering, “Use it.” But it’s not a sexy low throaty, kinky request. His voice is lined with a hint of desperation.
“Gods, no. What the hells?” I feel my muscles tense. I grip the taser powder, ready to toss it out the window and take it out of play. Realizing that’s the opposite reaction he needs, I force myself to go lax. “Hey, listen. This isn’t necessary.” My fingers lightly stroke his hair. He won’t turn to look at me, so I let those fingers drift down and unbutton a few buttons on his shirt. I press my palm against his heart. It beats hard against his chest.
He takes a shallow breath. “Use it. Think of it as practice.”
“Practice. Ian, okay, fine. I lied before about the kick on this thing. It’s serious magic. I don’t want to use it on you.”
“But you’ll have to get used to hurting people. There is likely more than one person after you and we don’t know what angle they’ll use to get close enough to strike.”
