Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong

by Amy Knickerbocker

  Ah, thought Merus, he’s fighting it already.

  “How’s your faine?” Cocking an ear, he listened for signs of life.

  The castle was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Toran shrugged in answer, not releasing the flames from his stare.

  Brushing off his cousin’s moodiness, Merus splashed whiskey into a glass before crossing the room and dropping into a chair. Throwing a leg across the arm, he settled in to enjoy his drink. While he did, he studied Toran’s motionless form. Though Toran wasn’t the easiest person to be around––and rarely dropped his guard––Merus considered him his closest friend. Over the years, they had been through the shit together, that was for sure.

  Though now, it seemed they had entered uncharted territory.

  Merus knew he would need to tread carefully when it came to discussing the faine.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he asked eventually.

  “Did you enjoy the witch?”

  His cousin’s deflection was not unexpected.

  It was Merus’s turn to shrug.

  “I did what you asked.”

  “I thought your certain… proclivities… would have you tied up much longer,” said Toran. “You know, entertaining yourself.”

  He shrugged again. “Wasn’t interested.”

  “You weren’t interested?”

  Merus heard just the slightest tinge of incredulity in the other daemon's voice.

  “Females like that are a dime a dozen.” His voice was dismissive, but a sting of conscience stilled his tongue from continuing. In deference to his cousin’s predicament, Merus tried to lighten his tone. “Besides, I’m just not that into witches. They’re much more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Toran turned from the fire to face him. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “I fucked up,” he stated straight away.

  Merus liked that about him. Despite his taciturn demeanor, Toran spoke up forcefully when needed, never having been one to shirk responsibility.

  “I know the witch was able to access our parallel because of me.” Toran paused. “She was right. I ripped a seam wide open.”

  Yes, the witch had been right. The Mythos consisted of hundreds, if not thousands, of habitable parallels stacked in haphazard disarray like crumpled cars in a junkyard. Some were disjointed and fragmented like the kingdom of Venn Dom, with its little pockets of daemon civilization existing in parallel with the Scottish Highlands. Some ‘els were smooth and contiguous, like many parts of the human plane. But all were connected by a labyrinth of passageways that could be accessed by naturally occurring gates. With care––or unless they were guarded by force or magic––these weak spots could be traversed without incident by a host of creatures that called the Mythos home. Toran, however, packed a venna punch near surpassing the combined strength of the entire Vimor race. Traveling in and out of Venn Dom had never been his strong suit––especially if he found himself in an agitated state. His swirling vortex of barely restrained energy had, in essence, ripped through Venn Dom’s protection spell and left the gate to his homeland wide open.

  Just like his father had all those years ago.

  Luckily, unlike his father’s fuck up, Toran’s mess had been fixable.

  “I was careless when bringing back the faine,” Toran continued, “and I apologize for putting that on you, especially in front of the witch.”

  Merus flicked his wrist. “Like I give a shit about the witch,” he said. “It’s been taken care of. Don’t worry about it.”

  Toran gave a curt nod, grateful for forgiveness.

  “Here.” Merus held up a scrap of paper.

  “What’s that?

  “Your faine’s address on the mortal plane.”

  “Why the hell would I need her address?”

  Merus drew a patient breath. “She’s your charge now, Toran,” he said. “She’s going to need clothes. Unless you want her to prance around in that little outfit she came here in.”

  His cousin’s low growl rumbled through the room.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said with a smirk. Balling up the paper, he tossed it to Toran. “I’m assuming you’re gonna want to take care of that yourself.”

  His cousin didn’t answer.

  Merus studied him for a moment before swinging his foot back to the floor. He cleared his throat. Leaning forward, elbows to his knees, he braved to say, “Listen, Toran, I think we should keep the fact that we found the faine quiet. You know, keep it a secret if we can.”

  “Secret from whom?” Toran's irritation was immediate and apparent.

  Merus held his tongue.

  “Your constant unease towards my uncle is starting to really piss me off, cousin,” said Toran. “He has done nothing to earn such suspicion and disrespect.”

  “Over the years, what exactly has Arman done to earn anything else?” Merus countered.

  “You are like a broken record,” Toran answered. “Besides, you know we cannot hide her.”

  “Then take her away.”

  “Take her away?” Toran leaned forward and swept out a hand. “I just got her back.”

  “Take her to the cabin at Glenall. Guard her there.”

  “I am not going to run and hide.” Toran threw the paper with the faine’s address into the fire.

  Merus blew out an exasperated breath. “Have you considered the council will not want to give up their power? That the Elden will refuse to accept her?”

  The Elden, an ancient caste of Vimora nobles, were hopelessly mired in their resentment of the faine.

  It was as if the old bastards his brother had chosen so far to spare could not reason past their own mistakes… and blamed the victims. The result of which had led to hopeless misery for the common Vimora just looking to live their lives.

  “Both your father and my uncle will do their duty,” Toran replied. “As will the Elden.”

  Merus just stared at him.

  “Not everyone is like you, Toran,” he ventured with care.

  “You worry too much,” Toran accused. “I can handle the council.” After a pause, he added, “And, the Elden.”

  “What if they try to take the faine?”

  “You think those spineless sons of bitches would risk my wrath to take my faine?” Toran answered. “What the fuck, Merus. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You give them too much credit.” Merus stared, unseeing, out the window. Unlike Merus, Toran had no ability to tap into the sentiments of others, to sense their thoughts and feelings, to protect himself from those who may wish to do him harm.

  “I have too much shit to do to waste time on misplaced suspicions,” said Toran. “Besides, other than the little glitch last night––which yes, I caused––you know there’s no place safer than here in Venn Dom. She’s protected well enough.”

  For a long moment, Merus held his tongue. Venn Dom’s security was tenuous at best. Truth be told, the Vimora faced instability at every turn, from the rebel forces within their borders to the Sumari, the despicable fire daemons who had been intent on taking Venn Dom’s diamond mines for centuries. Even their supposed ally, the Sorcieri, would love to lay their scheming hands on the faine. As Toran's second in command, it was Merus’s duty to point out the obvious, as much as it pained him to do so. Unwilling to end the conversation without having his full say, he leaned forward to ask, “What if she is lost to you?”

  “The faine means nothing to me other than giving me what I need to take my crown.”

  Merus let out a low whistle.

  “Listen to yourself, man,” he said. “No matter how much you try to play the part, you’re not some cold son of a bitch. You’re just not, Toran.”

  At least Merus refused to believe so––despite his cousin’s near pathological compulsion to keep the world an arm’s length away.

  Toran refused to meet his eye. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I figure if I have but one chance, I will take it.”

&n
bsp; An uncomfortable silence stretched between them before the air began to shimmer as Toran tensed to pulse away.

  “We’re done here, Merus,” he said. “You guard over my prize. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Where are you going?” Merus called out.

  He didn’t get an answer.

  In a blink, Toran was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Scorched, dry air blasted his skin as Toran dropped into the desert. On his first foray here the night before, it had taken Toran mere seconds to determine the faine’s ‘el was hell on earth. In his travels throughout the Mythos, Toran had actually been to Hell a time or two––and Hell had nothing on this place.

  Even though he had just arrived, he found himself desperate to return to the peace and beauty of his beloved homeland.

  To his faine.

  Fighting an urge to shout in frustration at the fucked-up things inside his head, Toran set off towards his destination. He had committed the faine’s address to memory before tossing Merus’s scrap of paper into the fire.

  Self-conscious of his strength, he was careful to stay hidden away amidst the scattered dust.

  As he made his way towards her building, Toran admonished himself again for not just sending one of his men to complete this simple task.

  But he could bitch at himself all he liked; it wouldn’t change the truth.

  Toran hadn’t come to fetch her clothes out of kindness.

  No, he had come to learn more about his faine.

  As it turned out, she lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a nondescript building just off the Vegas strip.

  He was met at the door by a very vocal, very shaggy gray cat. Pushing the creature aside, Toran cast a critical eye over the place his faine called home.

  Despite the general drabness of the immediate environs, inside the apartment he found a well-decorated living space. It was neat and feminine, bright and friendly. So different from his home. Vimora Castle was breathtakingly constructed and steeped in history. But it was also cold and impersonal. Only his office and living quarters hinted at a life outside of tradition and duty.

  Here, there were plants on every table and at the base of every window. Photo frames lined the mantle, the flame-haired witch featured in many. A few showed the two of them together, sometimes with males. In one, the witch was draped across the lap of an obvious Strong, possibly a vamp. Caught to the left, just within the frame, Toran's faine smiled at the lens, a longing look in her stormy green eyes.

  He stepped closer to study one picture in particular. The photo showed his faine with a male, his arm wrapped possessively around her slim waist. They posed cheek to cheek, smiling wide to the camera. The male’s gaze was tilted towards her face, his expression full of awe.

  Did his faine have a mate?

  His venna stirred.

  He pushed it aside with a shrug.

  Tough shit for him if she does.

  He headed towards where he suspected he’d find her things. As he made his way through the living room, the cat tried its best to trip him up, its voice growing louder and more insistent the nearer Toran got to the kitchen.

  Glancing at the bowls on the floor, Toran saw that, though the creature had water, the food bowl was empty. Quickly searching through the cabinets, he found a bag of kibble.

  “You hungry, buddy?” The cat reared up eagerly as Toran shook a good few days’ worth of food into the empty bowl. “This should tide you over for a while.”

  Grateful for some dinner, the creature abandoned its quest to take out Toran's legs and settled in to eat.

  Toran resumed his search and found her bedroom at the end of a short hallway.

  A quick glance around found more of the same––a neat and tidy, but well lived-in space. The bed was made. Ocean blue and green pillows were stacked against the headboard. The white comforter had a subtle geometric pattern but with a decidedly feminine feel.

  He found himself nodding, liking the feel of the place.

  And once he opened the top drawer of the bureau, he was grateful he’d come himself. Eyes wide, Toran trailed his fingers through scraps of silk and lace. Swallowing back a groan, he lifted a tiny thong and stretched it between his forefingers, his jeans growing tighter to accommodate the first hint of an arousal.

  His low hissing growl filled the room.

  Guiltily unrepentant, he quickly sorted through the clean-scented colors and styles, choosing the ones he found most appealing.

  When he was done, Toran tossed his bounty onto the bed and then made his way to the closet.

  He frowned at what he found.

  Though most might judge her wardrobe on the modest side, Toran was dismayed by the abundance of flowery sundresses, tiny tops, and short little skirts––proof, in his mind, that his faine had no issue showing flesh.

  Another growl escaped him as his mind wandered back to the male in the photo and the scraps of barely-there fabric on her bed.

  Focus, asshole.

  After digging through some drawers, he managed to find a couple of sweaters and long-sleeved shirts that she would have needed for cooler weather. To round out his loot, Toran swiped several pairs of jeans from a shelf and scooped up some boots and a pair of flats.

  He shoved everything into a duffle bag he found in the back of the closet, figuring whatever he came back with would have to do for now.

  As he was leaving, the faine’s creature wound between his legs, chirping happily and purring. Pushing it back with the side of his leg, Toran slipped sideways through the door, his movements made awkward by the bag he carried. The door clicked shut behind him, locking the cat inside.

  Making haste down the corridor, he tensed to pulse back to the nearest gate.

  As he drifted into the haze, a stab of unease stopped him cold, the molecules that formed his body reassembling with quick precision.

  With a frustrated snarl, Toran turned and walked back into the apartment.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Far from the heat of the western desert, a grizzled old daemon sat before a roaring fire, his brittle bones protesting against the damp of the day. The lick of flames highlighted the furrowed centuries that lined his face.

  A buxom daemoness stood behind him, her arm draped across his shoulder.

  Arman wished she would go away.

  “I just can’t believe that, after all these years, the Tenn has found his faine,” she huffed as she trailed a manicured nail across his cheek. “I thought this nonsense was behind us.

  What does this mean for you and I, my love?”

  “It’s fortunate news, of course,” Arman replied, her improper grammar grating at his ears. Standing quickly, he pulled away from the cloying scent of her perfume.

  Though the conversation had nearly just begun, it had already grown tiresome.

  Sarai, he thought not for the first time, was a nag and a bore.

  “Finding this faine means you will at last be wed to your elusive bridegroom,” he found the strength to say. “It means the kingdom of Venn Dom will finally be restored. Just as the prophecy dictates,” he added with a sharp nod.

  “Prophecy? You cannot be serious.” Sarai’s already shrill voice screeched up a notch. “You cannot actually be entertaining allowing the Tenn to unite the kingdom.” Swallowing audibly, she lowered her voice to whisper, “Through me.”

  Her fear was palpable.

  For good reason.

  Arman forced his lips into a smile. “Yes, my dear, you are the key to everything,” he said, his sneering lie made edgy with bitterness. “With this marriage to my nephew, you will have everything you deserve––not just some corner of the realm.”

  “Baltia isn’t just some corner.” Sarai’s eyes flickered a brighter blue. “I shouldn’t have to point this out, Arman, but should Toran unite the kingdom,” she poked his chest, “you will be left with nothing.”

  Fighting the urge to snap her finger, he stepped away. She’d never understand he’
d rather have nothing than sit by and watch her ass of a father have anything of value.

  It was unacceptable.

  Despite Venn Dom’s supposed dual council rule, Sarai’s father Narcyz had somehow managed to bring Baltia––the richest province in Venn Dom––under his thumb. Be it through bribes, coercion, or flat-out force, the bastard reveled in violating the terms of their agreement at every turn. This despite the fact that he and Arman had sworn on Toran's mother’s grave to rule together until her son could assume the throne… a fate Arman’s nephew was never meant to see.

  His gut burned every time he thought of his old friend’s betrayal. It was already an insult to have to share the spoils of power with another. Yes, he himself had taken choice bits of the kingdom’s wealth for his own. But it was his family, the great royal bloodline of the Tenn, that was rightfully fated to rule all of Venn Dom.

  So, it was Arman’s to steal to begin with.

  Narcyz deserved nothing.

  Now, that was all set to change.

  With the unexpected reappearance of the faine, they’d both be left with nothing unless…

  He sucked in a breath.

  Turning sharply away from Sarai, Arman pressed his fist against his lips.

  After Toran, Arman was next in line to take the throne––but only if Toran somehow actually ascended to take his place as king.

  With the faine now in play, his nephew finally had the means to do so, which opened up Arman’s path to the crown.

  Should something befall his nephew, the king, Arman would inherit everything––Baltia included.

  Like the crest of a wave, his hopes crashed back to reality, smashed to bits on the jagged rocks of prophecy.

  Prophecy decreed that the kingdom would be forever united through Toran’s sons––pushing Arman out of the chain of power forever.

  How the hell could Arman fight the dictates of fate?

  In a blinding instant, Arman remembered his answer.

  Of course.

  “The Elden won’t stand for this, you know.”

  “The Elden will do their duty,” he murmured, Sarai’s words barely registering as his mind raced through the permutations of a plan taking tantalizing root in his mind.