Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Uh-huh. Sure,” my annoying little brother said. “That’s why you look like someone wrecked your precious Mustang, right?” I loved Jesse. God knew I did. Yet sometimes I wanted to slam his head against a fucking wall. Especially when he was right. I was pissed. Not because that asshole over there ground his willy against Manda’s butt. I didn’t give a fuck whom she screwed. What I did care about was the reality she was getting herself in trouble. Again. The dude didn’t strike me as someone who liked to be teased. And we all knew that’s what Miss Attitude did best. She promised you heaven and gave you fucking hell.

  Not my problem, I kept telling myself. Let her play with fire. She’ll be the one to live with the damn scars.

  Done watching them, I got on my feet. “Refill?”

  “Booze to help forget about boobs?” Jesse winked at me. “Bring it, bro.”

  It took me a while to get to the busy counter. “What can I do for you, hot-stuff?” the forty-something waitress greeted me. She could have been my mother. Didn’t stop her from checking me out.

  “A bottle of bourbon,” I said, half facing the dance floor, half the counter.

  Manda continued to dance. She rolled her hips, played with her hair, and smiled like the damn devil before he collects Jesus’ soul. The girl, I had no doubt, was more than any guy ever bargained for—made of pure pleasure and stinging heartbreak. The asshole behind her had no idea what awaited him, but he pretty much knew what he wanted to do with her.

  A nasty fire burned through my veins, waking the longing to wipe the floor with the dude’s ugly visage. But when her emerald eyes met mine, I got the feeling that was exactly what she wanted. For me to lose my shit, so she could use it against me.

  Sorry, baby. I don’t play your games.

  “Not sure who’s luckier,” the waitress said, the bourbon bottle pressed against her cleavage. “Her”—she arched a brow at Manda—“or you.”

  I played dumb. “Huh?”

  She leaned over the bar. “C’mon, a blind man could see the way you two look at each other.”

  I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Like we want to kill each other?” No, that wasn’t metaphorically speaking. I wanted to strangle the chick more times than I could count, since my annoying little brother offered her a ride. She took “stab-worthy” to a whole new level.

  The waitress shrugged. “They call it ‘little death’ for a reason, hot-stuff.”

  Jesus, why did everyone think I was into her? Amanda Bishop wasn’t my type. I liked nice girls. Not the ones who were so good at being perfectly bad. “I’m not—”

  “Interested?”

  I nodded like a dumbass.

  “Is that why you’d love to shatter that bourbon bottle over the guy’s head?” she asked, handing me the booze. “Or why she’s stiffening every guy’s penis just to get your attention?”

  “She’s just trying to piss me off.” She lived and breathed screwing with my head.

  She laughed out loud. “And why do you think she does that?”

  Because she’s Satan and I’m her favorite toy.

  I shoved a twenty-dollar bill over the counter. “Thanks for the bourbon.”

  By the time I made it back to Jesse, the guy behind the turn tables decided it was time for slower tunes. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” blasted through the crowded bar. I didn’t have the slightest interest watching Manda and that asshole do a slow dance. So I kept my back to them, and topped up our glasses.

  I lifted the shot. “To—”

  “Me?” I flinched at the sound of her voice. She stole my bourbon, downed it, and slammed the empty glass on the table. “How thoughtful of you, jerk-face. I really needed that.”

  Old me—pre-Manda me—would have walked away. New me—post-Manda me—took the damn bait. “Yeah. I can see how rubbing your ass against the douche’s crotch made you thirsty.” I sounded like jealous lover-boy on LSD.

  Queen-bitch grinned from ear to ear. “Would you rather it be your crotch?”

  I clenched my jaw. “You wish.”

  Manda’s smile only widened. “Maybe I do.” She played with a strand of her angelic hair. “Maybe I don’t.”

  Our eyes locked in an epic stare-down. I had killed dozens of witches, been face to face with almost every supernatural scum there was, but nothing and no one could push my buttons the way she did. One smile, one word, one gesture was enough to transform me into the worst version of myself. And she liked to feed the beast inside me. Making me lose control brought her utter joy.

  Jesse cleared his throat, muttered something under his breath, and headed to the counter.

  “Baby?” Wannabe thug yelled. “You coming or what?”

  Manda crossed her arms. “Are we done here?”

  I couldn’t believe she wanted to go back to the douchebag. “For a chick who claims to be all independent-feminist, you sure as hell got a thing for being treated like a piece of meat.” Manda was the sorta woman who hated it if you paid for her drinks. She was also big on “I’ll never marry some douchebag who thinks he can tell me how to live my life,” and a fierce defender of “boys will be boys is just a lame excuse for I raised my son to be a dick.” Why she allowed a dude to treat her like that asshole did, I couldn’t possibly understand.

  Defiance gleamed in her eyes. “Oh, that’s rich.” She raised her brows. “Comin’ from a guy who hates my face but dreams of the color of my panties.”

  She spun on her heels, ready to continue her little game. But I’d had enough of being her pawn. Seizing her wrist, I pulled her back. “What is wrong with you, Amanda? Is this all just one big game for you?”

  She flashed me a maddening grin. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

  As I said, one snarky reply was more than enough to free the beast I had caged so carefully. My brain stopped functioning, giving room to the most primeval urge—desire. And as I stood there, pushing her against the wall, I realized three things.

  One: I hated her.

  Two: I loved to hate her.

  Three: I wanted her more than I ever wanted anything in my life.

  It was insane, but I didn’t give a fuck. I was tired of denying what we both knew was inevitable. “I said you could ride with us, but I won’t put up with your shit any longer.” I fisted my hand around her wavy thatch. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and say what you really want?”

  I closed my eyes, waiting for her retort. It never came.

  Manda was gone. The bar empty.

  What the fuck?

  Panicked, I looked around. “Manda? Jesse?”

  There was no one. Where the fuck did everyone go? They couldn’t just vanish into thin air. Unless—

  I reached for my Beretta. “Show yourself,” I ordered, well aware only magic could make a full bar disappear.

  Green flames danced over the counter. The scent of sulfur stung my nostrils. Then I heard her voice. “Relax, Alex.”

  “Manda?”

  She moved out of a shadowy corner. Something about her was different. And it wasn’t just the new scar on her chest. The spark in her eyes was missing. “Interesting choice,” she said, scanning the bar.

  “Don’t come closer,” I warned, gun pointed at her. For all I knew, she could have been a shapeshifter. Those creatures loved to mess with your head by posing as someone close to you.

  A ghost of a smile played on her lips. “I’m not a shifter.”

  “How did you—”

  “Look around you, Alex.” She tilted her chin at the bar. But the bar didn’t exist, only an ocean of green flames. “This isn’t real.”

  I guess that explained why a white rabbit with red eyes hopped through blazing green fire. “Am I dreaming?” I asked, shoving the gun back in my holster.

  “Sort of,” she replied, leaning against the flames as if they were a solid wall.

  When did she stop speaking in full, stab-worthy sentences? “Could you be a bit more specific?”

  She moved toward me. “I sur
e could, but we don’t have much time.”

  “Time for what?” She started to freak me out.

  Manda met my gaze. “I need you to listen to me real carefully.”

  “Manda, what’s—”

  “You’re the only one who can stop this.” The fire claimed her, pulling her away from me. “The only one who can stop me.”

  “Manda, wait!”

  Too late. She was gone.

  ****

  “You doing all right, pal?” a husky voice asks.

  I shake the dream off and spin around. Flannel shirt dude stares at me, brows raised, arms crossed. “Yeah,” I mutter, turning the water off.

  He moves to the second sink, eyeballing me through the mirror. “You know what they say about fate giving you lemons, right?”

  Did he just say fate giving you lemons? I thought life gave you lemons.

  “Go get the tequila,” he says before I can question his proverb skills. “And buckle up for a wild ride.”

  I gawk at the guy, not sure why chills run down my spine. Maybe it’s the way he grins, like he knows something I don’t. Or I’m just paranoid. Either way, his proximity gives me the creeps.

  He taps his non-existing hat. “See you around, cowboy.” Then he disappears inside one of the stalls and I move my ass back to the car.

  Chapter 10

  I have absolutely no fucking clue why everyone’s in love with the Big Apple. Too many people. Too little space. No real community. To cap it all off, parking is a fucking nightmare. Only God knows how long I had to drive around the block ’til some dude gave up his spot in front of Mr. Wong’s, a Chinese restaurant, the sorta gig Manda would go for—shabby, cozy, and exotic. The witch has a thing for foreign food. She dragged me into a Persian place once. I didn’t hate the stuff she ordered, but I’m more of a good, old hamburgers and fries kinda guy. Short: American through and through.

  “About time,” B grumbles. “My grandpa would have gotten us here sooner. And he’s blind.” The mamba slept through most of the drive, woke up when we arrived in NYC, and has been a pain ever since. I get why she’s on bitch crack. Manda’s disappearance along with what we found in Salem and the reality Melinda and her son are gone, too, rang all her alarms bells. So she gets a pass. For now.

  Jesse unbuckles his seatbelt, searching the area. “I don’t see any fortunetellers.” Yeah, unless Madame Josephine reads in the kitchen of Mr. Wong’s, I don’t see it either.

  B jumps out of the car. “Hurry up, boys. This isn’t a sightseeing tour.”

  Jesse gives me an apologetic look. “She’s—”

  “Intense,” I murmur, swallowing what really lies on the tip of my tongue. Starts with a “b” and ends with an “h.”

  “Worried,” he corrects. “Manda is like a sister to her.”

  She’s not just worried—the mamba paces the pavement like a crack addict, looking for his next fix—she’s close to losing her shit.

  “I know she is,” I say. “I am, too.” Judging by his expression, he already figured that out on his own. Still, it feels good to actually say it. I’ve spent so much time pretending I don’t give a shit about the witch, it’s liberating to man-up.

  “We’ll find her,” he assures me.

  I yank the car door open. “We will.” Come what may.

  B shoots daggers at us. “What took you so long?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, so I assume she felt compelled to make our life a little harder before she heads down the narrow alley, next to Mr. Wong’s.

  Night has already fallen. NYC is lit up like my mom’s Christmas tree. Or maybe my mom’s tree is inspired by the endless lights of the city. Either way it’s a nice sight. Sorta comforting, considering the dark outlook of the past few days.

  “B,” Jesse barks. “Wait up.”

  The mamba ignores him, moving past several fire exit stairs. The farther we walk, the creepier it gets. Jesse and I are on high alert, expecting a gangbanger to mug us at any second. I wonder how that Madame Josephine chick stays in business. She probably needs to hand out bulletproof vests to her customers to get them here.

  Chilling wind howls through the passage, beating against my skin like the whip of a dominatrix. I hug my leather jacket against my chest, spotting a blinking, neon green sign in the distance. Madame Josephine. Palmist, Tarot Reader, and Healer. That’s code for witch.

  B stops abruptly. She spins on her heels, facing us. Actually, she faces me. “Just so we’re clear,” she says, standing straighter than a candle. “I do the talking. You”—she casts me a killer look—“pretend you don’t exist. Got it?”

  I don’t appreciate her telling me how to do my damn job. Unfortunately, I never get to share the intel because Jesse nudges me. Hard. “We understand.”

  B’s gaze lingers on me.

  “Fine.” I wave my hands white-flag style. “You’re in charge.” As long as she gets what we need, I’m cool with staying in the background. If she doesn’t…well, then I won’t guarantee anything.

  B doesn’t trust me. I can tell by the wrinkles on her forehead and the “don’t fuck with me, Alex” look plastered across her pretty face.

  “He’ll behave,” Jesse promises her.

  She turns to the iron door. “Yeah. Right.”

  The mamba has some unresolved issues with me. I sense the hostile vibes every now and then. She shoots them like a ninja throws his throwing-stars, in secrecy, whenever she thinks I’m not looking. At first, I figured it’s because of Manda. You know the whole “sisters before misters” crap. But there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head saying it’s more than that. B blames me for something. I just don’t know what. Yet.

  “Josephine,” she yells, slamming her tiny fists against the hard surface. “Open up. It’s me, Bonnie Lacroix.”

  Minutes go by. There’s no sign of a fortuneteller or anyone else. Unless you count the rats squeaking in the sinister corners. I don’t.

  “Josephine.” B sounds like a full-blooded siren. “Please. I need your help.”

  Jesse rests his hand on her shoulder. “Maybe we should—”

  The door swings open. “Can I help you?” A twenty-something, very pretty—long black hair, nice body, Catherine Zeta Jones would envy her face—boohoo princess asks.

  I guess this isn’t Madame Josephine. How do I know? One look at B’s aggravated face is more than enough. “Where’s Josephine?” Wow. That was rude.

  The girl narrows her eyes. “Who wants to know?”

  B rolls her eyes. “Bonnie Lacroix from the New Orleans Lacroixs.”

  Boohoo Princess’ demeanor changes instantly. “I’m sorry,” she says, opening the door farther. “I didn’t recognize you.” B’s family truly is royalty. Why else would the girl act as if she just came face to face with the Duchess of Cambridge?

  B waves it off. “Just tell me where Josephine is. I need to talk to her. Now.” The mamba left her manners somewhere in Salem, that’s for sure.

  Boohoo Princess raises her brows. “Josephine is…was in Cassadaga. She’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Cassadaga, huh? Also known as the Psychic Capital of the World, or like we hunters say the place where real witches hide amongst the fraud. It’s a small community in Florida. Folks who live there do aura readings, tarot readings, crystal balls and whatever humbug brings their next paycheck.

  B throws her hands in the air. “Fuck.”

  “Can I help you?” Boohoo Princess asks.

  B cocks a brow, studying the poor chick. The mamba’s gaze dissects her like a damn frog. “We’ll be back tomorrow,” she says before she marches back to the car.

  Jesse chases after her.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and sigh. “I’m sorry. She’s—”

  “Intense,” Boohoo Princess offers.

  I laugh. “Yeah.” That’s the second-best word to describe B, but the only one that isn’t insulting.

  “It’s okay,” the girl assures me, conjuring up a half-hearted smile.

  “No, it
’s not.” Boohoo Princess didn’t deserve B’s anger. She was just trying to help. “Anyway, thanks for your help.”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  I rush back when I hear B’s voice. “No, you don’t get it.”

  “Bonnie,” Jesse roars. “You’re overreacting.”

  I halt, peeking around the corner.

  “Why?” She slams her hands on her hips. “Because he’s your brother or because you don’t want to hear the truth?”

  My brother cups her elbow, pulling her closer. They exchange some hushed words. Dirty looks pave the gap between them. When I step out of the alley, they both shut up.

  “What’s going on?” I never saw them argue like that.

  Jesse yanks the passenger door open, hops in, and slams it shut.

  I eyeball the mamba. “What’s going on?” I repeat.

  The mamba smiles, bitterly. “Nothing.” She reaches for the door handle. “Let’s go.”

  I feel like I missed a whole episode of Everyone Knows What’s Next, Except Me. “Go where?”

  “We can crash at my place,” she murmurs, shutting the door behind her.

  Her place, huh? Awesome. Who wouldn’t want to stay the night in the apartment he almost died in? The same apartment in which the girl I thought hated me cried for my lost soul.

  ****

  Manda’s hand laid on my chest. I hadn’t been able to open my eyes, but I felt her the second she climbed into bed with me. The darkness that held me captive was no longer a cold bed of nails. With her there, I saw the shadows of the night. A glimmer of hope. Had I known that it took a deal with the devil and a near death experience to get her in my arms once again…I swear I would have called upon the demon sooner.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” she whispered.

  Her tears broke and healed me at the same time. Part of me wanted nothing more than to wipe them away, to assure her it’s going to be all right. But the sadist, hiding beneath the hero, enjoyed her tears. Tears she cried for me. An ocean of salt that told me she did care, after all. I wanted to capture them in a jar, so I could take them to hell and remember why all the torture and pain was worth it.