The Trouble with Fate

by Leigh Evans

  Silence except for the oddly hollow sound of Mannus’s head rolling across the portal floor. Lou frowned down at it, her face sour. And then she hauled off and kicked it. Her mate’s think tank spun off the end of the portal and fell with a plop into the water below.

  “She killed him,” said one of the Weres.

  Quick as a hiccup, the “Oh shit, I’m the deer” expression crossed Lou’s face.

  Yes, I thought.

  Lou babbled the words to open the gate as Stuart’s buddies swarmed for the portal.

  The chimes tinkled, and then—

  Crack!

  An echo followed the trajectory of the shot.

  “No one move!”

  Bullet and voice put together totaled one hell of an attention-getter. All eyes turned to the overgrown path winding down the Stronghold ridge. Biggs stood, a head above a thicket of cockleburs, with a shotgun jammed into his shoulder. His finger was curled around the trigger.

  If he says better late than never, I’m going to take him out, I thought, as he carefully made his way down the hill. Right on his heels followed a scrappy-looking guy, carrying what looked like a machete. And at the top of the ridge, just under the tree where Lexi used to plot our next great adventure, stood a tall redhead. True, Cordelia had an arm braced over her gut wound, but she was upright, and in my desperate calculations, upright was enough. Even as I thought—maybe that’ll be enough—another shot tore over their growls. I saw a chunk of something fly off one of Mannus’s crew. Flesh? Bone? Whatever, the bad guy tumbled backward into the pond. Where the hell did Biggs find another gunman? I squinted at the path and found the sniper: a middle-aged guy hidden among the weeds, halfway down the hill. His rifle barrel was steadied on a rock.

  “George will take out the next man who moves, and he’s aiming for the head.” Biggs broke through the last of the waist-high weeds.“You want to chance coming back with scrambled brains, go ahead.” Apparently no one did. All but Stuart retreated.

  Biggs trained his shotgun on Lou. “Fae, take your amulet off.”

  Lou gazed at me across the pond, entreaty in her eyes.

  “I have no problems taking you out,” Biggs said to her. “Throw it in the pond.”

  Lou took the Royal Amulet off slowly, reluctance obvious. For a second she held it in her open palm and contemplated it with such sweeping sorrow that she almost seemed pitiable. Then with a venomous curse, she clenched her fist and hurled it. The Royal Amulet spun high in the sky, its Fae gold chain trailing after it like a comet tail. Comprehension hit most of Stuart’s pals at the same time. It was too late, though, for those nonswimming Weres, even though a couple of them charged the water, and then stood there, frustrated, calf high. The rest of them watched the amulet’s soaring arc through the air. My breath caught as it landed on the tight spear of a young lily pad deep on the northern edge of the water. It bounced off that to land on another lily pad’s tipped surface, and fell, with a light plop and a slither of gold, onto its final resting spot—a flat, dry lily pad that had been so eager for the light that it sat a good three inches above the rest, floating on the surface of our old pond. A bit of its chain dangled off the end of it, swinging lightly, and then that too stopped. Merry started to heat on my chest.

  I put a quelling hand to her. “Wait,” I said in an undertone.

  “Everyone get back to the land and then sit, hands clasped behind your head. You too, Stuart,” Biggs said.

  “See you found a stepladder to reach the gun,” Stuart called to Biggs, nothing moving except his eyes. “How did you get through the wards?”

  “Think back, genius,” Biggs said. “Who told the witches where to set the wards? That’s always been your problem. You’re criminally sloppy. You give vague orders like ‘Get the hags to set the wards,’ and ‘Take care of the fag.’ As it turns out, Cordelia was very appreciative of the care I took easing your silver blade from her guts.”

  Stuart sneered. “I’m going to use your hide as a throw rug when I become the new Alpha of Creemore.”

  “We don’t need another Alpha,” said Biggs. “We’ve got the rightful one here, but he’s got a shitload of silver in him.”

  Oh yeah, come to his defense now.

  Biggs flicked me a glance, as if he’d read my mind, then said to Scawens, “If you want to challenge Trowbridge’s birthright, you know what to do. Give us a flare. What did you say to Bridge? Oh yeah. Come on, Stewie, let me see you shine.”

  “I command you—”

  “I’m tired of talking,” Biggs said. “You’ve got nothing. You are nothing.” He pulled the trigger. Stuart’s body took to the air, flew off the end of the portal, and landed hard at the edge of the water.

  “Stuart!” screamed Dawn.

  Biggs swung the rifle on her and yelled, “Stay!” She took a step backward and furrowed her brow at the sharp dominance in Biggs’s tone. “It’s too late for him. He’s gut-shot with silver; you know there’s no coming back from that,” he said to her. “Don’t throw your life away after a loser like him.” Then he turned the rifle back on what was left of Stuart. “The first was for Becci,” Biggs said quietly, “but this one’s all for me.” He pulled the trigger and watched, resolute as a good section of Stuart’s head splattered into the pond and the iron-rich water turned a little redder.

  “Now, he’s out of ammunition,” said one of the bad guys. “They both are.”

  That’s when all hell broke loose on the muddy bank where Lexi and I used to play pirates. Biggs tossed the weapon aside and met a larger Were’s charge in midair.

  The kid chose mutiny. He let go of my arm, and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Trowbridge.”

  He was out cold, curled on his side on the wet, pebble-strewn ground, one arm wrapped around his head. I pushed him onto his back. “Trowbridge, wake up.” Mud. It was on his hair, smeared across his forehead, slimed across those high cheekbones, even in his mouth. I swiped out his mouth with my finger and bent to listen. His lungs crackled. A wave of helplessness washed over me. I cradled his jaw and thought of a world without Trowbridge. “You listen to me,” I said fiercely. “You are not dying here. Not by my pond. Not on this ground.”

  Trowbridge’s eyes opened to half-mast. “I’m not planning on dying today,” he slurred.

  “Good, because the cavalry’s come.” My voice wobbled. “It’s starting to look like we might get out of here.”

  “How many?”

  I looked around and subtracted two. “Four.”

  “Help me up.”

  I tried, but he couldn’t seem to coordinate his feet and leg muscles. We compromised with halfway. I kneeled behind and offered him the warmth of my body, holding him tight in the circle of my arms, while he cocked his ear to the danger around us. “They’re everywhere,” he said tautly, turning his head to track the noise. “You sure the cavalry’s winning?”

  I nodded into his neck.

  “Harry’s here?” His hand searched for something to use as a weapon.

  My lips were pursing for “Who’s Harry?” when the hair on my neck stood up. Danger’s near, they informed me, which is useful and stupid all at once, because of course danger was near; it was all around us; Cordelia grappled with someone ten feet on our right, Biggs did the same with another Were not far beyond—for heaven’s sake, we had blue level seats to a minor Were skirmish. But the way my hair prickled made me feel that this danger was a little more up front and personal. I sniffed and picked up a stream of concentrated venom. Over there, at two o’clock, according to my right nostril.

  “Oh shit,” I said.

  “He’s wrong,” Dawn said in a queer, flat voice. Blood and bits of pink fleshy stuff daubed her shirt. “He is going to die today. I’m going to make sure of it.” Her eyes glittered with tears that hadn’t fallen, and probably never would, because as I watched, her face hardened.

  “Get behind me.” Trowbridge struggled to stand.

  Fuck that. I lunged fo
r Biggs’s shotgun.

  “It’s empty,” Dawn said tonelessly.

  But it worked well as a cudgel. I swung the rifle stock at her, and cracked a couple of her ribs. On the next swing, she caught hold of the barrel. We did a couple of revolutions of Hedi the Flying Fae, before she let go mid-twirl. The world spun and when it stopped, I’d flattened a sumac, but I hadn’t lost hold of the shotgun. She darted forward. Something raked down my side, from armpit to hip bone. Hot. A different type of pain. A trickle of blood ran warm down my ribs.

  Dawn inspected my blood on her hooked fingers. “You’ve got such soft skin, I can tear it like tissue paper,” she said. She used her nails, that’s it? Oh Goddess, I was in such trouble. “You think I’ll let some soft little Fae bitch have the life I was supposed to have?”

  I blocked her next swipe with the shotgun. For that piece of dexterity, she made me dance—slashing left and right, never quite catching my skin, each one of her slashes driving me backward. A streak of fear cooled my spine when my foot sank into the pond. If the iron gates hurt just how bad would it be to have red iron slime coating my skin?

  Dawn gave a knowing smile and slashed again. “I’m going to eat his heart,” she said.

  “You want my heart? Come and get it,” Trowbridge shouted. He’d pulled himself mostly upright with the help of Lexi’s pirate rock but he looked like he would go splat with the first gust of a strong wind. His milky white eyes shone through the tangle of his hair.

  Dawn tilted her head at him and smiled.

  Mine!

  My Were’s vehemence gave me a shove in the right direction. I stopped worrying about the iron muck. I stopped feeling terrified and helpless. I sloshed through the water, shotgun braced like a horizontal ram, and rammed into her. Agile as a gymnast, she twisted mid-fall. We rolled on the ground fighting, but she was better at the whole you-go-on-the-bottom thing. Within three rolls, I was pinned under her crushing weight, my arms squeezed between her bony knees. Those Were-bitches are heavy, for all their leanness.

  What followed promised to be a licking. Three blows into my punishment, a weaving shadow blocked the light over her shoulder. A hand found a hank of Dawn’s dark hair. I caught a glimpse of Trowbridge’s thin lips set in a snarl as he peeled the murderous bitch off me.

  And then his beating began.

  Sacrificing a hunk of hair, Dawn spun to deliver a savage kick dead center on Trowbridge’s weeping belly wound. With a guttural moan, my mate’s head tilted down, and in graceless slow motion, he sagged to his knees.

  No! My Were’s rage poured into me. Foreign, molten hot. I could feel her in my head, in the tightness of my muscles. Worse, I could hear her. Kill, kill, mine. Oh Goddess, was this how a Werewolf really thought? In flashes of color and heat, and broken words? She had too much emotion. She saw things too simply. She didn’t factor in fear or morality. Mine, mine, mine. Kill. I hovered on the edge of capitulation as her soul fought for top-bitch status.

  Dawn giggled and pulled back her foot to lash out again.

  Just like that, I went feral. Mortal wrath melded to animal rage, and as one, we turned to our ball of Fae magic sitting low and heavy in our gut and gave it a sharp nudge. Mine. Ours. Kill.

  Yes, it answered.

  My mother’s gift burst free from its fetters, surged up my chest, and split sharply into two different streams at my breast. Fae-bred magic scorched down my arms and spilled into my hands. Prey, hunt, kill, it sang. It felt different. Bolder, sharper. Alive and aware … as if it were … thinking. With a malicious sizzle, it spread outward through my circulatory system, searching for every capillary. But now, it wanted all the territory. The skin. The will. The mind. I pressed the back of my throbbing hands against my temples. I didn’t want this. Not this. Not both of them free inside my head, running riot through my blood. Oh Goddess, I wanted out of my skin. Away from this. Soul pain, horrible, disorienting, as if I were shrinking and swelling all at the same time. And then … no sound. No sight. No feeling. It lasted seconds and when sensation came back, I didn’t hurt. I was apart, and part. Sensate and not. Aware that there were three souls alive in me, but no longer conflicted. Three souls in one body—

  And all of them hated the creature named Dawn.

  Twin lines of fluorescent Fae malevolence erupted from our fingertips. “Get her,” I said. Our fat green pets rushed forward, questing, and found the dark-haired enemy hurting what was ours. They streaked through the heavy air and startled her with their kiss. Dawn froze mid-kick. Could she see the lines of magic spooling from our hands? We let our magic nuzzle her rib cage and slither around her hips. She gasped and ran anxious hands over her body. With a mewl of fright, she spun around, her hands still frantic at her waist; plucking at what could not be seen, tearing at what could not be broken. Whatever she saw on our face twisted hers into stark terror.

  Behind her, our Trowbridge was on all fours. He tried to put a foot under himself, failed, and fell clumsily on his hip. His breath was noisy. Wet. Not right. Broken. His mouth was open. Our Trowbridge was broken.

  We gave our hot hands a squeeze.

  “God, what is that?” she screeched. “Stop it!”

  “But we’ve only just begun.” We levitated her flailing body high above what was precious and brought her forward for inspection. Ripe with fear, her scent was. When she was close enough to spit on, we smiled. “Maybe we’ll eat your heart instead.” And then we flicked our hands upward. The bottom of her soles danced over our head.

  We towed her to the pond. Ancient instinct quailed at the iron, but our Were soothed the worry with a trickle of her magic. We drew a thoughtful toe through the wet membrane of scum sheeting the bottom. No pain. No dip in our well of talent. We were stronger when we were able to sip from the other two. We’d felt the surge in power granted when our mortal had released the animal. We waded in up to our knees. There was a drop-off in this pond, we remembered. A flick of our wrist sent Dawn skimming toward it. A good fight she gave with her kicking legs, and tearing hands. Fear and sweat and fury all mixed together in a foul-smelling brew.

  “Like a chicken on a spit,” I whispered.

  We bent to plunge our hands beneath the water, and let the water soothe the heat. A smile tugged at our lips as our magic dived too, sinking under the oily surface with our prey. The surface roiled. A big fish, we thought with detachment. Dawn’s hip crested the surface as she fought for air. We tightened our hands into fists and sank them deeper. “But so easily killed,” we marveled, watching the animal spasm in our grip. A stream of bubbles, too small to sustain life, slipped from its gaping mouth. It gave one final, violent twitch and then fell limp. A great wash of fatigue swept us. We waited for the animal to breathe again. When it did not, our satiated magic slithered from our prey. They floated in the red water, twin serpents attached to the tether of our fingers, waiting.

  So tired. We willed our legs steady as our magic waned. Even as we fought the diminishment, we sank, small and tight, into the place our mortal sister kept us safe. Cocooned in the deep warmth of her belly, we took comfort from the feral presence curled around the tail of her spine.

  Sleep. Yes. We’ll sleep.

  * * *

  I was cold and soulless but my ears were working again. Mortal-me sat in the stinking muck at the water’s edge. My throbbing hands lay limp in the frigid, red water.

  “Let me go.” Trowbridge’s voice was harsh, desperate. A murmur of another low voice, soothing. “I don’t believe you. I can’t feel her. It’s just like before.”

  I should go to him. But my legs felt heavy. My hands weighted. I blinked, once, twice, and on the third squeeze of my lids, the reddish haze blurring my vision cleared and my sight was my own. Am I me again? Hedi, without any backseat drivers? I felt me, mostly. A little empty. Flatter somehow. I tested the odd, longing loss of that thought as my body started sending damage reports. Hands bad. Hip screaming. Ribs sore. Ankle throbbing.

  Merry moved at my breast. One of her vine
s disentangled itself from the disordered nest around her amber-red stone. It stretched up for the chain, found a link and twined around it. She started the long slow climb to my shoulder. Once there, she perched on my collarbone and gave me a tentative pat with the flat of her leaf. She trembled there for a moment, while I breathed slowly through my nose, before she pressed herself close to the warm beat of the Fae-Were blood thrumming beneath my skin.

  Don’t blame her for checking my soul condition before cuddling up. I was asking myself the same question. Am I me? Really me?

  My eyes continued their restless catalogue. A fairy portal hung over the lily-choked water. I studied that for a couple of speculative beats, before moving on. A girl’s body floated facedown, near the old pine log. We killed her. No, I killed her. I’ll think about that later. It looked like the fight was mostly over. Sniper-guy was walking around checking for life signs. Machete-guy was enjoying beating the last bad guy to his very last breath. They’re animals. I listened for the unique beat of Trowbridge’s heart. It was there. Uneven and too slow, but there. Animals, yes. But what am I? Something worse. A hybrid Fae without limits. Something tickled the back of my brain about being Fae. Some thought about water that seemed urgent to a problem at hand. What was it?

  “I said, he needs you.” I slanted my eyes sideways. Cordelia’s bony knee showed through the tear in her skirt. How long had she been there? Her scent alone should have screamed “intruder.” Perfume mixed with blood. A subtone of grief. “Get up,” she said sharply. “And do something about those things.” Her ringed fingers made a gesture to the two lines of green shimmering under the water. A light breeze licked the surface and gave them the illusion of scales.