Waiting for Fate: Fate Series, #1

Prologue

S he is coming. The words came out in a croak. Her throat was dry and sore. She sat cross-legged on the bare earth, white robes draped around to keep in what little warmth rose from her body.

Had he heard her?

Her hair brushed against her back as she craned her neck to see if her guard was asleep. Maleor?

Shuffling came from the shadows between the columns adjacent to the entrance. Yes, my lady? The voice was muffled as if a hand was running over the mouth and face, scraping away the sleep.

She is coming. Repeating the statement suddenly made it real. The implications sprang into her mind, as she had just Seen, and electric excitement danced through her. Gooseflesh rose on her bare wrists. And the Outerworld.

I shall make it known. Footsteps; metal scratching as Maleor picked up his sword; the door opened and shut. Silence.

She continued to sit upon the earthen floor, trying to calm her anxious stomach. The bucket holding her regurgitated breakfast was not far and the smell further enhanced her nausea.

Redirect and focus, her training commanded. With uncanny deftness, her mind obeyed.

Slowly -- a little more slowly than usual, she thought – her stomach quieted along with her mind. The light of day, shining through the crystalline ceiling and a lone window, now appeared a little more real as the shadows released their substance and eventually faded. Warmth trickled through her. Inch by inch, her mind gently coaxed it along, bringing life back to her inert body.

With one last violent shiver to release her mind and being from the dark nothingness of the Outerworld, the 29th Seer of Juno unfolded her legs and, when she could feel her toes again, stood to perform the movements her mother had taught her. You will not be able to sit and See if you cannot stand and walk, she remembered the 28th Seer saying.

From stance to stance, stiffly at first, her body moved, her mind flowing from muscle to muscle, from limb to limb. Finally, with her mind and body supple again, her pace increased and the energy snapped into the air as a hand, then a foot, released it back into the surroundings.

Then, her arms fell to her sides and her feet came together. She stood and lifted her face to the light. Much better, she smiled. The sky always seemed so blue after a vision.

Maleor wasn’t much of a conversationalist but she had to talk to someone. Even if talking to herself was crazy behaviour it was better than going insane from the visions. She turned to pick up the wooden bucket full of vomit, but doubt suddenly stilled her. It had been Juno, hadn’t it?

Yes, it had to be, her mother’s voice echoed through her head.

Yes, you’re right. It was Juno. With a self-affirmed sigh, Ailsene placed the bucket by the door then picked up a biscuit from the tray of assorted snacks.

Before the biscuit entered her mouth, wonder confronted her again. This vision had been different. She was so used to Seeing the darkness, so used to the evil. Watching a person die, their flesh ripping as a blade tears through their torso. The shock in their eyes as they stare at the gaping wound; a black fist rips the intestines from their warm cavity. Their hands scrambling to put back the leaking entrails; hopelessness ringing loudly as the stench of the enemy grows. Hopelessness is pushed aside as bulging red eyes and a blood-splattered grin appear. Terror nestles in, finding a new home in the conquered, and communal screams echo across the land as a country’s consciousness pleads for mercy. Then, finally, a resounding thump as a disconnected head hits the ground. Maleor was lucky if he had only one bucket of vomit to carry from her chambers.

Ailsene stuffed the biscuit into her mouth, chewed and followed with cold tea.

She had Seen it all this time. Seen it, heard it, tasted it, smelled it, felt it. Although she knew what to expect and anticipated it, the visions never ceased to have the same effect on her. That was what she had a routine for. That’s what she had Maleor for.

She refilled her teacup and deliberately turned the handle away so that she could hold the cup in her palm with her fingers curled toward the brim.

But this time, this time had been different. She had Seen Juno.

She picked up a cake and stuffed it into her mouth as she walked across the earthen floor to the stairway.

In her ten years as Seer, she had never Seen Juno in her visions. She was young, but not inexperienced. The Creator was not of Juno, not of the islands on the Ocean Rire and not of the lands in the distant east. The Creator was more than the land and the air, more than the collective consciousness. She was all. She was the Creator.

With her skill and her feet upon the soil of Juno, the Seer could see through the eyes of the Creator. Usually the visions were a hodgepodge of broken images. Nothing made sense and nothing was recognizable. These visions were not to be made sense of. They were not for the Seer. This all changed when the Outerworld drew close to Juno. Evil seeped in. The images became clear and vivid, their interpretation unmistakable. This was a message for the Seer, a warning to Juno: prepare for attack.

That is what perplexed her.

Cup in hand, the Seer climbed the stairway up to the lone window. It was late afternoon. The suns were behind her tower now and the sea glistened in front of her. Pretty soon, the white marble spirals of The Inner City would reflect the pinks and oranges of the maturing day. It was said to be a sight that beckoned men to Juno, leaving their beloveds behind.

She knew these famous towers well. They had become part of her routine, part of her sanity. So had the mountains far to the west, the farmlands on The Northern Plateau, the sandy beaches in the east, and The Plains in the south. The landscape of Juno was her sanity, its soil tenderly cradling her bare feet and sifting between her toes. She knew Juno although she could see nothing past her towers.

Everything’s going to change, isn’t it? The feeling welled inside her unexpectedly.

Yes.

Everything that she couldn’t see, hadn’t had a chance to see, would change. Ailsene fought to keep the loss from overwhelming her.

She had been to the Plains once. The dead grasses and the blackened ground only added to her instinctual knowledge of the landscape. Her single visit had been enough to feel what that place held. Loss. Desperation. But also pride and love. It was mixed into the soil like the ashes of the dead.

This is what she had Seen. The Plains had been in her vision. The Creator would walk the Plains of Juno.

Yes. Everything will change. She is coming.

It was unprecedented and she doubted her Sight. But she hadn’t been wrong yet.

There will be an attack, but not too soon. The Creator will walk Juno’s land, but there was something else in the vision. Something she would not tell the Council. Something that would be better left unsaid. Again she remembered her mother’s words. As long as the attacks were predicted, nothing would be questioned. Fate did not need someone else doing her job, although the Seer often wondered what She was up to.

So why did she tell them of the Creator? Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to keep that piece of information until later? Ailsene sighed as she shook her head, Such is Fate.

Her mother had taught her well. No, she would not tell the Council of the possible circumstances of the young Aristovin’s summons. Not yet, at least. The Council too often listened only to the information they wanted to hear. No. She would let Fate have her way in this.

Yes, Ailsene sighed again and gulped her cold tea, everything will change. As she stared out her window into the vast expanse of sea, she knew this was the right decision and, for the first time in a long while, felt pride in her position. The Aristovin son will be gone and She will come. There was nothing she could do but wait. Wait for change and wait for Fate.

Chapter one

The dishcloth dripped dirty water onto Simone's sneakers and jeans as she stood rooted at the empty coffee shop’s window. Watching.

He wore a black hoodie. Jeans. Possibly knife flashing in the sunlight. Running full tilt down the opposite sidewalk toward her, a pretty blonde girl. Stylish knee-high boots. Skinny jeans. Oblivious to everything except her cell phone.

Oh god, no. Don't. No.

Simone watched, helpless from her vantage point inside the coffee shop. Fear sucked the life from her body, froze her soul, and rendered her a gaping zombie. As the man ran down the sidewalk, Simone could already see his hands grabbing the girl, forcing her down while she struggled against his strength. Would she scream? Would she have a chance?

No. It came out as a squeak, Simone's lungs working against the terror.

As the dishcloth exuded the last of its water through Simone's clenched hands, the man reached the girl. Her blonde hair flew as he breezed past, brushing her head lightly. The girl looked up from her cell phone as he stopped dead in front of her, Jonah! You're such a jerk!

He held his cell phone up to her, You didn't text me! What up? He grabbed the girl into a bear hug and she squealed with delight.

Sally burst into the shop. Simone screamed and threw herself against the window. Sally screamed and fell against a set of table and chairs.

Holy shit, Sally panted as she propped herself up on a wooden chair. Now that we got that out of the way, what the hell was that about? Red ringlets circled her head, eye shadow glittered on her eyelids, fading was in the correct places on her jeans; Sally was the polar opposite of Simone.

Breath returned to her body and her mind engaged once again. Simone turned to look out the window. The girl was alright. The guy was a friend. There was no knife. There was no danger.

As the adrenaline fled and left her drained, Simone took stock. She was safe. Intact. Dressed. Unharmed. As she looked over her body, Simone saw that dishwater had dripped down her worn jeans, left a large wet spot on her second-hand U2 T-shirt, and seeped through her greyed runners. Crap, she reached down and plucked the fallen dishcloth from the floor. What are you doing here, Sal? and headed into the kitchen.

Karen called me last night. She wanted me to come in early so you could make a few more pies today for the conference.

Didn't you have any appointments? Simone kept her back to Sally.

Not as of yesterday. Sam gave Mrs. McGregor to Sarah again.

That's bullshit, Sal. Your clients are your clients. Sam can't do that. Simone threw the dishcloth into the sink of soapy, dirty water.

Sally shrugged, It's his salon. I just rent the chair. So, you wanna tell me what that was about?

What was about?

You screaming bloody murder.

You scared me, that's all.

Sally pulled her oversized Prada knock-off and dropped it onto the staff table with a clank. Simone could only imagine the arsenal of cosmetics and hair supplies in that bag. My turn to call bullshit. I've scared you lots of times and you never reacted like that. You nearly jumped out of your own skin.

Simone deflected: Do you think maybe we could go shopping some time?

You hate shopping.

Simone felt her heart flutter, Maybe you could do my hair. Maybe Wanda could give me a manicure.

The day that I let Wanda near your hands is the day I see pigs fly down main street. Sally crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. You're trying to change the subject and it isn't working.

Simone turned. Slowly. Hesitantly. Keeping her eyes on the linoleum floor, in her periphery she could see Sally, arms crossed and leaning against the table: a picture of defiance in miniature. Her fear was not something that she wanted to discuss. Ever. With anyone. Usually she kept it under wraps. It took practice, but she managed it. She really didn't want to delve into her past and her crippled psyche to explain the momentary slip of her mask.

She had one more card up her sleeve. It was a low blow, but it was guaranteed to work. Mr. Briefcase came in this morning.

Instantly, Sally's demeanor changed. Oh my god. Did he say anything? Did YOU say anything? Sally covered the distance between them in a light second. Tell me! She grabbed Simone's arms, shaking her.

He asked for the usual: a coffee, a blueberry bran muffin. He paid, said 'Thanks,' and left.

And?

Your freckles look really big right now.

Sally threw a swipe and reached far enough to smack Simone's ponytail into disarray. Then the bell over the door to the cafe rang. Shit. A finger was raised and Sally's ultramarine blue eyes burned, This isn't over, Simone Larken. She turned, grabbed her apron, and ran through to the cafe. Hello! Welcome to The Only Cup.

Saved by the bell, Simone breathed a deep sigh of relief, and fixed her ponytail, Let the chaos begin. She plucked a bowl from drying rack and prepared to make some extra pies.

The lunch rush was more than usual. The annual forestry conference swelled the small town to double its usual size, and sent city tourists seeking a real coffee instead of ‘that black stuff they were trying to push down at the arena.’ By the time the rush had calmed down, Simone and Sally were taking turns drying the sweat from their shirts out behind the shop in the warm September air.

How much did we make? Sally sank down beside Simone on the concrete back step and set down an iced tea.

Simone held up a finger, holding an old wooden top in one hand, as she used the other hand to punch numbers into a calculator and jot the figure down on her notepad. Quick addition to the credit card subtotal, subtraction of the shop profit, And divide by two is $68.70 each.

God you blow my mind. Seriously, you got some computer in that head of yours.

It's not that hard. You just gotta get your thinking straight. Tips are down from last year's conference. Do you know what the turn-out is this year?

Haven't a clue. I'll grab the paper. A moment later, Sally returned. Huh. Turnout is down; 12.8%. Hey, there was a robbery at Mike's Five & Dime last night.

Simone punched some numbers into her calculator. Tips are down 16%. We must be missing out on some heavy hitters this year.

You're freakin' me out, whiz kid.

Simone was suddenly self-conscious. Sorry, and started to put the paperwork together. The old wooden top bounced off the papers. Sally grabbed it before it rolled away.

You never did say if you applied for university. And, since you're still here, I'm guessing you didn't.

Yeah, about that, Simone said and plucked the top from Sally's hand. She held it, caressed it, savouring the way it fit into her hand. The wood of the top was soft, almost silky, from decades of use. Sometimes she thought she could hear children's laughter spinning off it. I was thinking of sticking around for a while.

You've got to be joking. The acerbity in Sally's voice was palpable.

Simone shook her head, still caressing the top, No, no. I've got a good thing going here; the shop, doing the books for Karen and Mr. Decker.

A small ringed hand appeared on Simone's knee. Simone. Honey. There is no future in this town. Seriously. You have got to get out. You are too good to be here. Please say you're not giving up on university all together.

Simone shrugged non-committedly, I just want to delay it a bit.

She continued to caress the top as Sally leaned against the screen door, Has your Dad figured it out yet?

Maybe. He's back on the 17th. I'll talk to him then.

Let me see that again. Sally held out her tiny hand. A flicker of anxiety flirted in Simone's stomach. Then she handed Sally the top. Where did you get this? I’ve only seen these in antique shops in the city.

Mrs. Decker gave it to me.

You should keep it safe. Could be worth a pretty penny.

Simone plucked the top a little too quickly from Sally's hand. No. It was a gift. Besides, I like the feel of it. It had been a couple days since she’d had time to pull it out and play with it. She made a mental note to take it home with her tonight.

Maybe I could grab some supplies from the salon and do your hair. Some highlights, and definitely a haircut, Sally ran an experienced hand through Simone’s mane of tangled blonde curls.

Simone sighed. How much? Sally's touch was melting her steely resolve.

Mmm, foils, colour....say sixty bucks.

It was time. It had been three years, three months, and twenty-one days. I am safe, she thought for the thousandth time. It was time to step out of her shell.

With determined hands, Simone put the wooden top away and counted out the money from her apron. Sally gathered up the cash. And maybe when you have a new hair-do you'll feel better about asking out that lawyer guy, Mr. Briefcase, mmm?

Impossible things happen all the time, Simone tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.

D id you take the pies out? Simone called to the kitchen.

Yeah. They're on the counter. She turned back to her phone and continued texting.

Simone propped up the broom and fetched two fresh cherry pies from the kitchen. She smiled as the warm sweet scent tickled her nose. When she swung through the door, there was someone on the other side of the counter. She hadn't heard the bell over the door ring.

It was someone she never expected to see again.

J.D.’s smile was hungry. His gaze was predatory. She felt his eyes draw over her body, an intangible tongue licking her from head to toe. Bile rose in her throat. She wanted to hit him, thrash his face, jump on his eyes until there was nothing left. But she’d tried fighting. It hadn’t worked. She was a five-foot three female and he was a six-foot four ape who had hauled around engines in Shop class and beat up guys on the football field. She hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell and he knew it.

All that was left was the fear. Raw, sharp fear.

J.D. leaned over the glass display counter. Panic focused her mind to a searing point. She stepped back, a pie in each hand teetering. Sweat down her back turned cold.

His eyes finished their jaunt across her body. It's been a long time, he whispered.

In a heartbeat, Simone was standing in the middle of the kitchen, shaking and numb, with the kitchen door still swinging in front of her. Her hands were empty.

Sally appeared beside her, What’s....?

The world grew fuzzy around that searing point of fear. Then a voice called out from the cafe, Can I buy a pie?

Escape.

Run.

Survive.

Fear jolted her body into action. She darted for the bathroom.

Time became irrelevant. It passed as Simone shook and shuttered through the fear that numbed her body and senses. Fear was animal that consumed her being. The walls of the bathroom were her shelter. They closed in around her, suffocating her in security. She wanted to stay there forever.

A gentle knock on the bathroom door tempted to broaden her focus, Simone? It’s Dean. That guy is gone. It’s okay. You can come out if you want.

There was some scuffling and murmuring, then Sally spoke, Simone, can I come in?

The doorknob turned. Simone stared at it. It wasn't locked. Was it supposed to be? She watched as Sally entered slowly, quietly, and looked around, her eyes finally landing on Simone. Then she propped herself against the sink, across from Simone, Hey, Sally said.

The word, the person, at first didn’t register in Simone’s mind. Then, slowly, the acute, penetrating focus released her mind and Simone came back to herself.

She felt…constricted.

She’d managed to wedge herself between the toilet and the wall. She never thought a body could fit into such a small space, and now that she was aware of where she was, found she was having trouble breathing.

Simone held out her hand, Help?

Sally pulled her out then resumed her position against the sink. Are you okay?

I will be.

Want to talk about it?

No. Her muscles had started to cramp. She stretched a little and, as she leaned back, noted a crack in the ceiling. Is he really gone?

Dean or the guy?

The guy.

Dean’s on guard out front. Doors are locked. Sally crossed her arms. Do I need to call the cops? Did he do something?

No.

Then what?

Nothing. Leave it.

Sally stood and stared at Simone. The seconds grew, and so did the distance between them. Simone felt this and regretted it. But the words just wouldn’t come. She wouldn’t let them; they were conjoined to the fear, and she loathed the fear. That fear was the gateway to the memory of that day, and that was a closet best left locked.

Finally Sally surrendered, Fine.

Fine.

I’ll call Karen and tell her we swapped shifts; I'll close. Dean will drive you home. Have a hot bath and relax. Call me if you want to talk. Simone bobbed her head. Instinctively, her hand reached inside her apron and once again grasped the wooden top.

Chapter two

All movement stopped.

The breath he was hearing, was it his?

In front of his eyes, through the crack in the door, her arms fell slack. The sword slipped from her limp hand.

A metal clang echoed down the corridor, off the awaiting armour.

A gasp rang out, heavy against the silence. White robes billowed as her knees buckled and hit the floor. In a hush, long dark hair brushed across her shoulder as her head dipped. Then he saw it.

The blood. Saturating. A dark organic growth consuming the whiteness.

Then, his mother fell.

A scream.

No.

NO!

Cary sat, now awake, stomach clenched, and watched as the sweat from his forehead dripped, making faint spots on his overturned sheets.

He had tried so hard to forget. But now it was back, all of it. Even the scent of roses lingered. He shivered.

Cary pushed the sheets back farther and looked toward the window. It was not yet dawn. With shaking hands, he tidied his bed, then stood bare-foot on the stone floor.

Just breathe, he told himself. Metal clashing against stone echoed through his mind.

Slowly, deeply, the breath flowed through. Lungs expanding and contracting with a practiced breath, a breath that pushed everything away. The shaking eased, his mind emptied, the tension fled with the outward breath. He felt the cool stone beneath his calloused feet, the way his body balanced on each toe, on each heel. Then, Cary raised his hands and began.

Push. Pull. Slide. Breathe.

His body shifted. He stepped to the side; the weight upon each foot balanced proportionately. Hands snapped out. The tension released. Shift again. His body danced the morning routine, stepping in, out, aside, around.

Cary’s arms fell in a controlled descent back to his starting position. To finish, he inhaled deeply.

New light in his room dimmed.

The scent of roses caught in his nose.

A scream jarred him again.

You must ask him, the voice in his head said. Fine, I will. Cary gave in. He’d visit Dmitri and put the voice to rest. He threw on his clothes and boots, and burst out of his rooms.

Cary pulled up short at the kitchen and immediately straightened. A hulking figure in black with bright red hair loomed and made the oversized Household kitchen seem small. His statuesque partner in grey made the room seem dumpy.

Just making some tea, Master Cary. Denis, Cary’s steward and lone remaining live-in Artistovin servant, had a kettle in hand and was about to place it in one of the two stone hearths. Denis making tea in his dressing gown was usual, but Cary could see the precarious dignity in his steward’s eyes diminishing by the moment. Would you like some Mayflour Bake? Denis knew better than to offer it. Having the two nobles in his kitchen meant two things: the pretense was up and something was afoot.

Everett Fraaml adjusted his belt and bulk causing the various weapons, including a Warrior-weighted sword, to clank. About time you woke up.

Dominic Roan flashed his famous stare Cary’s way, We were just about to come and get you. A wicked smile dashed across his face.

Cary pushed his racing heart down and attempted to regain his breath. I just woke up. He pressed a hand against the stone of the kitchen wall, the dream once again banging inside his head. He whispered to Denis, It’s okay. I can take it from here. As Denis placed the kettle over the fire, its handle broke loose. Again.

Water splashed and sizzled in the growing fire. Cary leapt to grab a rag from the far side of the kitchen, but Denis had already plucked the kettle from the fire with the end of his dressing gown. I got it, Denis said and set it on the stone floor. Cary tossed the rag on the table as he returned to the hearth, ever aware of the two