Concealing Fate: Fate of the Gods, #0.5

For Sarah:

Way back in college when I first began writing these books, you said to me, Garrit is... he's kind of a shoe.

(I’ve never forgotten!)

May he be a shoe to you no longer!

Chapter One

Eve

2003

She woke with a start , her heart pounding and her throat raw—whether because she’d been screaming or just some weird residue of the dream, she wasn’t certain. But she was sweating, too, and tangled in her sheets so badly, no wonder she’d been dreaming of being strapped into that chair. Eve rubbed her forehead, where she could still feel the remnants of the leather band holding her in place, and sat up in bed. There wouldn’t be any use in trying to get back to sleep after that—the nightmare, the memory , would just drag her back.

The life before this one, before this small row house with her good Anglican and very British family, had been awful. Or at least the bits and pieces she could remember of it were. Nightmares mixed with memories and all of it unreliable. Whatever they had done to her mind in that life, between the electro-shock therapy and the drugs, she was almost surprised she remembered anything at all. Surprised she remembered herself, even reborn.

Life after life after life from Creation to the modern world, living a century at a time, she’d suffered plenty of miserable lifetimes before. Those first, terrifying days in the Garden hadn’t been any picnic, fleeing from Adam’s cruelty. Lifetimes spent in poverty, eking out a living on nothing but bread crusts and the occasional rat. She’d suffered rape and been reduced to prostitution, beatings and abuse that were so commonplace in past ages. Suffered it, because she could not bring herself to use her power to protect herself, afraid of the rush, the thrill it gave her, to realize how much she was capable of. How much she could do if she only gave in.

But over and over again throughout history, she had seen how even power in the hands of those with good intentions could be corrupted, turned to violence and terror. And whatever else she was, she had been made in some small part from Adam. She had been made from him, and if she did not hold herself back, she feared in time she would only become him.

Eve let out a breath, turning on the bedside light and staring at the calendar on the wall. Counting the days. She’d be eighteen in just two weeks, and finished with her sixth form in just two more after that. Twenty-nine days counting the one she was facing. Twenty-nine days, and then she was taking herself and her measly savings to France. Sorbonne University for undergraduate study was just a convenience, an excuse to appease the family she’d been born to, but Paris wasn’t the ultimate destination she had in mind, no matter how much her little sister made of it.

No, for once in her very long lives, she’d been born in an age when she could travel freely, even if she didn’t quite have the means yet. For once, without some threat of execution hanging over her head or an army upon her heels as she fled, she was going to make her way home.

Home to her only true family.

Home, at last, to her House of Lions.

She just needed to earn a little bit more money still, to make the trip. The last thing she wanted to do was arrive on their doorstep empty-handed. Not when she’d already done enough freeloading for five lifetimes. Not when the last time she’d arrived, she’d been completely out of her mind.

Chapter Two

Garrit

2006

Abusiness degree had only made sense, all things considered. His family had been blessed, quite literally according to the stories, with a goodly fortune of gold should they ever have need of it, and they’d husbanded their lands and their more traditional wealth carefully over the years, but there had been a substantial amount of rebuilding that had needed doing after the ravages of the World Wars. At the time, the surfacing of any amount of gold in quantity would have exposed them to suspicions and scrutiny the family didn’t need, so they’d been forced to do things a little bit more carefully.

And someday, all of it was going to be his. The vineyard and winery, the livestock, the strange gold coins stamped with the twining branches of Yggdrasil that supposedly never diminished, no matter how much of their weight was shaved from the whole. And the family vault, itself, filled to bursting with treasures from ages past. Lifetimes upon lifetimes of history, their own and, if the family myths and legends were to be believed, hers.

Maybe that was why he’d taken so many philosophy and religion classes, in addition to his business courses. Part of him had been hoping that maybe he’d find some proof to support all the myth and legend that came with his family name. All the stories his father and grandparents had been delighted to tell on cold winter evenings when the mountain snow and storms weren’t worth fighting with.

Maybe that was why he was still combing through every book he could find in the library on the topic of Eve.

The woman behind the desk laughed at the stack he set down in front of her, her brilliant green eyes lit with delight. For work or for play? she asked in French, even as her hands made quick work of each title, scanning and stamping them for check-out.

For a moment, he was breathless, staring at her like a fool. Those eyes—they reached into his soul and turned him inside out with just the merest glance. Pardon me?

She smiled, looking up at him sidelong. I was just wondering if this was your pleasure reading or you had some paper you’d forgotten, due after break.

Ah. No. It’s—pleasure, of a kind, I suppose. Her accent wasn’t Parisian, but Southern. And not only Southern, but following the pattern of his own. Unexpectedly delightful, just like her eyes. Like the secret in her smile. You’re from Nice, or perhaps, Sospel? The Alpes-Maritimes?

She shook her head, that secret smile turning into a twist of the lips, almost embarrassment but not quite. London.

The change was shocking. From perfect, familiar French to precise English, and not a trace of one accent polluting the other. Then your tutor must have been—you speak French as if you were born to the Alps.

Hmm, she said, her forehead creasing lightly and her attention refocusing on her work. She tucked the last card into the back of the last book and slid the stack back to him. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, she said, continuing in English now.

I hope I didn’t offend you, he said, hesitating. It wasn’t my intent at all. It was a pleasure, truly, to hear you speak so fluently, so familiarly. We are few and far between here, in Paris, and I never would have known—

She smiled again, that secret, knowing smile, those stunning green eyes meeting his. You’re very kind, but there’s no reason for you to apologize, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from your reading, from your break.

Oh, he said. No—I’m not leaving until tomorrow, and there’s no hurry, truly. In fact... It wasn’t like him at all, to make such a bumbling fool of himself this way. Never in his life had he been so flustered by a beautiful woman. Usually, beautiful women were flustered by him. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having dinner with me?

She flushed, dropping her gaze. I’m flattered, but I don’t think—

My name is Garrit, he said, interrupting before she could reject him entirely. It was forward, he knew, and he didn’t know her name either. In truth, he couldn’t blame her for saying no. But he didn’t want her to. There was something in those eyes—he wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted to find out. And to prove my good faith, my honest intentions, I’ll be in the cafeteria, just there, he jerked his chin in the direction of the nearest. From eight until ten with my books. If you happen to be hungry later, perhaps you might feel more comfortable joining me there?

She tilted her head, lifting her gaze again, this time to study him more closely, assessing and considering, her eyes narrowing just so— A man reading books like these for pleasure, and so many of them, either he is very deeply invested in his faith, or he is very lost, searching for something, some anchor to ground him. Which are you, Garrit?

He laughed a little, not sure what to make of the question. But she was speaking French again, rather than English, and it wasn’t a rejection. Not yet.

I suppose I am searching, as you said, he admitted, lifting a shoulder to dismiss it. For something to help me make sense of it all.

All of what? she pressed.

The stories of my family, my history, the past. The world, perhaps, as well.

She pressed her lips together, searching his face for a moment longer. Then maybe over dinner you can tell me some of what you’ve found.

Chapter Three

Eve

2006

He was handsome and more than a little bit bold, asking her to dinner before he’d even introduced himself, and leaving her after that without her name. It wasn’t usually a good sign, if she was being honest with herself, and she had millennia of experience with men to know.

But there was nothing in his mind that alarmed her. No edge to his emotions, nothing possessive or controlling. Part of her had wondered when she saw all those books. Most men who made a study of Eve weren’t doing it out of any kind of love of women on the whole. That just wasn’t the way the world worked, and after her last life of violence and misery, she had no intention of falling into the same trap again. Not so long as she had a choice in the matter.

Really though, she’d just been curious. Why was he reading all those books? What exactly was it that he hoped to find, beyond the generalities? Maybe it was foolish—absolutely it was foolish—but part of her was tempted to offer him the truth, just to see what he would do. He was from the right region of the country, after all. Even if he wasn’t one of her family, he might have heard the stories, in passing.

Perhaps if she hadn’t spent her last life in a ward, tortured into insanity for the crime of dreaming of her past lives, she might have given in to the idea. But as it was, the reminder of what could happen if she didn’t keep her secrets was a little bit too fresh to actually take the risk. She was taking enough of one meeting him for dinner at all.

He smiled broadly at the sight of her, rising quickly from his seat at the small table he’d chosen, along the back wall, with just enough privacy to allow them to talk but not so much that she’d feel unsafe joining him. She set her tray on the table, careful of his books—that he’d brought them, still, even though she’d agreed to meet him after all, was almost endearing.

You’ll have to forgive me, he said at once, sitting down again after she’d slid into her own chair, across from him. I didn’t realize until I had left again that I never asked your name. I’m surprised and flattered that you agreed to come at all, under the circumstances. What must you have thought of me?

I haven’t truly made up my mind, yet, she said, smoothing her napkin across her lap. Maybe you were just so taken with me you forgot your manners?

He laughed. Certainly that. But even so, I fear that isn’t the most flattering impression to make. Especially when all I knew of you was your beautiful eyes and the pleasure of hearing you speak French with the flavor of my own dialect. You must tell me how you came to know it.

He had been flustered, then, because the man sitting across from her now was all charm and poise, somehow confident and self-deprecating at the same time. How shocked would he be to learn she spoke fluent Niçois and langue d'oc, as well? But that wasn’t something she could wave away. In truth, her lapse had been accidental. She’d heard him speaking with one of the research librarians earlier, his accent reminding her warmly of home as much as hers had probably reminded him.

It isn’t much of a story, she lied. Just my tutor, like you said.

Nothing at all to do with the fact that she had lived the last half of her life there, after the second World War. And certainly not the result of having been married to the Marquis DeLeon, five hundred years before, when both Niçois and langue d'oc had been far more practically useful in trade. Probably her fluency in at least a thousand other languages, living and dead, would be more alarming, if she was being honest with him. Which she wasn’t.

Then tell me something else, he said. Why you’ve come to study here at Sorbonne, in France?

She stirred her soup, creamy and thick and far too hot to eat, still. But as good excuse as any to order her thoughts. She didn’t want to lie. Hated doing it. And walking the line between what was truth and what wasn’t—it took a little bit of consideration and caution.

I suppose France just always felt more like home. Not Paris, necessarily, but Sorbonne offered me a scholarship. My parents weren’t all that thrilled with the idea, or the cost of sending me away, so it made sense to take it. To make it easier on everyone.

You couldn’t be persuaded to stay in the U.K.? he asked.

No, she said firmly. Even if Sorbonne hadn’t accepted me—I couldn’t have stayed there. I would have come to France anyway, somehow.

Lucky for me, he said, smiling. And what are you studying?

History, she said, and languages. I’ve been considering going into something to do with translation. So much of what we read of ancient texts is all filtered through the minds of men—perhaps I could offer a new perspective on those familiar stories.

So I was right, he said. You’re even more interesting than you are beautiful. She rolled her eyes, and he laughed. Too much, too soon?

"I thought I was supposed to be asking you questions, she countered. To determine how interesting you are, beneath the gloss of that suit."

He picked up his glass and leaned back. By all means, ask away. But before then—please, you must tell me your name.

She laughed. The error was hers this time, because he had asked