hand of hate 01 - destiny blues (21 page)

“Yeah, well we’ve gotten a lot of complaints about the old woman being a demon master herself. I’d be willing to believe it, based on her looks alone, but the fact is, I’ve tested her a half-dozen times. The old girl doesn’t show up as anything special on the radar. Maybe you and your brother are related to her, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m more inclined to agree with the profilers who believe the family mental history points to serial killer tendencies, not paranormal ability. From what I hear, the task force has accumulated a stack of evidence against the brother.”
 

“You don’t even know my brother.”
 

“Mattie and I are on our way over to Madame Coumlie’s now,” Rhys said. “Why don’t you come with us? I think if she tells us how she rounded up the djinn back then, Mattie and I can do the same thing. She might even be able to shed some light on your killer.”  
 

Rhys was all business now, and I liked being included as part of the team. Sirens sounded in the distance. A fire in the Shore would be dangerous. Streets in Shore Haven were narrow; the houses had been built very close together.  
 

“Lance promised me he’ll turn himself in on Monday. You’ll see, he has nothing to do with these murders. You guys are wrong about him.”
 

“Are you in contact with him?” Porter asked.  
 

I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.  
 

“I may not be directly involved in the investigation, but things would go better for Lance if he turned himself in sooner. Some guy with a bounty-hunter complex might decide to take justice into his own hands. Who knows what might happen.”
 

The idea of someone hunting Lance scared me. The approaching sirens drowned out further conversation. We moved to the windows, and two fire trucks raced by. Porter got a page. He checked his phone and started for the front door.  
 

“There’s a three-alarm fire at Madame Coumlie’s over on Empress.”   
 

I hopped into the truck with Rhys and we raced Porter to the scene. Barricades were already in place, preventing us from getting any closer, so Rhys parked the truck and we ran toward the house.  
 

Fire crews had the hoses out, but I saw no sign of smoke or flames. By the time we made our way through the crowd to the perimeter barricade, the engine teams were already standing down and starting to roll the hoses. Someone said false alarm, and I felt relieved, until the paramedics brought out Madame Coumlie on a stretcher.  
 

My great-grandmother, I reminded myself. In spite of my fear of her, my heart squeezed tight at the sight of her tiny form swathed in blankets. Her eyes were closed. Fearfully, I slipped through the barricade and reached her side as they prepared to load her into the ambulance.  
 

“Sorry miss, only family in the ambulance.”  
 

“It’s all right.” I reached under the blanket, found her tiny hand, and squeezed. She squeezed me back; she was aware of everything going on. “I’m family.”
 

“Are you Mattie?”
 

The voice came from behind me, and I turned to face a white-haired gentleman in a two thousand dollar suit. By the way he wore his receding hairline, Florida tan, and Botox, I guessed lawyer.
 

“Gerard Fontaigne.” He handed me his card. Yep. A lawyer.  
 

“If you’re coming with us, you better get in.” The paramedics were waiting. I still had hold of Madame Coumlie’s hand.   
 

“Sorry.” I shoved the card into my pocket and climbed into the back of the ambulance. They let me sit next to her. The doors slammed behind us, and through the rear windows, Rhys and Fontaigne made identical ‘I’ll follow you to the hospital’ gestures.  
 

The medics kept assuring us everything would be fine. They put an oxygen mask over Madame Coumlie’s nose and mouth, and adjusted the airflow.  
 

“We’ll be at the hospital in two shakes. Your Gran’s lungs sound pretty congested. Is she taking any medications?”  
 

“I don’t know.” When I realized we were headed to St. Agrippa’s. I shuddered--I remembered the loose djemons Rhys and I had seen in the basement. The idea of one of those things coming after this tiny woman while she slept horrified me. “Can’t we go someplace else? What about St Lukes?”  
 

“Sorry, there’s been an explosion at the Brewery. Their emergency room is closed. Besides, St. Agrippa’s closer; we’re already here.”
 

He was right. We were less than a block away from the entrance. I decided to stay with her all night if that’s what it took to keep her safe. I had to. At any rate, with the grip she had on my hand, I doubted I would be able to leave her, even if I wanted to.  
 

“It’s okay, Gran,” I whispered. The word felt unfamiliar but pleasant. “I’m not going to leave you.”
 

She coughed in acknowledgement, and I cringed at the phlegmy sound. The medics raised the back of the stretcher to make her more comfortable, and we pulled up to the emergency entrance.  
 

“Here we go.”
 

#
 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of admission forms as we got my great-grandmother settled. The lawyer, Fontaigne, eased me through the paperwork and surprised me with his efficiency. Gran had no immediate physical concerns, but she had several ongoing health issues, and coupled with her age, the emergency room doctor decided to keep her overnight for observation. They’d given her something to help clear up her lungs, and she was breathing better, but clearly exhausted. The lawyer had insisted on the private room, but knowing what was in the basement, I didn’t want to leave her alone. The nurses told me I could stay as long as I liked.  
 

As she slept, her grip on me loosened, but I didn’t try to take back my hand. Asleep, she appeared so very frail. I wondered what she had been like in her younger days. The tattoos and scars would have been fresh then, bright and shocking; those odd eyes of hers truly frightening. She reminded me of a child’s withered apple doll, awash in a sea of hospital linen. My heart opened to her vulnerability.   
 

Gently, I opened her hand and studied her dry, leathered palm. I made a mental note to bring her some hand lotion. She had the exact same crescent mark as mine, but hers stood pale against the darkly marked skin. The stain appeared to be old scorch marks stretching halfway to her elbows. I wondered what her life had been like. She probably had amazing stories to tell.
 

   It hit me then. The Hand of Fate was my great-grandmother. Somehow, this scary old witch had become my Gran. I guess love isn’t always where you expect to find it.  
 

   “Gran,” I whispered, trying out the sound. I liked the sound of it.  
 

   She’d said she had searched for us a long time. Knowing that tugged at my heart. If she’d found us earlier, things would have been different. She would have loved all of us; Mom, Lance, and me. She was part of us, too; part of me. That made her more real to me, somehow. I wanted to connect with her, to know her, to understand her. To make her part of my life.  
 

CHAPTER 23
 

Dry fingers brushed my hair out of my face; a cherished sensory memory of my mother I’d nearly forgotten. I opened my eyes and the white cotton blanket reminded me where I was. I sat up stiffly.  
 

“I am dying,
chere
,” she said. Her strange appearance didn’t bother me so much anymore. She cleared her throat. “We do not have much time.” Her voice sounded dusty with the past. I offered her a glass of water from the bedside table, but she shook her head.  
 

“The doctor said you’re fine. They’re just keeping you here for observation.”
 

She shook her head. “I have found you, and nothing more keeps me here. To gaze upon you, with a fierce joy again in my heart is enough. I am at peace. I will speak of what is to come and die. I am a woman fulfilled at last.”
 

It struck me again that this ancient woman seemed the embodiment of a banked fire, ready to flare up at any moment; her life force an eternal flame. In spite of her eccentricities, traces of my mother stared back at me; in the cheekbones, around the brow, and the set of her chin. Where my mother had always seemed to me to be made of glass, my great grandmother reminded me of an old coin, worn away around the edges, but solid at the core, in spite of her doll-like exterior.  
 

My throat tightened.  “You’re not going to die; at least not today.” I wondered whether she would be able to return to her home. Where would she go? Living with me wouldn’t work. I lived up a long flight of stairs, and had only a studio apartment. Maybe I should think about finding a two-bedroom.  
 

“Listen to me, Mattie. The time has come for you to accept your inheritance.” She took hold of my hand again. “I am a direct descendant of one of the original three Fates of Egypt. When I die, you will become the next Hand of Fate. You are my legacy.”
 

I bit the inside of my cheek and wondered where Rhys and the lawyer had disappeared to. Or the nurse.  Shouldn’t somebody be here? “Would you like me to go find Mr. Fontaigne? He should still be here.”
 

She ignored me. “Our ancestors weren’t human, we are descended of the gods. Our line served the Pharaohs, advising the royal families for generations. In time, the Romans brought the siblings to Greece, where they became famous as the Apportioners of Fate. The Three Fates.”
 

Her fingers dug into me. “Our ancestors were born a thousand years before Christianity, Mattie. Our bloodline has survived for more than four thousand years. You are a direct descendent of that bloodline. You are my heir.”
 

I winced. “Okay, okay. What about your other children? My brother--”  
 

“The eldest woman in the line inherits the legacy. You accepted the mark. When I die, the gift will come to you.”
 

I rubbed at the crescent mark on my hand. “You don’t need to give me anything.”
 

“The gift is not material,
chere
. Long ago, when the Greeks kidnapped the Moirae sisters from Egypt, they brought them to Delphi to be revered as oracles. Lachesis’ line, the Hand of Time, ended during the Black Plague. Her powers passed to the Clothos line, the Hand of Life. The last Clothos heir perished during the French Revolution, and her combined powers passed to my line, the line of Atropos, also known as Morta, the Hand of Death. The powers of the gods now live within a single line. Our line. With my passing, these powers will pass to you. You will become the Hand of Fate.”
 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve already got a job. I work for the city of Picston.”
 

She touched my hair. “It is a heavy responsibility. One you will assume very soon, I think. It happens even now.”
 

She wasn’t listening to me. “Did my mother know about all this?”
 

“When Oleanna became pregnant, she ran away from home. She gave her baby up for adoption without ever telling me who the father was. She took the secret to her grave. To have found you now is the answer to all my hopes and prayers. I never stopped looking for your mother.” I saw real grief in her face, and believed her.  
 

“My mom abused alcohol and drugs, and worked the streets to support her habits. She eventually took her own life. She had a lot of problems, but now I think maybe mental illness wasn’t one of them.”
 

My gran hugged me then, and I let her. We cried for my mother; something I’d never allowed myself to do. We cried for what we’d both lost. She blew her nose using three tissues; just as my mother had.    
 

“I’ve never had a grandmother; or great-grandmother, either. I want to know about you and your life.”
 

She shook her head. “There is no time. I need to prepare you for what is coming, chere. It has been almost a century since I came into my gift, and I have forgotten much. I do remember times so dark that I too had thoughts of taking my own life.  I had no one to tell me what would happen. I would spare you that, if you would listen.”
 

I nodded.  It couldn’t hurt to listen.  
 

“I was eight years old when an agent came to our village in France and offered my father an enormous sum of money to send my mother to America. Just for the summer, he said. She would work for the Russ family as the starring attraction at Heavenly Shores Amusements. I wanted to go too, but the Agent told us the contract specified only the Hand of Fate. My mother would spend twelve weeks in America, and return to our village before the fall harvest. The man offered my father more money than could earn from five years of farming.