The Trouble with Fate (2 page)

Which is why, when the old Were had entered the café, nose high, and snared the last
free table, my stomach had tensed, and I’d shrunk a little lower behind my brewing
machine, not knowing what to expect. But since then, he’d just sat there, slouching
in his comfortable country clothes, one hand playing with a stir stick someone had
left behind. My ill ease had flattened, because part of me figured I could outrun
a fossil like him, any day, any time. But now my fight-or-flight instinct was tapping
me on the shoulder, telling me to stay sharp. What would two Weres be doing in a coffee
shop? Had the Weres of Creemore finally come looking for me?

Trowbridge took a quick glance around the room before pulling out a chair opposite
Geezer-Were. I held my breath as his gaze skipped me and drifted over to a shapely
brunette, waiting to place her order. So much for the “aha” moment. He didn’t point
a finger at me and exclaim, “Lo, there be the long-lost daughter of Benjamin Stronghold!”
I wiped the counter while the steam did the foam thing, considering the implications
of that. My features hadn’t changed that much. I mean, if you searched hard enough,
it wasn’t a big stretch to spot the similarities between a kid named Helen and a girl
named Hedi. Did the Creemore pack actually think I was dead? Unbelievable. After the
flames and smoke had petered out, hadn’t anyone pawed through the rubble searching
for our remains? Two kids, plus two parents brought the body count to four, not two.
Fools. No one scratched their head and said, “Hey, we’re missing two corpses”?

Unless the fire reduced everything to ash? Could it do that? Bones and teeth too?

I’d never made their wanted list.
It was a near sickening thought when one took in all the effort Lou and I expended
hiding our tracks … oh hell … I could have gone to school … Without taking my eyes
off Trowbridge and company, I pointed my finger and sent out a mental stream to the
steam knob. It eased a fraction to the left.

His wedding band winked at me as he tucked a hank of hair behind his ear.

“Didn’t stop the cheating dog from checking out the brunette, did it?” I muttered
to my chest. In response, my amulet, Merry, twitched in her sleep, still hidden under
my shirt where I wore her. Sometimes she roused to see what was up, sometimes she
didn’t—she’d simply twitch or flinch, sort of her version of a pillow over the head.
In the end it didn’t really matter, because I’d give her a blow-by-blow later. Unless
Merry was feeding, she hung around my neck on a chain, making her a convenient audience
for one of my monologues. The rest of the time I let her nap inside the cup of my
lace bra.

Trowbridge sat a little straighter. Well, he was a Were; he’d probably heard me. But
recognize me? That appeared to be another thing. I wasn’t twelve anymore, and besides,
I was supposed be dead, burned up in the fire.

“Peacock,” said Mark. “Speed it up.”

I spooned off a little foam and put the next order on the bar.

“That’s nonfat?” asked the woman.

“Yup,” I said with my toothy barista smile. When she turned away, I began to clean
the nozzle with the damp rag. Trowbridge hadn’t moved much since he’d done the visual
and slapped a “later” label on the brunette, but from my side of the bar, I could
smell his growing unease over the coffee, warm milk, and humans.

That’s right, something’s wrong,
I telegraphed.
What is it?

His head tilted to the side as if he were searching for a clue. His nostrils flared.

Good luck on that. Faes don’t have a scent.
He wasn’t following the script. He was supposed to haul me out from behind the bar,
and stalk out of the coffee shop, with me a helpless, fainting burden in his arms.
I’d be wearing kitten heels, one of which would drop off. My small fists would beat
on his chest, and he’d look down at me and realize that his life was over unless he
claimed me as his own.

Of course for that scenario to work, I’d have to be weak, blond, and at least fourteen
pounds lighter. And he’d be Lord Worthington, not some no-account Were. I’m round
and short. I don’t wear kitten heels. I’d like to, but they aren’t on the approved
shoe list for Starbucks.

See, there you go, another lie. I’d never wear kitten heels.

My hair is brown. When it’s freshly washed and the sun catches it just so, someone
who’s read one too many bodice rippers might use the word “chestnut” to describe it.
That’s a stretch. Most days it could be best described as mousy brown. I haven’t worked
out what to do with it, so I usually wear it pulled back in a ponytail—one of those
slacker ponytails that conveniently hide the ears.

And I’m not in the least bit beautiful, which just goes to show what a contrary bitch
genetics is. My mum
was
beautiful, otherworldly beautiful, with golden hair that swung in graceful waves
to her hips. But then again, she was born a Fae—what most humans call a fairy. She
didn’t have wings, and she didn’t go around in a belted tunic. She did have the ears
though. Mine have a slight point to them, courtesy of her. Sometimes I find my fingers
stroking their sharp, curved peaks. It soothes me.

What’s on the other side of my gene pool?

Werewolf. From my moon-called father, I got a full upper lip, a temper, and my own
personal inner Were. I have that bitch on permanent lockdown, buried so deep that
she represents little more than a salivation problem when I walk past the deli. I
do not turn furry when the full moon rises in the night sky. My eyes don’t glow red
with rage, my teeth don’t elongate, and I can hear only a little better than humans.

Get over the myths. They’re never accurate.

Trowbridge got up, and jerked his head toward the exit. Geezer-Were stood to follow.
Trowbridge held the door open for him, his right hand spread wide on the glass door.
It had three fingers; a thumb, a pointer, and an f-u. The pinkie was missing, leaving
a rounded nub close to his palm. The ring finger had been severed after the first
knuckle
. Who’d hurt him?

“Did you get that?” hissed Mark.

“What?”

“The next order. Grande, two pump vanilla, nonfat, extra hot, latte. You’re falling
behind again, Hedi,” he said, from the safety of the cash register.

The door swung closed behind Trowbridge. I bore down on the next orders with a ferocity
that made all the other little baristas stay well clear as I came to terms with the
thought that all my hiding had been for nothing. They really did think I had died
in the fire.
Walk away, Trowbridge,
I thought.
Take your chewed-up hand with you.

Fourteen minutes later, my beautiful silver coffee maker started to shimmer. I squeezed
hard on the steamer’s shiny silver handle, and concentrated on my fingers curled around
it. Small hands, the knuckles four white sharp stones under soft skin. I could feel
the pull, the sick slip of melting into Lou’s thought-pictures.

A big fat red apple flashed through my brain.

“Easy, Lou,” I said under my breath as I slid a bold one to a short guy. Fae tears,
my aunt was lost today. This was the third time.

Concentrate.
My hand. This handle, shiny, and silver bright. Concentrate on the sounds in the
background. Someone was jiggling his keys. Use that as an anchor, cling to the sound,
stay in the
here
. There was a sickening flutter of images as she overwhelmed my resistance.
A red apple, something flying through the air, a face angry and distorted.

“Stay in the here, stay in the here,” I whispered. I tried to focus on the feel of
my hand on the handle, the distinctive reek of coffee, and the murmur of human voices
in the background. Lou’s telegraphed images started to get thin to transparent. For
an instant I could see the lineup of cups on top of my machine.

Another flash, another push, and suddenly, she’d started to tow me helplessly back
into the current of her thought-pictures.
The same freakin’ red apple. A gravel path. A tree line, dark and somehow horrifying.
The inside of Bob’s bookstore, with midday light streaming weakly through the open
space of glass. A natural pool. The water dark, but the trees so green, and the light
so bright. A dark uniform, bulky and foreign. Lou’s hand, her ornate ring too loose
on her finger.

The “here” was gone.

“Ow,” I squeaked as sharp pain broke through my haze and shattered Lou’s thought-pictures.
I was back, staring at my hand on the knob again, with the smell of coffee pungent
in my nostrils. Saved by Merry, once again. When all else fails, a well-timed pinch
works just dandy.

Lou had never pulled me so quickly into the broken puzzle of her deteriorating brain,
except when I was asleep. When I was inside her head that deep, I couldn’t spit out
the fear that lay heavy on my tongue.

“Hedi,” my manager said carefully. “You’re off the line.”

The next customer had stopped jiggling his keys. I bit my lip at his carefully neutral
face, and turned with a sense of inevitability. Mark was standing halfway between
the cash register and my machine.

“Work the cash register for the rest of your shift.” He didn’t have the balls to come
any closer. Jennifer was behind him, her brows pulled together. One day she’ll be
Botoxing the crap out of that vertical line.

Humans all around me.

“You know what, Mark?” I pulled the apron over my head and tossed it. It caught the
milk container, ghosted over it, and slid to the wet ground. “I’m not feeling well.
I think I need to punch out early.” I pulled my backpack out from the cabinet storing
the vanilla bottles.

“Wait a minute. I haven’t given you permission to leave.” He lifted a hand as if to
catch my arm. “I’d like to look through your bag before you go.”

“Kiss my ass, Mark.” I shouldered past him, shrugging on my backpack.

“You walk out that door and you’re fired. You’ve broken your last machine, and stolen
your last sandwich,” Mark snapped.

I searched for a good retort, couldn’t come up with one, and threaded my way through
the tables. I kept my head high even when I heard Mark claim I was the worst barista
ever. A patent lie. My foam was the
best
ever. Period.

“She’s on drugs,” Mark said in a low voice to Jennifer.

“Crack,” she said.

I paused, one shoulder holding the door open. The cool wind slid past me but it did
nothing for my temper. I took my time, eyeing targets, before settling on the coffee
machines. Affixed to the top of each machine was a plastic bowl. Inside the bowls
were the coffee beans, waiting to be fed into the grinder. Two machines, two bowls
each holding two pounds. Four pounds total.

Mark stood with one possessive hand on my favorite machine, his eyes all puffy as
he narrowed them into a squint. That’s what made it so easy. They never saw it coming.

I felt my lip curl.

I cocked my fingers backward, smiled, and with a flick sent my magic streaking through
the air. Invisible to humans, its progress left a bright fluorescent-green trail to
my Fae eyes. It hit the first bowl and stuck. I parted my fingers into a
V
. The stream separated into two trails. The second trail streaked toward the next
bowl. “Weave,” I said, tracing an
O
with my fingers.

“Grow.” I fed a little more energy down the invisible cord. I did four rotations with
my hand until the rope of magic was swollen and hot and then I snipped the line.

I put one foot out of the door, and waited.

You know how you’re not supposed to hold a lit firecracker in your hand? So what do
you think happens when you tell magic to grow and send it to a place it can’t expand?
Uh-huh. Kaboom.

The lines around the base of each bowl swelled, until the contained magic looked like
a sausage hooked too long on the meat grinder. The bowls began to creak with the pressure
around their bases. The plastic lids began to shiver.

Jennifer backed up.

Abruptly, the lids shot up, hitting the ceiling-mounted water pipes with enough force
to make them shatter. And then the fireworks.

Sweet to my soul was the Vesuvius of magically powered coffee beans spewing in one
long sweet eruption of caffeinated hail to the ceiling. The stunned silence of the
café was punctuated by Mark’s strangled, inarticulate, “Ack, ack, ack,” and the rat-tat-tat
of the beans hitting the water pipes.

I waited for the last bean to fall. It clinked on the ground and then rolled until
it hit the back heel of a suit.

Silence.

“Huh,” I said. “That was strange.” I smiled again, baring all my teeth, and let the
door close behind me.

*   *   *

Merry, being Merry, was pissed. I hadn’t taken six long jubilant steps out of the
café before she struck in a fury of searing heat that just about took a strip off
the tender skin of my left breast.

“Shit, Merry-mine, not now,” I said, speeding up toward the corner of the building.
“Cool down. Please, just cool down.”

She was so red that the front of my white blouse glowed as if I’d tucked a flare into
my bra. I hunched my shoulder protectively, shielding my chest from the customer who
was staring at us through the front window, his mug of coffee suspended halfway to
his mouth.

I rounded the corner of the building at a good clip. The dusk had already deepened
into urban night, the sort of leached-out gray that passes for a night sky in the
city. Immediately on breaking the corner, I bent over at my waist, pulled my blouse
away from my skin so that I could jerk Merry out by her chain. I let her dangle from
it, red, gold, and glowing.

Merry hung from a long length of Fae-wrought gold necklace that my mother had placed
around my neck the night she died. You’d need a magnifying glass to see it, but Merry
was more than just a smudge in a piece of amber. She was an Asrai. I knew that at
least, even if I didn’t know precisely what an Asrai was. I knew that she once had
form: two legs, two arms, long hair. She belonged to the Fae world, but Lou had trapped
her inside the amulet long before I was born. A horrible fate, I agree, but she wasn’t
completely powerless.