The Trouble with Fate (42 page)

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 for 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.