The Trouble with Fate (46 page)

I squirmed and tried to plant my feet. Her grip relaxed, just slightly. “What do I
do, just point?”

“I don’t give a damn how you do it. I’m wet, I smell like a sewer, and I need a shower.”
A long fluttering strand of her auburn hair played shyly with my shoulder. “Just choose.”

She was as tall as Trowbridge, as strong as any Were, but her aroma was different;
female and not, animal and cosmetics, pain buried so deep under layers of other scents
that it was almost undetectable. The decision was easy. “Well, you’re my second.”

“Poor choice, darling.” But there was a softening in her voice, just a fraction. “Choose
someone from the pack. Preferably one of the good guys.”

“And I’m supposed to know who’s a good guy?”

Biggs cleared his throat. Cordelia raised her brow, and made a swift calculation.
“Windcombe would be the best of the lot. He went rogue rather than serve under Mannus’s
leadership. He’s got old ties to the pack and he’s naturally strong. Bridge trusted
him.”

I tried to pitch my voice like I was used to giving orders. “I wish to speak to Harry
Windcombe.”

Harry stood up, about as stiffly as he had sunk down, and slapped some dust off his
knees, before he began picking his way down the path, taking his time, the placement
of every step deliberate. I said to her in a low voice, “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be my third?”

There was a long pause. I twisted my head to look up to her, and saw that she was
staring at the air above the pond. “No, but I’ll be your friend,” she said, her voice
soft and low. With an oddly watchful smile, she offered, “If you’ll be mine.”

When he finally reached us, I realized that Geezer-Were was tall, really tall. His
shoulder-length hair was wavy, and mostly white. He had a moustache that curled like
a handlebar, slapped on a face that was tanned and deeply wrinkled. Once he’d been
handsome. You could tell. “You met Trowbridge at my Starbucks.”

His dark eyes crinkled as he slowly looked me over. “The little girl behind the big
machine.”

“Don’t call me a little girl,” I said. “I’m not little.”

“No.” There was no irony in his voice. “I can see that now.”

“What did he want from you?”

“Help,” he said.

“A little late, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “I went and got some friends to square up the numbers, but by the
time I came back here, I was too late. You might not want to forgive me for that.”
Harry had a way of looking at you as if he were asking questions and getting answers
all without the other person having to say another word.

Trowbridge had trusted him. I lifted my chin. “Harry Windcombe, will you be my second?”

“It will be an honor.” He bowed. “Mate of our Alpha.”

“Until he comes home again,” I added.

It was grave, his nod. “Until he returns to his pack.”

The first order I gave him was simple. Harry hooked his fingers on his belt loops
and rocked back on the heels of his Western boots before nodding. I wondered if he
had a horse somewhere nearby. “Consider them gone, Helen.”

I corrected him. “Hedi.”

A few minutes later, both ridges were clear of the pack. I kept my knees locked during
the reluctant exodus, but even so, Cordelia had to keep her grip onto my waistband
tight, pulling it up so hard my crotch went numb. When there were no Weres left, but
for her and Biggs, she let go. She caught me before I hit the ground and swung me
up in her arms. She started toward the Trowbridge path. “No,” I said. “I don’t want
to go near that house. I don’t want anyone to ever go there again.” Without a word,
she pivoted, and headed toward the path Biggs had made down the Stronghold ridge.

She did smell like pond water.

Epilogue

You think you’re going to die after living through your personal worst, but you don’t.
What’s the alternative? I’ve met ghosts. Most of them are a bunch of losers, always
moaning about what could have been or should have been.

So I had one more thing to do, and being near empty magicwise, I’d knew I’d have to
do it the old-fashioned way. I had the thought I should do it on my own. It seemed
perfectly plausible to me that I could man the oars with my crispy hands, hold the
flashlight between my teeth, and steer the course to Merry’s prince, without any help
at all. Then maybe I’d sit there out among the lily pads, contemplating things, hoping
to make sense of all that had happened.

That had been the pattern of my old life. My new one had unexpected hitches to it.
Turns out the oars were really heavy, and the old wooden boat that Biggs and the other
guy had brought me wasn’t a hundred percent seaworthy.

And besides, Cordelia wasn’t having it.

She sat beside me on the wooden seat and kept a steady beam of light on the lily pad.
Biggs manned the oars, while Harry stood tall on the mud bank, waiting for us to return.

There seemed no end to this night.

“More to the left, Biggs,” said Cordelia.

“Dude, it’s harder than it looks.”

“Call me that one more time and I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I’m the third,” he said.

“I’ll still cut your balls off.”

“Leave it, Biggs,” I said. “Her name is Cordelia. She is to be called by her name,
and nothing else.” I could hear her inhale of satisfaction. So to even it out, I said,
“Cordelia, he is my third and that requires balls.”

There: my first quasi-Alpha ruling.

They lapsed into silence as the boat reached the point where the portal had once floated
over the lily pads. Biggs stopped pulling on the oars, and took that moment to bail
out the bottom of the boat with an old yogurt container. But we all turned our gaze
skyward. I don’t know, maybe we thought the portal was still there, but somehow it
had turned invisible. Or maybe some of us thought we’d have a fairy-tale ending. All
we had to do was wish for it, and the lights would return, the wind chimes would sing,
the air would be sweet—and he would be there, Merry around his neck.

Fantasy. But then again, I know there’s a place up there, far, far north, past earth’s
moon and stars, where a half-mad Mystwalker protects a Fairy Royal Court. Would Trowbridge’s
soul-light be up there now? Spilling electric-blue light for the wonder of the woodland
creatures? Or was there no forest-of-souls for the Weres in Threall? No grove of trees
for the humans?

And what of me? Where did my soul-light glow?

No one said a word when I raised my hand to trail my finger through the night air
where once the portal had hung. There was nothing there to grasp, like there had been
nothing left here of him after the gates closed. Though … that’s not the whole truth,
is it? That’s just part of the truth.

There had been something left in Creemore after he’d gone. A grieving redhead, blood
on the ground, and me.

And there was something visible in the night sky over my head. There was a moon that
would soon be calling, and stars that some lovesick fool would wish on, and maybe
if I knew where to look for it, a hole in the Milky Way too.

There’s always something there. It just may not be the thing you want.

Biggs picked up the oars and started pulling on them again, cursing under his breath
as the blades got caught among the lilies’ rubbery stems.

I moved to the prow as we drifted the last few feet. The starlight made the Royal
Amulet’s gold gleam in a way that Merry would have coveted. I leaned out to pluck
him off his lily pad. As my fingers wrapped around his unfamiliar shape, I felt him
move. Just a little quiver, perhaps a little start of fear as I lifted him off the
safety of his lily pad. I turned him over. There was the tiniest blue fire deep in
the center of his sapphire. Once his chain was warming on my neck, I hesitated, turning
over the idea of tucking him inside my borrowed sweatshirt, close to my naked breast,
but in the end, I let the Royal Amulet rest on the outside of my new hoodie. It reeked
of Were, but he’d have to get over that. There would be no more hiding.

I gazed up at the ridges. Light streamed through the trees on the Trowbridge side.
The last person to leave the house had left the lights on. Maybe tomorrow, I’d send
Biggs to shut off all the power there. Close the curtains. Lock the door. Seal the
memories away.

There was lots of activity up on the Stronghold ridge. A man was hanging a camp light
from the lowest branch of our old maple tree. Some women were gathered in a gossip-sized
huddle. More people were involved with directing the driver behind the pickup wheel
as he slowly backed a trailer over my mum’s old vegetable garden. I’m not sure he
was paying attention to their comments, but it was worth a small smile, watching them
flap their arms. The trailer resembled a big silver bug. I knew, with absolute certainty
and a little inward squirm of cheer, that Cordelia would hate it. She’d moan and snarl
and pout. But she’d stay.

I knew that too.

I scowled at all the Weres milling around up there. They were there to help, supposedly,
but I could feel their eyes on me. They were curious, I guess. After all, I was supposed
to be a ghost. But that’s the problem with myths—they’re never accurate. If you want
proof that I’m very much alive, take a good whiff. It’s not easy to catch, but it’s
there. Yeah, I smell a little like Trowbridge. I guess one day I won’t even notice
it. I can still feel him though. Inside me. Like I have two hearts buried under my
broken ribs.

While he’s gone, I’ll stand in his place and learn the way of the Were. That might
take some time, but time is something I’m banking on having plenty of. I’m twenty-two.
With any luck, I’ll figure out how to run a Pack before they realize I haven’t got
a clue.

But in the meantime, there are things to be done.

Somebody needs to feed me.

A cookie will do.

Praise for Leigh Evans and

THE TROUBLE WITH FATE

“[A] brilliant debut … has a likeable, light-fingered heroine with smarts, a tough
sexy hero with troubles, and a glimpse into a fascinating fae world that will have
you howling for the next book. I loved it!”

—Suzanne McLeod, author of
The Shifting Price of Prey

“What a delicious read! Chock-full of fun twists and sexy diversions, one of them
named Robson. Leigh Evans is definitely one to watch. Get this book! You will not
be disappointed!”

—Darynda Jones,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Charley Davidson series

“It’s rare to find a debut novel with a well-crafted world, a great story, and dynamic
characters, but this book has them all. I was grabbed early and hooked to the very
end. I eagerly await the sequel!”

—Karen Chance,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Cassandra Palmer and Dorina Basarab series

“Her first time at bat, Leigh Evans has hit one out of the park.
The Trouble with Fate
is the perfect mix of romance and action, with characters you can’t help but root
for and a twist that had me squealing with surprise. Evans offers a brilliant new
take on fairies, werewolves, and magic—and this book is urban fantasy and paranormal
romance at its best. I am officially addicted.”

—Chloe Neill,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Chicagoland Vampires and Dark Elite series

About the Author

Leigh Evans lives in Southern Ontario with her husband and a short, fat, black dog.
She’s raised two kids, mothered three dogs, and herded a few cats. Other than that,
her life has been fairly boring. You can visit her online at
www.leighevans.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE TROUBLE WITH FATE

Copyright © 2013 by Leigh Evans.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

www.stmartins.com

eISBN: 9781466819610

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2013

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New
York, NY 10010.