Switch of Fate 2

by Grace Quillen

  There, she spotted the bus stop three blocks ahead and moved a little faster still. There was no bus in sight, but that could mean either it hadn’t come yet, or it had come and gone.

  The leaves on the trees in the park beside her were turning slightly, their very edges going orange-red, reminding her that, yes, it was early September, but autumn was coming. She could feel it and she couldn’t wait to experience it. She’d never lived in the mountains, had lived her whole life in New Orleans, which was actually situated below sea level. She shivered, like she always did when anything reminded her of the hurricane that had changed her life forever. She shivered, but she did not slow.

  Most years on the bayou it felt like autumn took her sweet time, showing up in the middle of November and then lingering all the way until spring. Up here maybe Goldie would see some real seasons, maybe even snow that stayed on the ground.

  She passed the tiny park, speed-walking past the red-brick municipal buildings and the weathered clapboard siding of retail stores and restaurants. A quaint small town. Penny candies and homemade fudge alongside e-cigarettes and t-shirts. Not too different from the shops in the Big Easy where tourists could buy a fine porcelain magnolia blossom teacup alongside neon plastic shot glasses and voodoo dolls.

  Goldie made it to the bus stop, out of breath, glad to see an older man sitting on the backless cement bench. If he was waiting, maybe that meant the bus was late.

  The man seemed familiar, in that Southern gentleman way she’d grown up around. On the shorter side, with white hair cut close and a stocky build that spoke of a past as a soldier or laborer. He smiled at Goldie kindly as she approached and sat on the other end of the bench. “Evenin’, young lady.”

  Goldie didn’t feel like talking, but she’d been all but raised by Tallulah Peletier, one of the grand dames of New Orleans (at least in her own eyes), and that meant Goldie had been raised right. She smiled at the man, responding to the kindness in his face. “It’s a lovely one. How are you, sir?”

  He continued to look her over, a vague expression on his softly wrinkled face. “Right as rain, can’t complain. I don’t believe I know you, and I know everyone. You new to town? A student at the college?”

  Goldie shook her head. “No, sir, I just got a job in the county schools. I’m a speech therapist.” She gave the older man the sweet smile she’d perfected before she was five and chattered on, painting the disaster of her life to sound like a delight, as if she and her sister, Darby, hadn’t been close to homeless when she found this job. It was the perfect job for her and she was the perfect person for it.

  The man smiled over at her, nodding. “You moved here with your husband?”

  Goldie held in a weary sigh. Didn’t matter if she was in North Carolina or New Orleans, anyone old enough to be her grandparent wanted to stick their nose in her heart. “No, sir, with my-” Goldie stammered, the lie feeling clunky on her tongue, “My roommate.”

  His eyebrows scrunched up, like two furry white caterpillars over his suddenly serious eyes holding tight to hers. “Well, if that don’t beat all… two young ladies, living alone? Y’all best be careful. We’ve had some young ladies go missing around here lately, if you hadn’t heard. Bad sorts runnin’ around.”

  Goldie had heard. She’d seen the prime time special on the tri-state kidnappings more than a month ago, had been able to think of little else for the first few days they’d been stranded in the town. She loved the weather and the forest and the quaint little town, but the thought of the ‘bad sorts running around’ was hard on her. Whoever was doing it, he was preying on women alone after dark. Goldie worried about herself, but more, she worried about her sister (roommate, she’s your roommate). Darby was not known for having a level head.

  Especially considering the reason Goldie wasn’t calling herself and Darby sisters. Darby had a stalker. But Goldie didn’t want to think about that or admit they were running. Hiding. She crossed her legs and spoke to the older man. “Beautiful town y’all have here.”

  He swelled with pride, his clean-shaven chin jutting over his buttoned-up collar. “Why, thank you.” He looked around at his town, and Goldie wondered if he’d lived there all his life. That was the kind of ownership she felt coming out of him in waves. “Clean air, nice people, pride in our history, surrounded by some of the oldest mountains on earth. You could not live in a better area.”

  He stuck out his hand to her. “My name’s Vernon Bunn.”

  The proper response rose to Goldie’s tongue, just as she’d said it a thousand times before, I’m Goldie Peletier and I am so very pleased to meet you, but then her world turned upside down and she lost her mind.

  Or at least that’s what it felt like. Like what she had always known was not only wrong, but against her very nature, and who she really was trumped who she always thought she’d been, and the realization fell into her head all at once and knocked all sense out of her.

  A limo, long and sleek and black as midnight slid past on the nearly empty street.

  Goldie was up and moving, without a word to excuse her to the man she’d been speaking to. Unheard of but it didn’t stop her. Her world turned a stunning shade of shamrock green, reminding her of the worst night of her life, which scared her, but also gave her a frame of reference for the strength pouring through her.

  She’d felt this extraordinary power before, back when she’d needed help in the worst way, for her and her sister, and it had not ended well. This would end no better, she was sure of it, because she was completely and totally out of control. And Goldie could think of nothing worse than being out of control. But still she ran. In public. Where people could see her.

  The green stayed in the edges of her vision and she didn’t care, all she cared about was the feeling of hate pouring through her as she chased the limousine down for absolutely no reason at all.

  It pulled away from her.

  She ran faster.

  Chapter 3 - Prior Ties Reprioritized

  Flint put his chicken in the fridge to chill and grabbed a beer, about to head into the living room to see what Cora and J were up to, but his phone chimed again. Oh yeah.

  He checked his email. Two new ones, and neither one was spam.

  re: Your Premium Background Report is ready

  and

  Mountain Man alert. Not a drill, motherfucker, with an attachment.

  Fuck. Had he said fate was converging on him? More like slamming him in the face repeatedly. But Flint was beyond ready. He opened the first email but dreamed about the second one.

  He’d had a records check run on the cat. Riot A. Cofield was his full name. Middle name Asshole?

  He read the report once. Twice. A third time, just to be sure of what he’d already decided. Goddamned tight-lipped, lying piece of shit.

  There it was in black and white. Riot had a record. The lying cat who claimed to be a simple climbing instructor and had slunk into Jameson’s good graces, was really an ex-con.

  And not for some piddly shit, either. Riot was a thief, and he’d assaulted an officer of the law. Yep. Fucker needed to be out of The Cause, and yesterday.

  That decided, he opened the second email, read it quickly, three times through again, but it was only one sentence.

  I took this picture yesterday about a half-mile off the Eagle Rock Loop in the Ouachitas.

  The attachment was an image of a black bear, stalking through an evergreen forest, a rock caught in the fur under his muzzle. Flint zoomed in on the photo. Not caught. Deliberately braided.

  Mountain Man. Shit. Time to go. Just when things were getting interesting here.

  Flint stood but was almost knocked to the floor by a wave of intense… what? Unease. Unease filled him. Someone he loved was in trouble.

  Bryce.

  He had to call his brother. Everything else was instantly relegated to the very back of his mind. This was an emergency.

  (not bryce. move. go.)

  Instinct. Not Bryce? Who then? Hernando?
Molly? Jameson? But he was moving regardless. Instinct only ever instructed him in steps, would not tell him any more than he needed to know until the moment he needed to know it. He shot to his feet, intending to text his little brother anyway, with an apology to his Instinct. Some ties were too strong…

  He whipped out his phone as he skidded out the door toward his Range Rover, texting as he went. You cool, B?

  A reply came back almost instantly, allowing Flint to breathe. Bryce was the most important thing. His only blood family left.

  Max chillin’, bro. Sup?

  Flint jammed his phone back in his pocket and jumped into his vehicle, forcing the keys into the ignition and peeling out backwards, swinging a three-point turn until he was gaining speed down the driveway, then turning toward town, while the speakers blared a Tool album, the last thing he’d put in his stereo.

  (right turn)

  He left the fancy driveway, turning onto the gravel mountain road, giving all his attention to his Instinct, leaving only the barest senses to driving.

  Highway 129 lit up like a runway in front of him, calling him to turn northwest, allowing him to go faster than he should on the dark street.

  (faster. you have to be there)

  Flint was convinced. He slammed the pedal to the floor and let his bear drive.

  * * *

  The bus passed Goldie, going the other way.

  Goldie no longer cared about the bus.

  She was moving as fast as she could down the blessedly empty sidewalk, running all out in her sensible flats, grasping in her purse, clawing, her hand guided to clasp the first sharp thing she found, a metal nail file. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing she had that would pass for a weapon.

  A what-on? she said to herself, her proper, sensible, ladylike training protesting frantically, even as something deeper ran faster, stronger, harder. Didn’t that thing know she was clumsy? That she was even still upright was a miracle. And still she ran, the slapping of her feet on the concrete pounding thickly up her knees. Straight, hot, rage that she’d never felt before filled her vision just like the green streak she could not deny.

  The limo stopped at a stoplight next to a black SUV. Goldie ran harder. The light turned green, the limo started to roll through, but the brake lights flared again. The limo stopped. Goldie was catching him. Almost there. The back window on the passenger side rolled down. A head stuck out. A thin head, with skin stretched tight over bones, topped with slicked-down hair that was jet black except for a white stripe down the right side from temple to neck.

  Die, villain. Scum. Filth. Stay right there and let me relieve you of your breath.

  She gripped her weapon tighter, eyeing his neck, his chest. Where would she plunge it? Right there, in the soft side of his throat.

  Her strike point selected, Goldie put on one more burst of speed. The man’s eyes narrowed and locked on her with recognition, then he shouted to the driver, banging on the side of the vehicle with one pale hand. “Go! Now!”

  She leaped. Clumsiness and ladylike behavior could go get dipped. Goldie would jump on the trunk like some possessed superhero and hold on until the car stopped. Then she would force her way inside…

  But she was not a superhero.

  And clumsy was not a choice.

  * * *

  Flint reached the outskirts of Shady Pines, a historic mining town near Five Hills, looking right, left, up, behind. Where was it? What was he looking for? He stopped at a stoplight.

  A limousine moved slowly up next to him on the right. His open window allowed a tease of a breeze inside the car. Bitter herbs, dandelion, and nettle mixed with pine reached him. Fucking vampire. Somewhere close. In that limo? Go time. Show time. All Vampires Must Die time. Now he knew what he’d been called here for. Whoever - whatever - was in that limo held a key for Flint. A key he’d been searching for most of his life.

  The light turned green. Flint’s alert heightened, pulling him to lean forward, hold his breath, eyes and nose open as he waited for the limo’s next move. It pulled forward, Flint stepped on the gas to follow, But then, in the next second, Flint couldn’t think at all.

  The most intoxicating scent he’d ever smelled was coming at him in lunges, pushing its way into his sinuses and shorting out his brain. He sucked in a sweet breath through his nose, his eyes rolling closed for the barest second.

  It was the lush scent of sweet basil, rosemary, thyme; mellow herbs that promised affection and solace and everything he’d ever thought was important. A promise lit up in his head, as if someone was holding stems of all his favorite herbs up to his face, tickling his imagination. He had to know where it was coming from, what it was coming from, fuck-all help him if it was a who it was coming from, because it made him ravenous.

  A flash of green in his right side mirror caught Flint’s eye as the limo put on a burst of speed through the intersection. The emerald glow flared high off the ground and then disappeared just as his head swiveled for a closer look. Something hit his truck with a whump.

  The delay between Flint’s eyes and his brain caught up. A woman. Blonde. Her hair flying as she soared through the air like Superman and then bounced off his truck. Flint stood on the brakes. Holy shit.

  It hadn’t looked that bad, right? Please don’t let it be bad. Let her be okay.

  Because Flint was pretty sure he had just hit a switch with his car, and someone was going to have his ass for it. Probably him.

  * * *

  Goldie hit the black SUV that had appeared in front of her with a thump. And a splat. And her shoulder. And her face.

  The green glaze in her vision scattered a little at the impact, but white hot savagery held its grip on her. Goldie fell to the ground and tried to catch her breath. She had to recover, had to move.

  A deep, rumbly, male voice reached her. “Shit. Are you okay?”

  And just like that, the white-hot emotion split in two. No longer just hate. Now hate and lust filled her in equally violent measure.

  That wasn’t like Goldie. Not at all. In either direction. But she couldn’t care about all that now. She already had a man to stab. Not this one.

  But the other one. Yes, she needed to kill the other one. Goldie tried to push up with her left arm but her shoulder screeched with pain, so she went to her other side, pushed up, ready to run…

  Her trail was blocked by a huge hulk of a man with dark hair, a dark expression, and a nasty scar on his neck. Big as a tank, she thought. She wanted to get around him, but she wanted to stay where she was, too. Maybe touch him. Maybe climb him. She hadn’t even known they made ‘em that big. And thick. And hard. And solid.

  Goldie shook her head, the new set of inappropriate thoughts dismaying her in a totally different way. She stared at the ground at his feet, trying to figure out her next move as her mind worried the problem. The desire to climb this man like a tree was definitely the worst. Which said exactly what about her, that she picked murder over PDA?

  Wait, she’d lost her weapon. Goldie whirled and searched the ground where she’d slammed into the truck. “Where is it? I just had it.”

  She saw it, but large masculine fingers grabbed it up first. He was going to take her weapon. But no, he held it out to her, handle first.

  “I think he’s gone now. But if you want to chase him, I’m game,” the man said, a hard look on his handsome face. Tall, dark, and delicious, Goldie thought. Yummy yum yum.

  She leaned in and grabbed her nail file, puzzling over his words, denying how much she liked them. But oh, wait, he smelled good, like clean forest evergreen outdoors masculine man. A man who wooed you by fixing your car and cooking you dinner over an open fire.

  A hard voice spoke in her mind. Less smelling, more killing. Yes, that sounded right.

  Before she could move, the man looked over her head, down the street, then motioned in the open vehicle door. “Get in. We’ll follow him.”

  She pulled away from him and snarled, angry, but she wasn’t sure w
hy. The violence overruling everything again, coursing through her, making her act so against her nature…

  He put his hands up. “Calm down, Pumpkin, I’m one of the good guys.”

  She dropped her hands and stared at him in confusion. His face lit up with confusion also, and a bit of embarrassment, like he wasn’t sure why he’d said what he’d said to her.

  Pumpkin. The pet name her family had always called her. That endearment from this man’s mouth stunned her in what seemed like a life-changing way. She’d never seen him before, but somehow, when she looked at him, he made her feel protected, and warm. Too warm. He pulled at her in a way she’d never experienced before.

  The war between hatred and lust was over. Goldie might be standing still but inside she was barrelling out of control. Yet she didn’t run from the man who’d set her reeling. She stayed with him. Reached out to touch him, like maybe that was the answer.

  He snatched at her hand and caught hold of it, then squeezed.

  Whoa. Goldie felt the rightness in her gut, in her bones, in the unfathomable depths of her soul.

  Not just the answer. Bonus points.

  Chapter 4 - Bear Down

  The woman (switch) froze. Held out her hand. He grabbed it up before the chance passed, wondering who was being swept away and who was the lifeline.

  But all Flint could do was stare. Straight, blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, with the widest, clearest cornflower blue eyes he’d ever seen. Petite, slim-hipped, with slender, soft fingers he knew he was holding too tightly, but that was only because Flint’s heart had sped up when he touched her, and now he was afraid it might stop if she pulled away. No big deal. Shit.

  Their eyes locked. His face felt hot and he didn’t like it. Where had Pumpkin come from? If this switch was anything like Cora he might be about to be lit up, depending on if she knew her magic or not. She was switched on, that was for sure, because switches did not glow until they’d encountered at least one vampire.