Whispers of Fate: The Mistresses of Fate, Book Two

by Deirdre Dore

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  For Great-Papa,

  a very good man who loved dogs

  and whose home in Georgia inspired this story

  For whatsoever from one place doth fall,

  Is with the tide unto an other brought:

  For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

  —Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

  Prologue

  “TAVEY, WHERE’RE we goin’?” Summer whined, trailing slightly behind Tavey as they scrambled their way through the woods. Buford, Tavey’s favorite beagle, bounded ahead, the white flag on the tip of his tail vibrating. Summer was not normally a whiner. Actually, Tavey couldn’t remember ever hearing that particular tone from her friend before. On any other occasion, she would have stopped to ask her about it, but it would be dark in a few short hours, and these woods were not friendly under the veil of shadows.

  Dark or not, Tavey knew the woods well—most of them belonged to her family—and she surged ahead as determined as a hound on a scent, following whispering creeks, deer trails, and the paths made by her grandfather when he’d taken the dogs out hunting. When no paths presented themselves, she fought through the unruly vines and brambles, wriggling her slender body through. Summer followed more slowly, with less noise. Like Tavey, she’d been wandering in the woods since she was a child. Unlike Tavey, she couldn’t rely on her eyes, she had to use the sounds, smells, and feel of the woods around her. Blind since birth, she had never tolerated staying in her quiet, stale house and had been sneaking out since she was little.

  “Come on. I want you to meet someone,” Tavey insisted.

  “But . . . this is the way to Old Abraham’s house.”

  Tavey grimaced at the apprehension in Summer’s voice. “It’ll be okay. Come on.”

  Old Abraham lived on a couple of acres between Tavey’s property and the property that belonged to Summer’s family—a reclusive clan that had lived in the wooded mountains around their town for generations. The Haven clan believed themselves to be witches and generally kept to themselves, rarely interacting with outsiders.

  Old Abraham wasn’t actually that old, but he looked old to Tavey, with gray hair and whiskers and yellow-gray skin. He acted old, too, shouting incomprehensible garble and falling down the rickety steps.

  Tavey thought he’d just gone crazy, not to mention nasty—he’d called Summer a “damn witch” the last time they’d ventured onto his property. After that, Tavey had attempted to get her grandfather to run the old man off, but her grandfather had refused.

  “He’s an old man who saw terrible things, Tavey, honey. Leave it be.” Her grandfather had shaken his head, touching a picture he kept on a little table next to his favorite club chair. Tavey knew the picture well. She’d studied it often because it was one of the few her grandfather had kept that showed her father, Charlie Collins. In the photo, her grandfather stood with a teenage Abraham and Tavey’s own father, who’d been a kid at the time, and a couple of the hound dogs. Abraham had been carrying a rifle in the picture, while Tavey’s father looked up at him with a scowl on his small face.

  “Boy was a good shot, though, even then. Best you stay outta his way.”

  Tavey had scowled—she didn’t care to feel in the wrong—but she had obeyed her grandfather as always.

  Abraham’s sister had recently moved back to Fate with her husband and son. Tavey had met them yesterday, when her grandmother had taken her to welcome the new family back to town. They had moved into a small house in the less affluent part of town, near the railroad tracks, but Abraham’s sister had mentioned that her son would be staying with his uncle Abraham for a few days.

  Thinking about the boy she’d met the previous day prompted Tavey to walk a little faster.

  “There’s someone you have to meet,” she added by way of encouragement, but refused to say any more. She wanted Summer’s reaction to be untainted.

  Normally, their other two friends, Chris and Raquel, would have come with them on this adventure, but they had gone with Raquel’s grandmother into town, and Tavey hadn’t wanted to wait.

  She reached back and tugged Summer along faster, knowing she had to get back home before her grandmother worried about them. Summer’s mom had died the year before, and Jane, Summer’s older sister and guardian, probably wouldn’t even notice that Summer was gone; she’d been even more distracted than usual since she’d married Mark Arrowdale, a friend of Chris’s father.

  “Why?” Summer’s voice bounced with curiosity, coming only a little faster as Tavey led her over obstacles.

  “Hush. We’re almost there,” Tavey ordered.

  Summer tugged her hand free and stopped. Tavey turned to look at her, taking in the sight of her slight, delicate-boned friend: the faraway blue eyes, the halo of blond hair that floated in wisps around her face. Framed by the woods, dim in the fading light, she looked like a mythical creature.

  Tavey didn’t believe in magic or witches or love spells—her grandmother didn’t even like hearing about such things—but after knowing Summer for so long, there was no denying that her friend was . . . different. Summer knew when people were lying—she said it was because their voices changed, but still. She was always the first to know when someone was in love, or who was having an affair or stealing from someone else. She’d been the first to tell Chris that her father was in trouble and Tavey that her grandfather was sick. The only people who seemed to puzzle Summer were her own family—which figured.

  Now Tavey wanted to confirm something about the boy she’d met, and while she didn’t believe in magic, she did believe in Summer.

  “Come on.” Tavey reached out and took Summer’s hand again. “You’ll like him.”

  It took about an hour to cover the mile of woods that led to Old Abraham’s house. When they broke the tree line, Buford, excited by the smell of people, ran back to Tavey, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in a doggie grin. The dusky evening sun coated the wrinkled hill that led to the old man’s house in golden light. Wildflowers bloomed in nooks and crannies, dancing in the breezes that stirred the mountain. Tavey grinned at how pretty it was, wishing Summer could see it.

  “To me,” she ordered, and Buford ran to her side. She didn’t think the old man would shoot her dog, but it was better to be safe.

  Tavey was careful to approach boldly rather than sneaking up, pulling Summer along behind. Together they hiked up the first part of the hill to the gravel drive—a pale snake marking the boundary between the Collinses’ land and that of the witch families.

  They’d gotten within a few hundred feet of the old wooden front door when a ten-year-old boy, towheaded and wearing only a pair of faded jeans, opened it abruptly. His feet were bare—brown-dyed with dirt—and a fist-size bruise marked his chest.

  “Who’re you?” he demanded of Summer, ignoring Tavey. He stood with fists clenched and chin angled.

  Tavey lifted her own chin, disdaining his arrogance, even while she itched to take him home and have Atohi bathe him like he would one of the hounds that had tangled with a skunk—in a metal washbasin with a scrub brush and the hose.

  “She’s Old Abraham’s neighbor, an
d you met me yesterday.”

  “His name’s not Old Abraham,” the boy replied, crossing his arms over his chest. An unruly cowlick escaped the matted confines of his hair and waved on the top of his head. Tavey narrowed her eyes at the offensive lock and the lesson in manners.

  “Fine. This is Summer Haven.”

  “How do you do?” Summer said to the air just to the right of the boy’s face.

  His head tilted as he tried to meet her gaze. “Can’t you see?”

  “No,” she hedged, “not the way you do.”

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?” he challenged.

  “Nothing,” she replied, but Tavey caught the underlying current of wariness.

  “Well, that’s all we wanted, to introduce Summer.” Tavey waited for his reply, but her patience ran out after a few seconds of obstinate silence. “What is your name, please? You didn’t tell us at the house.”

  His crossed arms tightened—a pillar of stubbornness, but a gravelly voice from inside the house called out, prompting him. “Answer ’em, son, so they’ll go away.”

  The boy acquiesced with ill grace, the words pulled from a clenched jaw. “Tyler. Tyler Downs.”

  Tavey presented her hand for him to shake, gaze firm and challenging. “It’s nice to meet you, Tyler Downs.”

  He glanced down at his dirty hand, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

  When his dirty, rough-palmed hand engulfed hers, she felt a small tickle on her wrist, like someone had just brushed her skin with a feather. Goose bumps rose on her arms. From behind her, she heard Summer’s breath catch. Tavey didn’t know what Summer “saw” when Tyler Downs touched her hand for the first time, but she suspected, and wasn’t surprised when Summer leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “You already knew. He’s your soul mate.”

  1

  TAVEY WATCHED HER best man-trailing dog, Dixie, as she turned her head left and then right before continuing left, negating the right side of the trail. Tavey, alert to her dog’s behavior, followed her small bloodhound deeper into the woods on the side of a ravine. It was mid-May, early to be this hot out. The deep foliage above kept the temperature down, but it was still eighty degrees and her hair and shirt were soaked with sweat.

  Tavey’s radio crackled; another handler reporting that his dog had seemed to lose the scent, and somewhere in the distance another dog howled.

  Tavey ignored it, rolling her leash in her hand to decrease the slack as Dixie wriggled her way into the brush—she didn’t want them getting tangled during the search.

  Dixie seemed to wander, but Tavey recognized the behavior; Dixie was disregarding directions in her search for a missing hiker, Jane Simmons.

  “Come on, girl, get ’em,” she encouraged, knowing she had to keep the game fun for the dog even as she worried for the girl, who’d gotten lost on a family camping trip trying to find a signal on her cell phone. Tavey had been called in early this morning and had driven several hours into the Chattahoochee National Forest, at the end of the Appalachian Trail.

  Dixie started climbing upward along a narrow ridge made from the roots of several trees above. Tavey, though in excellent shape, struggled to keep her breathing even as she clambered after her beloved canine.

  After Tavey had inherited her grandfather’s estate when she was sixteen, she’d changed the breeding program of the hounds that her family had kept for generations. Instead of working to breed perfect show dogs, Tavey had begun breeding smaller-bodied, resilient hounds with less skin and more energy. She bred them for temperament as well, trying to make each generation eager for work and play, obedient, and friendly. Tavey had different ambitions than her grandfather. He’d liked showing off; she wanted to find people, whether they were dead or alive, so she bred dogs that were suited to that endeavor, and she selected the volunteer handlers with equal care.

  She and Dixie were an excellent team, more successful than most, and this particular search was in her neck of the woods, only a few hours from her home.

  “Good girl, Dixie, take me to the girl.”

  Several hours earlier, the coordinators from the Union County, Georgia, Sheriff’s Office and the other volunteers had met at a base camp downwind of the family’s original campsite. A helicopter had been searching overhead at the time, something she’d trained Dixie to ignore. All the handlers had been given the girl’s scent, gathered onto gauze pads from the inside of her sleeping bag. Dixie had obediently sniffed inside the plastic bag containing the gauze pad, her body vibrating with eagerness between Tavey’s legs.

  “Okay, girl, find ’em,” she’d cheered, still standing with the dog’s chest between her calves, giving the command to locate the scent. She wouldn’t release the dog until her next command, which was “Get ’em.”

  Tavey looked up, making the rookie mistake of taking her attention off her dog, and caught Tyler’s gaze from across the campsite. She didn’t know what he was doing there, but he was standing next to a teenage girl with what looked like a Lab/shepherd mix—the dog was wearing a training harness.

  She hadn’t seen Tyler in months, not since one of her best friends, Chris, had been targeted by a deranged killer, and he’d been involved in the investigation. They always seemed to meet over dead bodies, though she hoped that wouldn’t be the case this time.

  It was stupid, but she missed him. She hadn’t missed him this much since he’d left Georgia to go to college in Texas. When he’d returned to work in the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office about ten years ago, he’d moved to Canton, a town about thirty minutes away. She’d seen him every now and again when her nonprofit organization, Once Was Lost, stumbled on a piece of information about a missing child, but she’d made an effort to stay out of his way. Their conversations weren’t as painful as they’d been when she was a teenager, but being near him, knowing he hated her, always put her in a bad mood. She’d seen him more often since he’d moved back to Fate; this morning’s encounter was just the latest.

  When she’d looked at him this morning, standing with his eyes shaded beneath the brim of his hat and his hands on his hips, it was all she could do to pull her eyes away from his and direct her attention back to Dixie, releasing her with the command to start the search. She’d watched as the dog circled once before centering on the scent and taking off with Tavey following on the other end of the loose lead at a brisk jog, all thoughts of Tyler Downs buried beneath the urgency of the search.

  He wasn’t gone completely, though; he never was. Thoughts of him lingered like the infinitesimally small particles that Dixie followed with her nose, small scent whispers, dropped ceaselessly day by day, distracting her from the tasks she set for herself.

  Dixie chuffed, her tail wagging, and tugged Tavey toward a copse of trees. Tavey followed, praying silently.

  “Please be alive. Please be alive.”

  Dixie approached the trees, her tail wagging furiously, and she let out a joyous bark, dancing in place.

  Usually she jumped up when she found someone, but this girl was on the ground, on her side in a fetal position, not moving. Tavey praised Dixie as she hurried to crouch beside the body, patting the dog as she tugged out a dried liver treat and held it out with one hand. She pulled out her radio and her GPS locator with the other.

  “This is Collins. I’ve got her.” She bent to check the girl’s pulse as she rattled off the GPS location. “She appears unconscious. Checking for a pulse.” The girl’s skin was cold and clammy despite the heat, but Tavey let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding when she felt a small, faint pulse beneath her fingertips. The hiker was young, with a nose ring and pink-streaked blond hair.

  “I’ve got a pulse. Y’all better get down here. Over.” She hooked her radio back on her belt and pulled her backpack around on one shoulder, digging for the small makeup mirror she kept for emergencies. She held it up to the girl’s mouth without moving her; s
he didn’t see any injuries, but she didn’t want to take any chances. A faint but detectable fog appeared on the mirror. She slid the mirror back in her bag.

  Tavey tugged her radio off her belt again. “Collins here. Breathing is shallow, but steady. Over.”

  She pulled a survival blanket out of her backpack and tucked it gently over the girl. Minutes later, she heard the tramp of boots on brush and the rhythmic thump of helicopter blades.

  Tavey moved out of the way with Dixie, relieved to hand the girl’s care over to the paramedics who now swarmed the area, securing the girl and checking her vitals.

  Tavey turned away and praised Dixie lavishly, kissing and petting her exuberantly while offering dried liver treats.

  She fed them to Dixie while continuing to praise her. “That’s my good girl. I’m so proud of you.” She petted Dixie’s soft ears and the dog licked her face eagerly. Tavey couldn’t help but laugh and tried to turn her head away from the liver-scented love.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to believe what a bitch you can be,” a deep baritone muttered from several feet away.

  Tavey jerked her head up to see Tyler standing a few yards behind Dixie, watching her kiss and pet the dog. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth bracketed by deep grooves. She knew what he meant by the comment, even though it seemed to come out of nowhere. She’d been calling him for months for more information regarding the investigation into the serial murders that had occurred last fall, and the message she’d left last week had been less than polite, perhaps even threatening. She was desperate to know more about what they’d found when they’d discovered her friend Christina and the three kidnapped teenagers at the abandoned Cherokee Paper Mill.

  He hadn’t spoken loudly enough for any of the paramedics or the other search teams converging on the area to hear, but Tavey still looked around to make sure no one was listening, no one was paying attention to them.