A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3)

by Heather Lyons

  “Um . . .?”

  A couple of girls wearing sorority gear laugh loudly nearby. Clearly, I am an idiot. I have no idea what inspired me to come down here on my day off.

  No, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I’m here. I was denied a true college experience in Annar, and I’m here to rectify it. Only, I’m low on cash (okay, not exactly low, because I still have a ridiculous amount that I’d stolen from my fiancé before I ran last year hidden away in my bedroom, but using it makes me feel like shit, so I don’t) and without transcripts. Moving in with Will and Cameron was bad enough for somebody who’s terrified to put down too many roots in one area; enrolling in college? It’d be even more of a reason to stay.

  “Are you . . .” He gives me a look over. “A student here?”

  I nearly beam. He thinks I look like a college student. Not a Creator, but a college student. I take a few steps closer. “No. But I thought . . .” Deep breath. “Maybe I could be?”

  He’s surprised a bit, I think, as most colleges accept online applications. But here I am, in an admissions office, asking for actual paper. “Oh. Of course.” He opens a drawer nearby. “Are you transferring?”

  When I went to the University of Annar last year, I’d been allowed all of one class. It was worse than a joke. The so-called professor spent more time telling his students—admittedly, there weren’t many of us, but STILL—that we weren’t required to do much work for his class as we obviously already knew our crafts well than actually teaching. All of my friends, save Jonah and Kellan, were in multiple classes that went in depth over the best practices for their crafts, and how to wield them on the various planes effectively. They were slammed by paperwork and research. I got to write all of two papers, and they were five pages apiece.

  Obviously, I will not be requesting a transcript from the U.

  I shake my head, and the admissions guy reaches down into the already opened drawer and pulls out a different packet. “Okay. Here is the University of Alaska’s enrollment application, along with some pamphlets about our school.” He lays the papers on the counter between us and highlights a section for me. “As the next semester is just about to start, you’ll be best off trying for Fall admission. Or maybe Summer, if you like.”

  I stare down at the papers, my eyes tracking across photos of happy undergrads. My twentieth birthday is next week. Am I too old to be a freshman?

  “Do you know what you want to study?” the guy asks.

  My cheeks warm considerably when I shake my head no again.

  He’s sympathetic. “I went in undeclared, too. And now I’m a junior and I’m still undecided. But I figure, I’m young, and I have plenty of time to figure it out, right?”

  I like that. No pressure to figure out exactly what it is that I want to be, or learn, or do. Plus, he looks a bit older than me, so maybe I’m not past my prime for college just yet.

  He slips the papers into a folder and hands it over. Then he passes me a business card. “Feel free to call us anytime if you have any questions. College is a great place. We’d love to have you here.”

  The folder sits on my dresser for days. There are highlighted deadlines in there that I need to meet, if I’m going to go through with this plan of mine. But to do so, I’m going to have to use my craft for the first time in five months.

  When I left Annar, I made a conscious choice not to use my Magic anymore. According to Etienne Miscanthus, a Council friend of mine, the worlds can function properly as long as a Creator continues living whether or not they’re working. Truth be told, I have no idea if Magic can be traced or not—I think not, but Trackers, the Magical equivalent of bloodhounds, are extremely good at hunting down people and things. I have no doubt that a horde of Trackers is out searching for me. The Council will want me and my skills back; not only am I first tier, but I’m also the only Creator in existence. The Guard will want me back, thanks to a number of friends who are no doubt in a panic over my disappearance. And of course, Jonah and Kellan may want me back: Jonah, being an influential second tier Council member, and his brother, a high-ranking Guard with a lot of pull, probably put the screws on both the Council and Guard to find me.

  Unless they hate me for leaving them in the first place.

  But my choice to cease Magic was more than just a fear of being found. It was because I wanted a chance to figure out who I am without Fate sticking its fingers in every one of my pies. So, as tough as it’s been at times, I’m glad that I’m learning to do things the hard way. It’s refreshing to actually earn things rather than simply create them at will. Except, now I’m going to have to create myself some documents if I plan on going to college. I need a high school diploma and transcripts that don’t have Chloe Lilywhite on them. I need references that don’t exactly exist. And yet . . .

  Using Magic makes me feel like I’m failing somehow.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  I jerk away from the folder to find Cameron standing in my doorway, Nell at his feet. “Nothing,” I say, even though I must’ve looked like a weirdo, staring at the admissions packet as if it were Pandora’s Box.

  He makes a motion, asking for entrance, and I wave him in. “College, hmm?” he asks once he joins me on the edge of my bed.

  I tuck short blonde strands behind my ears. I miss my long hair. People say shorter hair is easier to style, but it’s a total lie. “Been thinking about it.”

  He reaches over for the folder and flips through it. “Personally, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  I don’t know why, but this surprises me. “You do?”

  “Well, sure.” He shuts the folder. “Please don’t tell me you want to work at the Moose for the rest of your life. It’s a great place and all, but there’s got to be more for you than that. You’re a smart girl, Zoe.”

  Not once in all my years, did my biological father say something like this to me. I don’t know why Cameron’s kindness always startles me. I wish it didn’t. People ought to be kind to those they love.

  I pick up the packet and stare at the words on the front. It all seems so easy, so attainable—and yet impossible at the same time. I tell him lamely, “It’s expensive.”

  “That it is. But there are loans and grants you can apply for.” He studies me for a long moment; I know what’s coming, because I know Cameron, and I scramble to think of the right words to counter his offer. “I could help—”

  “I can’t take your money.” I grab one of his hands and squeeze. “You’ve already done so much for me already.”

  He won’t back down, since he’s a pit bull about things that matter to him, but for now, he concedes to me with a small nod. “I’ve been trying to talk Will into Culinary school. He’s . . .” Cameron scratches at his beard. “I’m afraid my boy is adrift. By twenty-two, I’d already been in and out of the military. Married his mum. Got a good job. Not that I’m saying he must follow my trajectory, because the Lord knows I don’t feel he’s ready for marriage and what not, it’s just . . .”

  “You worry about him.” I lean over and kiss his grizzled cheek. “That’s what good dads do.”

  Does my father worry about me? Wonder where I am? Or is he relieved that I’m gone, that I’m no longer causing him embarrassment?

  Will appears in the doorway, the seam of his pillowcase fading on his cheek from his nap. “My ears are burning. Want to tell me why?”

  I like Cameron’s smile. I like how it’s on his face more often than not. “Zoe was telling me about her plans to apply to the University of Alaska.”

  This seems to please Will as much as it had his father. “Yeah? That’s brilliant, Zo.”

  “What about you?” I ask innocently. “While I was searching online, I saw some great culinary schools here in Anchorage.”

  He shakes a finger at his dad. “Getting Zoe to do your dirty work?”

  Cameron isn’t apologetic.

  “Personally, I think it’s a great idea,” I tell Will. He’s amazing with food. Even still, I have to
tease, “The world always needs more Scottish cuisine.”

  He laughs as his father mocks outrage. “Ah yes,” Will murmurs. “Fast food haggis. I can see my future franchise now.” He joins us on edge of my bed. “In all seriousness, you two. Enough with the poorly concealed hinting. Fine. I had a bit of a look around recently. Found a place that might be a good fit.”

  I swear his father whispers, “Thank you, Lord.”

  “But just because I looked doesn’t mean I’m going,” Will warns. “It was just for research. And I certainly haven’t applied or anything.”

  “Of course,” Cameron murmurs. But I see the light in his eyes. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Will gives in and goes, because Will is one of the most cautious people I know. Will wouldn’t say something like this without thinking about every last in and out of the situation. He’s probably got a pro and con checklist in his back pocket.

  Unlike me, who makes rash decisions on the spur of the moment. Only this time, I’m resolved to think things through.

  They leave a few minutes later, Will to go play poker with Paul and a few friends, Cameron to work. I clean the house, do the dishes, take Nell for a walk, play ball with her, take a shower, yet all the while, the folder burning a hole in my every thought.

  But when I go to bed that night, no additional papers are added.

  I resisted getting a cell phone for the first two months I lived in Anchorage, but Ginny and Frieda browbeat me into ownership after one night that had me trekking home alone in the dark and snow due to a broken down bus. Will railed at me, going over every excuse in the book about how important a cell phone is nowadays, how women on their own in big cities is not a good idea, especially at night (for which I accused him of blatant sexism), but it was Ginny and Frieda who dragged me to the store and practically pinned me down to a kiosk until I selected one.

  My old phone, the one I left behind, was a top-of-the-line Dwarven smartphone. I loved that thing. But I left it behind, like I did with everything else, knowing that if I had it, it would be too much of a temptation for me to give up.

  My new phone is a pay-and-go model. It’s not fancy by any means. It serves its purpose and I guess that’s what counts. Only, sometimes, it taunts me, like it’s doing now. I’ve been clutching the phone for the better part of an hour, repeatedly typing a certain number I know by heart, only to delete it each time my finger even contemplates hitting send.

  Some days are harder than others. Today is a really, really tough day. It’s my birthday (not that I’ve admitted it to anyone, though—Will and Cameron think it’s still another month away), and I miss Jonah so much that I’d give every last cent I have to hear his voice. Magically, it’d be easy, really. I could make myself a little machine and see him. Or hear him. Even easier, I could simply call and hang up, wrong number-like. Or disguise my voice and then hang up. He’d never be able to trace me to a random phone call from Alaska, because he has no idea I’d ever wanted to come here. It’d be nothing more than a three second call to him.

  There’s a strong fear that if I see him, though, let alone hear his voice, all my resolves would crumble and I’d be once more begging for forgiveness. And where would that get me? Us? For all I know, he’s doing great nowadays. Every time I turn on the news, I search him out. Is that protest march in Washington due to him? That rebellion in Tibet? The fundraising efforts going around to help rebuild the East Coast, so recently devastated by a storm? The community rallying around the little girl with a bucket list and less than a year to live? Pride swells in my chest, as bittersweet as it is, whenever I visualize him out there doing his job and doing it well.

  I think about Kellan, too—gods, everyday. But in these last five months I’ve noticed something. I love Kellan. I miss him so much I physically ache . . . but it’s nothing compared to the withdrawal Jonah’s absence is putting me through. I don’t dream about Kellan the way I do with his brother, don’t wake up with his name on my lips and tears in my eyes because the crushing agony of his absence in my life overwhelms me.

  I don’t get it. I really don’t. I share Connections to both of them. Love both of them desperately. Is it because Jonah and I shared dreams for so many years? Or were living together before I left? Is it because I’d gotten used to not having Kellan in my life?

  But I tore my life apart over Kellan, didn’t I? Destroyed everything I had with Jonah? And yet, for five months now, I’ve drowned in just how hard it’s been to let Jonah go.

  Minutes later, functioning on autopilot, I’m on a bus across town, until, nearly an hour later, I find myself on the outskirts of Anchorage. It takes another hour before I locate a payphone. Thanks to cell phones, they’re hard to find in the wild. I’m an idiot, because this is the stupidest, riskiest thing I could possibly do, but I keep telling myself it’ll be just this one call. I just need to hear him say one thing. Just hello. It’ll be enough to help me get through the coming months. Maybe it’ll recharge me and my resolves rather than weaken me—because I’ll know I did the right thing if he sounds happy, that everything I’ve done and gone through will be worth it.

  My hands tremble when I pick up the receiver. I force myself to take a breath before I clean the black plastic with an alcohol wipe. I drop my coins twice before I get them into the phone. My heart jackhammers in my chest, but, as nervous as I am, I’m bursting with excitement, too.

  One word. I’ll take just one word. He’ll say hello, maybe once, at the most twice, and then he’ll hang up. I won’t say anything in return. Better yet, if I’m lucky, I’ll get his voice mail. I’ll get a whole bunch of words then.

  Each button is pressed slowly. The call will go fast; it needs to tide me over for months. The ringing in my ear competes with the thundering in my chest. His phone is ringing. Gods, I’m going to pass out. My breathing, my heart—everything is fast and hard right now. I’ve got to get myself under control. Can’t have him think I’m some deep breathing stalker or anything. Can’t raise any of his flags.

  Two rings.

  Three.

  “Hello?”

  The butterflies in my chest break free. My ribs open up, my skin parts, and that muscle in my chest flies right on out. Jonah! Jonah’s answered and he’s said hello! He sounds . . . well, not happy, but tired. Which could be work or—

  Elation morphs into searing pain. I miss him. I ache for him so much right now that it takes me physically biting my tongue until it bleeds so I don’t answer him back.

  If I could, I’d say: I love you I’m sorry I miss you I want you I made a mistake I wish you nothing but happiness are you happy please tell me you’re happy that everything I’ve put us through is worth it you deserve so much more than a broken girl like me are you happy Jonah do you miss me have you moved on is your life good please tell me that this has all been worth it please please please—

  “Hello?”

  Everything around me hazes. I can’t see my surroundings. Why is it I always break down in payphone booths?

  A dial tone fills my ear.

  “Zoe! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Will yanks the bottle out of my hand. I swipe at it, but he’s so fast right now, he’s blurry.

  “Mine,” I tell him. Only, I think it was his whiskey, or his dad’s, but he did say, when I moved in, “What’s mine is yours.” Or maybe he said, “What’s mine is mostly yours. Hands off the whiskey,” but I can’t remember if he actually said that one or not. So technically, that’s my bottle of whiskey and I need it back.

  “How many shots did you have?” He shakes the bottle in front of my face. “Because it looks like you drank NEARLY A THIRD OF A BRAND NEW BOTTLE OF WHISKEY!”

  “YES I DID.” I can give as good as I get.

  “That’s it. We need to go to the hospital. Get your damn coat on!”

  I drop back onto the couch. “Not sick. No need.” I kick my feet up on the coffee table, knocking over a glass. Oops. “Hospitals can’t piece together Humpty D
umptys, Will-eeee-am!” I laugh, because I sound like Cameron when I say it like that.

  “What?” One of his hands yanks through his hair before tugging on his ear. His blonde is nice. Pretty. Doesn’t look trashy like my fake blonde.

  “I like your hair,” I tell him. “It’s pretty.”

  “Fuck my hair!” He disappears and reappears, my coat replacing the whiskey in his hand. Where’s the booze? “Get up. We’re going.”

  “Not sick,” I remind him, struggling to stand up. “Healthy as a . . .” Huh. “What’s healthy? Apple?” I snap my fingers. Ew, they’re a little sticky. “Hog. No! Horse. I’m a horse. I keep on running, like the Pony Express.” I pat my chest. Jog in place. “See? Not sick. It’d be easier if I were. Sick, I mean. If I could only get sick.” I pick up speed. “I tried to break one of the Connections tonight, you know. Thought it could help me be whole.” I stop jogging; it shames me I’m winded. “Didn’t work. Isn’t that ironic? A Connection makes me whole and broken all at the same time.” I jab at his chest. “It. Bloody. SUCKS.”

  And then I laugh, because now I sound like him. Bloody, bloody, bloody. And then I’m sad again because of what I did.

  “What the fuck are you prattling on about? You think you’re fine? Think again! You bloody well won’t be after they pump your stomach at the hospital!” He grabs me and shoves my arms into the coat. “Whatever possessed you to drink so much alcohol?”

  I stumble as he drags me out the door. “I called him. Thought I could handle it, but I can’t.” There’s no way to swallow the burning lump in my throat. “Thought it’d help. Just wanted to hear something, especially today. Just—it’s hard. So hard. I’m trying.”

  He waits until he’s got us in the car and on the road before he asks, quieter now, “Whom did you call?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “Was a mistake. Tried to break the Connections—at least one, you know? Only made it worse. Hurts more now.” It does. So. Much.