A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3)

by Heather Lyons

  He digs around, like he’s looking for my phone. I don’t have my phone. It’s back home. No, wait, he’s got my purse and my phone, and he’s got the phone out and—

  “Cell phones and driving do not mix,” I inform him haughtily.

  Will doesn’t answer me. He does something with my phone and then tosses it back into my purse. I grab the bag and hold it close to my chest. I think I’m going to puke. Something burns in my throat. “Who’d you call?” he barks. “Who fucking did this to you?”

  Yep. Vomit. So gross, it’s all over my legs. Worse yet, it’s warm and smells bad.

  I close my eyes and let my head sink back against that thingy at the top of car seats. I swear I’m floating. Floating is so much better than sinking.

  “Zoe White, you keep your goddamn eyes open right now! You will not pass out on me in this car, do you hear me?”

  I let myself float away.

  Will is pissed off. That much is certain, as evidenced by the door slamming behind us, not to mention the string of curses in addition to the biting lecture he’d unleashed on me on the way home from the hospital. Plus, there was the blistering lecture I received from an increasingly difficult to understand Cameron Dane in the early hours of the morning. I guess it’s a thing for both him and Will. The more upset they are, the harder they are to understand with their Glaswegian accents. But, the point is, if I’d ever doubted Cameron’s fatherly inclinations toward me, they were illuminated in stark detail this morning. I’d scared him. Hurt myself. Hurt him. Hurt Will. Hadn’t thought of others. What if something had happened? Most importantly, I wasn’t allowed to do it again.

  I’ve got to say, disappointing a caring parent is brutal on the heart. I actually broke down and sobbed for the first time in nearly six months after he strode out of my little curtained cubby of a room, certain I’d failed him in every way. And then I had to listen to him yell at Will in the hallway, and Will yell back, and it amazed me to realize that they weren’t shouting because they blamed or were mad at one another or were mad, but because they were worried. And upset. And it was because of me.

  Which made me sob all the more. They care about me.

  Would my parents have done the same? No—my parents didn’t even come to see me in the hospital after I’d nearly died after an Elders’ attack. They’d been too busy with their careers. If they knew I’d had alcohol poisoning, and of course were still speaking to me, there’s no doubt I would’ve only received a lecture via phone. Except, instead of the one in which Cameron practically grounded me (an adult) until I’m thirty, I would’ve heard something along the lines of, “Stop embarrassing us.”

  Cameron and Will, though—they’d stayed with me all night. When the nurses tried to kick them out, Cameron told them I was his daughter and he had every right to be with me if I wanted him there. He immediately demanded that a friend of his who worked in the hospital come see me personally. In my weakened, vomit-y state, I could swear the dude was part-Elf, but I figured I was just imagining things. Will filled out my admission paperwork. They took turns holding back my hair as I threw up everything in my stomach, and then some. Cameron listened to his friend’s diagnosis and after-care like my very life depended on it, and, shaking with rage and worry, vowed I would follow each instruction to the letter.

  He’s at work right now. He didn’t want to go, but Will eventually convinced him to go, insisting my butt wouldn’t leave the couch longer than to go the bathroom the entire day.

  The moment we’re through the door, Will barks, “Alcohol poisoning is not funny!”

  I’m not laughing, but as he’s on edge, I decide to wade carefully into this mess of my own making. “I know, Will.” My smile is weak. “At least they didn’t have to pump my stomach. Thank goodness for small favors, right?”

  This was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes go so wide I fear they’ll pop right out. “Oh yes. Thank goodness! You only had to spend the night hooked up to IVs whilst vomiting up the contents of your stomach. How lucky you were.”

  I bite my lip, unsure as what to say. But I do know this: he deserves an explanation. “Can we sit down?”

  He nods and stalks over to the couch; I perch on the coffee table so we face one another. “First off, thank you for what you did for me. What both you and your dad did.”

  Some of the anger eases off his handsome face. “Zoe.” He takes my hands. “In the last half year, we’ve become family. Screw blood.” He squeezes my hands gently despite the vehemence in his voice. “We are family. Which means you’re daft if you think I’m going to just sit back and watch you try to drown yourself, even if it’s what you think you want.”

  Bits of my hair stick to my face when I nod, but I don’t want to let go of his hands long enough to wipe them away. “I know. And I thank you for that, because I love you, too.”

  He scoffs, but I know it pleases him. He loves me just as much as I love him, even if he’s not one to say those three words out loud.

  “Last night . . .” I shake my head. “Yesterday. I did something stupid yesterday.”

  “You called someone.”

  I blink in surprise.

  He rolls his eyes. “You told me that last night.” He sobers. “I checked your phone, but the last call in your log was to me. Zo, what’s going on? I know you’re unhappy, that somebody broke your heart, but I figured I’d wait until you felt safe telling me. But now . . . Fuck this. I’m not tiptoeing around you anymore. Tell me what drove you to nearly kill yourself last night.”

  Oh, it hurts so much to realize this is what he and his dad must’ve thought I’d done. “I didn’t try to kill myself. It was more . . . I wanted to forget. To stop hurting.” I take a deep breath, only to find Will watching me with immense concern. “I . . .” The words are hard to get out, especially as there’s no way I can tell him about how, in desperation, I’d actually attempted to break the Connections I have. I’d figured . . . I’d closed the door between me and my Conscience. Why couldn’t I do so with a Connection? It seemed simple at first—I visualized erasing those ties, but I ended up basically stabbing my heart about a hundred times before ripping it right out of my chest.

  In the end, the Connections remained, and I had to find myself something to drink because I hated myself even all the more.

  “You can trust me,” Will is saying, bringing my attention back to him.

  “I know. It’s just . . .” Another deep breath. Time to open up a bit about what I can, even if it’ll hurt. Even if all of this changes how he feels about me. I can’t keep lying to all the people I care about in my life, or shutting down and pretending everything is fine when it’s not. “I called my . . .” Connection. Soul mate. The person I’ve loved since I was four. “Fiancé.”

  Will rears back. “Your what?”

  I feel myself weaken, but I need to be honest with him. Will’s been so good to me, and I’ve hidden so much in return. There have got to be pieces of truth I can tell him without putting his life in danger. “Probably ex, considering I’m here and he’s . . . where he is, but . . .” Viper tight, pain constricts my breathing. “I needed to hear his voice yesterday.”

  What a way to celebrate my twentieth birthday.

  I stand up and pace the room. Then I go on to tell Will that I drove across town to find a payphone and that all I heard was the one word, twice, and it broke me. I don’t tell him why Jonah and I aren’t together, other than to say things were complicated (which is truly an understatement) and that us being apart was for the best all around, since he deserved better than me.

  “You love him.”

  Another understatement. I nod, chewing on the inside of my lip.

  “Does he know where you are?”

  I shake my head. I’ve drawn blood.

  Will’s quiet for a long moment. “Did he physically hurt you?”

  “OH MY GODS, WILL! NO!”

  I try not to smack my forehead, realizing my slip of tongue. Gods, I’m a mess.


  He tugs my hands until I sit next to him on his couch. Then he folds me in his arms until I’m surrounded by his safety and warmth. It feels really good, being held like this. Like he really is my brother, and he loves me, and wants to protect me. I haven’t been held by anyone in a long time. I want to cry, want to rail about the injustices of it all, of how Fate sucks and how I hate it, but in the end, I take the remote control Will hands me and turn on the television. We watch the hockey game he taped last night in silence, his arms around me, my heart aching.

  When I was younger, and resentful, and scared of what I am, I used to fantasize about running away. I imagined hundreds of places to go to, and of who I’d become once arriving. But I always believed it was done in vain, because I’d never be allowed to escape being a Creator.

  And yet, here I am. Gone from everything I know.

  It’s so cold out here that parts of me are numb. Rather than being bothered by this sensation, I revel in it. Numb is good. When I’m numb, I’m not in agony. And the pain that follows numbness—the kind of prickling hotness from being too cold—is preferable to the kind I live with on a daily basis.

  Kellan was right after all. All those times he tried to literally break his bones, go into shock so he could escape our Connection—I thought he was crazy. But he was right. Anything is better than the pain that an unfulfilled Connection can wreak upon a Magical’s soul. Even still, I can’t believe I was desperate enough to try to break the bonds I have with him or Jonah.

  I’ve borrowed Will’s truck and driven as far as I can get outside of Anchorage until all I see is dark skies and stars and cold. This is part of the beauty of Alaska; so much of it is still wild, still free and untouched by human and Magical hands. I like this area, like how it makes me feel. I’ve been constantly chasing the Northern Lights; sometimes I thought if I could see them just once, it’d be a sign.

  I’m finally rewarded, nearly half a year after moving to Alaska. The Aurora Borealis is streaked across the sky tonight, yellow and green ribbons that dance across my vision. They’re so unbelievably dazzling that when I lay back in the snow, arms and legs out in angel formation, my breath is wicked away. Ice crystals cling to the fringe of hair sticking out from underneath my beanie cap and to the nape of my scarfless neck.

  I am small.

  I am irrelevant.

  I am not even a speck of sand in a vast beach of worlds, no matter what anyone says.

  The next morning, I make a decision.

  I’m going to college.

  Using Magic is the same as, say gambling. Or alcohol. Or drugs. Detox is hard, abstinence becomes easier over time, but if you give into it, man, the hit is too strong to resist.

  I fabricated myself all the transcripts I need. And then, even though it’d been suggested I hold off for Fall admission, I go for Summer. Flush with my decision and subsequent action on that resolution, I can’t help myself. I make myself a new pair of boots and a new coat and take Nell out on a walk with a brand new, fancy leash that says her name on it.

  Maybe I can do Magic and still be Chloe. Er, Zoe.

  As I walk through the neighborhood for one of me and Nell’s ten-minute-max walks, I spot Mr. McGillicuddy kicking his ancient Oldsmobile. The thing is notorious for breaking down on him on a daily basis. He’s a nice old man. He’s helped me out several times when Will and Cameron weren’t around. So I decide to help him by giving him a new engine. And it feels awesome, just incredibly awesome to help somebody out and know that I didn’t kill anyone or destroy anything.

  I gave an old man the means to go visit his Alzheimer-afflicted wife in a nearby nursing home without having to pay for a taxi.

  Maybe I can do this after all.

  Will tosses a pack of paper towels into our shopping cart with the enthusiasm of a shot putter. He’s in a mood; Becca called twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave to run errands and broke down once more, weeping about she might be pregnant—except, she lost the baby in the accident and that was over a year ago. It’s a conversation they’ve had a dozen times, when snatches of memory crawl their way back to the surface of her broken brain. Poor Will suffers through hearing about how his girlfriend and best friend cheated on him more times than is fair. And yet, he listens to her, offers forgiveness, but like always, she and the memories tie him down in ways he can’t escape.

  As I can only imagine the horrors I would feel, let alone act upon if the same were true about Jonah (or Kellan), I’ve decided to try my best to distract him. “Did you know that houseflies taste with their feet?”

  He regards me as if I’ve turned into a fly myself. I nod vigorously—interesting facts! I gots them! But he shakes his head and grabs the wrong toilet paper, chucking it next to the paper towels. I quietly put it back on the shelf and pick the right kind. Cameron is quite particular.

  A little girl nearby wails; her sibling dances around the cart she’s strapped in, clutching a dolly’s head. Sure enough, the little girl is holding a decapitated, naked baby.

  My heart goes out to her. As the mother ignores the two, I zap the doll’s head back on. The children go quiet—the boy stunned, the girl increasingly delighted. I debate giving the poor thing clothes but figure the kid must have a reason why her dolly is naked. I hide the small smile creeping on my lips when she clutches the doll to her chest.

  “Jesus. I’ve prattled on so much that I’ve lost you. Sorry, Zo.”

  I jerk my attention back to Will. He looks so sad, so . . . lost. “No! Don’t be silly.” I nudge his arm with my shoulder. “Maybe it’s time to change your number.”

  “You don’t think I want to?” He tugs on his earlobe. “Becca’s mum begged me not to. Says the connection to me is the only thing that gets her through some of her better days.” He sighs heavily. “She cheated on me. Broke my heart. But . . . I’ve also known her my whole life, Zo. I stupidly can’t let go of her or Grant. I just . . . I wish I knew how.”

  It’s because he’s a good person. He puts Becca’s fragile mental welfare at times above his own. As for me? I just abandon those whose hearts I shatter.

  When the mother pushes the cart past me, the little girl grins and holds up her doll for me to see. “Pretty,” I tell her.

  “My baby,” she proudly tells me in return.

  Her brother scowls, trailing slowly after his mother and victorious sibling.

  Four—no five—uses of Magic in less than two days. I need to get myself under control, especially since there’s this rotting undercurrent in my brain that my craft is being wasted on things like dog leashes and boots rather than the betterment of civilizations.

  My mother’s words, crafted from caution and disgust, weigh heavily upon my conscience. She turned away from me first. Why should I care about what she thinks? I grab a box of tissues. The good kind, with lotion, which I have a sneaking suspicion I might just need in the dark hours of tonight.

  “Grant’s mum called last night, too.”

  I look up from the cart. “What did she want?”

  He won’t look at me when he says, “The fuck if I know. She cried. Tried to remind me of how we played together in our nappies. That this was all Becca’s fault. I don’t know. She—I guess she needed to reach out to somebody who loved him, too.”

  I wish I could personally call the woman right now and tell her to back the hell off.

  For the rest of the shopping trip, Will is on autopilot, leaving me to wonder what I would do if I were in his shoes. What if I found out that Jonah was expecting a baby with someone else—somebody like his ex-girlfriend Callie, whom I called a good friend? For the last five hundred years or so, Magicals have been able to produce one pregnancy, so if in my absence they have sex and he’s so taken away with the moment he forgets a condom and she’s fertile or some crap like that—

  Ka-BOOM!

  Five seconds later, Will grabs my arm, asking me if I’m okay. He’s absolutely soaked, covered head to toe with laundry detergent. As am I. As are the three other pe
ople in this unfortunate aisle of the store. Because every single bottle of detergent just exploded, sending down a rainstorms of scented, slimy cleaners down upon us.

  I’m shamed to my core. Some things never change. Even now, even after I’ve tried to deny myself Magic, I still can’t control it when my feelings get too intense.

  The store manager grovels at our feet, which is horrible and humiliating for him, since I’m to blame. All our bills for that day are paid. But when we go home, Will won’t let the subject go. He’s curious. Of course he’s curious.

  In the end, I lie to him, as I’ve done since the day I met him. Because what would he think he if he knew his best friend was the kind of person who destroys things when she gets upset?

  “May I help you?”

  The man sitting at the counter is fairly nondescript: tall and lean, with mousy brown hair and matching eyes. His face is pockmarked and aged by sunlight. Head tilted slightly to the side, he’s studying me.

  He may be nondescript, but he’s also an Elf, which sends my freak-out-sensor into high gear.

  Rationally, I’m aware that there are Elves living on the Human plane, including non-Magical Elves who know nothing about Magicals. Or Creators. Especially Creators who, just a week before, destroyed the laundry aisle of a big box store. It’d been in the news, which left me stumbling on uneven ground.

  When the Elf doesn’t answer, I’m tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. But then his head snaps back to normal position and he smiles, teeth crooked on the bottom row. “Sh-sure. Do you h-have coffee?”

  Seriously. He says this in a diner, with a coffee pot brewing right behind me. “Decaf? Regular?”

  “Decaf is f-fine,” he says. “Got to keep my senses f-focused, you know?”

  Like the junkie I apparently am nowadays, I use Magic to will the shield I built around me all those months ago to become tighter, stronger so that, even if this Elf is a Magical, he’ll have no clue who I am. Excepting, of course, if he’s carrying a picture of me; blonde hair and blue eyes aside, it’s not like I had plastic surgery. “What is it that you do?”