A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3)

by Heather Lyons

  “Bloody hell,” Will whispers.

  What he said.

  A concave hole opens where a mouth ought to be and . . . it laughs. LAUGHS. Not screams, but laughs. And it’s an awful laugh, all evil and angry and . . . female. This thing here, it’s a female.

  “Found you, little Creator,” it hisses, voice distorted and hollow.

  Oh. My. EFFING. GODS. It spoke to me. It spoke! THEY SPEAK.

  Furthermore, its arms extend and twist until they resemble fists curling around twin sais. WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE? This—Elders don’t do this! Do they? Have they changed in the last six months?

  I fight to reclaim my voice. “What are you?”

  It tsk-tsks, black smoke trailing out of its cavernous hole of a mouth. “Rude little piglet. Not what. Who.”

  My own mouth snaps shut. I pull the bowstring in my hands so tight my arms ache. Finally, “Alright. Who are you?”

  It swings the sai-like extensions in whip-fast circles that lead my heart in a matching rhythm. “I am feeling generous right now, so I will answer you. I am Cailleache, little Creator. And I am here to collect you.”

  Cailleache. Cailleache—the wheels in my mind spin as my arms slowly liquefy under the strain of keeping the bowstring taut. And then it hits me, why this name is so familiar. This is the first Creator’s wife. The second Elder/Magical in existence. The one who controls all four elements: earth, air, wind, fire.

  The first Elemental ever.

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper.

  Cailleache glides forward, like some kind of nightmare from a horror film. “Come with me, and I won’t kill your pet.”

  Will beats me to the punch, his sword out, two fingers pressed against the blade. He slowly circles to the side, so we’ve got two angles on this thing. “I’m no bloody pet.”

  Cailleache laughs again, the sound so awful that snow dumps down around us from the surrounding trees.

  Even still—she doesn’t want to kill me? She wants me to go with her? Go where? Elder Headquarters? “You want me?” I tell it. Her. “Then you’re going to have to take me.”

  I let the arrow loose and it whizzes lightning fast toward Cailleache. She dodges it, but just barely, howling in fury. I reload, but now she’s charging us, so fast she’s a black, wispy blur. Thwang. Reload. Thwang.

  She manages to dodge everything.

  The next thing I know, my shooting arm is bleeding heavily. Bitch cut me with one of her smoky sai through my coat. Why didn’t I think of making Elder-proof clothing? When will I learn?

  That awful mouth twists into a distorted grin. “We can do this all day.”

  I draw another arrow out, arm shaky. Bandages snake around my arm. The snow below me is stained red. Will barks something about moving, but I position myself so I’m standing in Cailleache’s direct line toward him. “Is that all you’ve got?” I ask her, glad my voice is even despite me wanting to barf everywhere.

  “Oh, little Creator. The things we’ve got in store for you,” it hisses in return.

  The next strike, I manage to sideswipe her with one of my arrows. Her scream is an explosion, followed by heavy snow raining down on us. Will comes at her while she twists to the side, slashing at what resembles a leg; the scream turns atomic. Trees splinter around us, but she’s back on her—well, not her feet, because she’s floating, but definitely ready for another round, fresh with a new set of stereotypical villain wait ‘till I get ahold of you threats.

  Both Will and I are bleeding profusely. I triage us with bandages as quickly I can, but if this is her game—cut us down, piece by piece—I’m truly scared for our chances as we go round after round. She cuts us, we barely nick her. If I’m not careful, we’ll bleed out in the snow. What can I do? What can I make?

  I . . . I walled the last one in. That’s it! I drop a heavy, but clear wall behind her just as she slices at my leg, and then two more on the sides. A roof curves over us, blocking out the snow. It’s enough to momentarily distract Cailleache; one of my arrows finally lands a clean target. Bits of smoke surge out of her in disturbing waves as the arrow tip explodes in her torso. Her mass regroups quickly, but as her anguished shrieks rattle the impenetrable material surrounding us, I drop another wall behind me and Will, effectively caging us all in. And it’s enough for Will to leap forward, looking like he’s in a movie to my blurry eyes—all lithe, slow motion as he first goes up and then down, driving his blade straight through what appears to be her upper back and into the snowy, hard ground below.

  He’s pinned her.

  And she stays where she is. She’s struggling, fighting against the blade, but somehow, Will found some tangible part of her existence and trapped her to the floor.

  “I’ll destroy you.” Black smoke pours from the maw on her face. “Piece by tiny piece!”

  “Big words coming from the shish kebab,” Will says to me. He’s panting, sweat swirling with blood on his face.

  I’m stunned. There is an Elder effectively pinned and captive, right in front of me. Terrified she’ll somehow break free, I drop a secondary cage around Cailleache’s body, boxing her into position.

  Okay. Okay. She’s not going anywhere. At least, I hope not.

  “Chloe,” Will murmurs, limping closer. He’s bleeding heavily in at least five or six different places. I’m the same. I get to work on bandaging him, but he grabs my face with one hand, forcing me to look at him. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “She’s . . . she’s contained.”

  “I know.” He winces as one of my bandages tightens on his leg. “But we can’t leave her like this. What if somebody stumbled upon her?”

  I press my palms against my temples. “Normally, we imprison them underground. A team comes and helps. The—the Guard decides what to do.”

  “Whatever the Guard is, they aren’t here.” He grunts quietly, flexing a wounded arm. “I am. I’m your team. So again, I ask—what are we going to do?”

  I stare at Cailleache; she stares right back, her head twisting up, those semi-lips distorting in pure hatred and anger.

  “Back at the house,” Will continues, “you erased the back door. You made us new clothes. You changed my tire after making the first one disappear. You—hell, you made these bandages appear out of thin air.”

  I switch my focus to him. “Yes, but—”

  “You can make a door disappear,” he says quietly. Firmly. “Why can’t you make that thing disappear?”

  What?

  All of a sudden, Cailleache thrashes in the box, her efforts to get out redoubling. And the weird thing is, little drops of dark red—more blackish than ruby—splatter around the sword pinning her intangible body. Is she bleeding?

  “You’re asking me to kill her.” My voice is hollow.

  He doesn’t answer, simply squeezes my shoulder.

  I’ve made lots of things disappear over the years. I’m a Destroyer, after all. But in all this time, it’s never occurred to me to erase a living being. I don’t know if I can, let alone want to.

  And then I remember Oliver Crocus, an Elvin Storyteller on the Council, telling me a couple years back that, once upon a time, an Elder who was a Creator asked another Creator, one of his own making, to will him out of existence. What was his name? Oh. Rudshivar—the son of the same being now bleeding out in a box in front of me, the Creator who stood up to the rest of the Elders. The one who created all of the races that exist today. The one who made Magicals who they are. He was an Elder, and he no longer exists.

  He had another Creator will him out of existence.

  “If you do this,” she spats, like she can read my mind, “the others will never stop hunting you. They will destroy everyone you value.”

  So, she knows. She knows what I’m capable of.

  “How many of my kind have you killed?” I squat down next to the box. I’m impossibly sad all of a sudden. This creature, this thing—this woman, the first woman of our kind—she a killer. She’s hunted Magicals and sucked thei
r lives right out of them. Nons as collateral damage have been killed, too.

  She’s nothing more than a monster. No reason she can give, no excuse, can ever explain why she’s been privy to the serial killings going on.

  Instead of answering me, she smiles that terrifying sneer instead.

  I really have no right to serve as judge and jury, let alone executioner, but Will is right. Nobody else is going to come in and clean up this mess. It’s just me. I count to ten, just like Caleb taught me. And then I say in clear, crisp words, “I can’t let you hurt anybody else. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Cailleache stops moving. “If you think this is the end, think again, little Creator. This is only the beginning.”

  Images flash through my mind, reminding me of the damage the Elders have done to those I love. Even if it takes my dying breath, I refuse to let that happen again. You’ve caused too much pain over the years, I think in my mind. It’s time to rest. You are no more.

  And yet, here she still is. I lean back on my heels, stunned. Maybe I can’t do this after all.

  As if she knows I’ve failed, Cailleache laughs. Billows of twisting smoke pour from her mouth as she cackles at my incompetence.

  Why didn’t it work? If another Creator could do this to Rudshivar, why can’t I?

  I lean forward against the box; the moment my palms flatten against the plastic, Cailleache’s laughter ceases. Thrashing replaces it, alongside threats even more frenzied than before.

  I slowly rock back on my heels, my palms dropping to my lap. The thrashing slows considerably.

  Could she . . . is she scared of my hands?

  I stare down at my bloody mittens. Prior to today, I’ve only ever had to think about destroying something for it to happen. But then, I’ve never stolen life from a sentient being before. Maybe . . . maybe Fate wants something more than my thoughts when it comes to physical life. Maybe Fate requires a risk from me.

  I strip off a tattered glove and make a small hole in the box, just large enough for my hand to reach in and press against her shifting shape. She flinches sharply when my skin touches whatever it is that makes her her, but then she calms once more, like she knows what’s coming.

  I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and then I do the unthinkable.

  I will her out of existence.

  And I’m left leaning against an empty box surrounding a sword.

  “You’re shaking,” the master of the obvious says to me as we limp back to the truck.

  I erased both boxes, the sword (much to Will’s displeasure), and my bow and arrows just as easily as I erased an Elder before we left the clearing. Truth is, I feel a bit numb. “Just cold.”

  “Liar.” He peers up into the sky. It’s no longer snowing now that the first Elemental is dead. “We need to get going. The temperature is dropping.”

  I simply make us warmer clothes.

  When we get to the truck, Will digs out his cell phone and calls Cameron. He tells his father we’ve been in a car accident and that we need to go to the hospital because we’ve both lost a fair amount of blood. While I’m rearranging the car’s appearance to match Will’s claims, I hear him say, “What? Dad—we both need stitches. I need to get Chloe—”

  I switch his phone to speaker function without even touching it. “Son, trust me,” Cameron’s saying. “Just come to my work and I’ll make sure the two of you are taken care of. Hurry. I’m worried about you both losing more blood than you already have.”

  Will and I exchange uneasy glances after his father hangs up.“D’ya think Dad has lost his mind?”

  “I killed somebody,” is what I say in return.

  “We killed somebody.” He smashes his hand against the steering wheel. “Lest you forget, that thing tried to kill us. And probably killed loads of other people before today. I’m not mourning its loss, Chloe. I beg you don’t, either.”

  I pull in a breath, but it stings. My ribs ache from being knocked over by Cailleache one too many times. “How moronic am I that I never thought about willing any of the Elders out of existence before today?”

  He grins, even though there is a nasty cut above his upper lip. “You’re welcome.”

  Hollow laughter fills the cab. “Just my luck, right? I have to get up close and personal with serial killers in order to take them out.”

  He grunts, wincing. He’s holding himself strangely, like it’s painful to breathe.

  I lean my head against the cold window. It feels good. “They’ve killed a lot of people,” I whisper. “They’ve tried to kill the people I love most too many times. So why do I feel so awful right now?”

  His large hand falls against my knee and gently squeezes. “Because you’ve got a good heart.”

  The rest of the trip back into Anchorage is spent in silence. And even though it seems like I ought to be focusing on what just went down, my mind keeps going back to the argument Will and I had right before the Elder showed up. About how he accused me of only being with Jonah out of some weird sense of obligation.

  The more I think about it, the surer I become of what I said. I love Jonah. Not because of our Connection—well, okay, yes, I guess the Connection is responsible for at least us meeting—but because I. Love. Him. He’s smart, and loyal, and thoughtful, and kind, and so many other things that make him one of the best people I know. We grew up together. He was my first kiss. And I stayed with him, even though I was confused over my feelings toward Kellan, because Jonah has always been my safety. In a weird way, he’s also been my most constant source of stability and reliability, two things I’ve craved my entire life. And even though consistency, stability, safety, and reliability sound like boring things on paper, with him, they weren’t. They were what I needed. What I still need.

  I have enough excitement in life. I am capable of earth shattering deeds. I need steadiness and acceptance. I need love that can be just as gentle as it can be passionate. The kicker is—I had that, and I foolishly threw it away.

  People are wrong about Connections. Connections don’t define you. Having a partner doesn’t define you. Love doesn’t define you. You have to do that yourself. You have to decide who you are, what you want, and where you want to go. But when you do find somebody you want to share your life with, it needs to be for the right reasons.

  I don’t want Jonah because of our Connection. I know what Connections do to people. I refuse to let that define me, or, more importantly, us any further. I want to be with Jonah because of who he is. I’ve learned too late to appreciate what he brought to my life. The truth is, I stayed with him, despite feeling like I was being torn in two because I always knew, deep down, who was best for me. And I ran because I thought it was best for him.

  I love him.

  And it’s time I let him know that.

  Cameron hovers over me, arms crossed. Some middle-aged dude who’s supposedly a nurse practitioner that he knows is stitching up my numerous cuts in Cameron’s small, neat managerial office in the back of a fishing warehouse.

  Wait. I know him. He’s the guy Cameron insisted on helping me in the hospital during my embarrassing alcohol-poisoning episode. And my assumed feverish thoughts about him were right, because here in the harsh florescent lights of Cameron’s office, I know for sure he’s an Elf—or, at least, part-Elf. Tall, aloof, and classically handsome, Erik Hernandez works quietly and efficiently, with precious little chitchat with anyone other than Cameron. He’s given both Will and I something to numb the pain, hooks us up to IVs to help with the blood loss, and forms neat rows on all our injuries.

  He didn’t question our story about the supposed car accident, even though it’s obvious to everyone in the room that we’re lying through our teeth. He doesn’t question our blood types, even though I know mine doesn’t rate on a normal Human scale. And Cameron doesn’t push either, until Erik leaves, taking his old-fashioned black doctor bag and empty blood bags with him.

  “I want the truth, and I want it now,” is what he says to us.


  Will eases himself onto the couch in the office, wincing with the effort. The pain meds Erik gave us have yet to fully kick in. According to the nurse practitioner, Will has two bruised ribs that could very well be broken, but the best he could offer was a tight wrapping that restricted movement and breath. “We got in a car acci—”

  This doesn’t fly with Cameron. “The truth.”

  I shrink back in his swiveling desk chair; like the idiot I am, I bump my freshly stitched arm against the armrest. I bite back the scream that attempts to escape. Holy schnikes, stitches hurt.

  But . . . not quite as much as parental disappointment.

  Will takes a deep breath. “If you’d only have a look at the truck, you’d see—”

  He’s a horrible liar. Furthermore, I can’t believe he’s willing to do this for me. Even now, even after he almost died to help protect me. I love him for it, but I refuse to let him wade into the murky waters of deceit in my name. I cradle my throbbing arm and hold my chin up. “Cameron, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Will wisely shuts up, gratitude flashing in his eyes.

  I pray inwardly that in the next few minutes, the father will be as accepting of the truth as the son. So I tell him exactly what I am, what I’m capable of, and what happened with the Elder out there in the woods. I leave nothing out.

  When I’m done, he sinks down next to Will on the couch, staring at me with one of his patented inscrutable expressions. It’s one thing to accept a girl into your heart and your family, even one who ran away and has baggage that would make any sane soul run screaming into the distance; it’s an entirely different matter accepting somebody who could be defined as unnatural and possibly evil by those who don’t understand my kind.

  But as a friend of mine once said, love requires risk. How sad is it that I’m only now beginning to realize that love comes in many forms, and that the risks involved need not necessarily be romantic in nature.

  Love is a gift. Love is often given freely, sometimes by people unexpected. And as generous and wonderful as it can be, it also sometimes needs to be deserved and should never be based upon lies.