Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Nadine Nightingale
Fate
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“It’s too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Her gaze darts to a tattered book in the midst of what appears to be an altar. The edges are degraded. A symbol I’ve never seen before stamped into its center. “There’s no redemption for what I did. But there’s still time to stop me.”
I stare at the aged book. Its blackened pages bear writing in an alien language.
That sick mother of a feeling chews at my gut. I refuse to acknowledge it. “Whatever you did,” I say, voice low. “We can fix it. Just tell me where you are.”
“I can’t.” Manda shakes her head, tears dwelling in her fiery emerald eyes. “I won’t.”
Anger strikes like a damn rattlesnake. “What do you mean, you won’t? You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Then tell me how I can find you.”
“I can’t.”
Patience is for the strong, not the ones on the brink of maximum fear. “Amanda,” I yell. “Stop playing games. This isn’t funny.”
Bitter laughter crawls up her throat. “No, Alex. No, it’s not.” She sighs. “That’s why I need you to promise me that when time comes you won’t hesitate. Finish what you started the day you learned what I was.”
Realization hits like lightning. “Are you asking me to kill you?”
She musters a smile. “I’m asking you to save me.”
Praise for Nadine Nightingale
Karma (Drag.Me.To.Hell.Series, Book One) won 3rd place Paranormal Romance Guild, Reviewers Choice Award.
~*~
“Karma is probably my favorite paranormal book that I have reviewed in a very long time.”
~SBR Blogs
~*~
“Karma is a fun, exciting, and phenomenal story that I can’t get enough of! I definitely can’t wait until the next installment.”
~Bookalicious Babes Blog
~*~
“I haven’t read such an amazing paranormal/UF book in a while. [Soulmates] had it all: action, humor, suspense, romance and more.”
~Betul, Silence is Read
~*~
“I loved every word. I have been mesmerized by this story from chapter one of Karma, and let me tell you, Ms. Nightingale does not disappoint with Soulmates! You will want to join Manda and Alex on this crazy and exciting journey!”
~Tiffany, BookRelations
Fate
by
Nadine Nightingale
Drag.Me.To.Hell. Series, Book Three
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Fate
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Nadine H. C. Buscher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Black Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1905-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1906-3
Drag.Me.To.Hell. Series, Book Three
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Dad,
Thanks for making me a fighter.
I love you.
“Fate is for those too weak to determine their own destiny.”
~Kamran Hamid
Chapter 1
Alex
Lightning cuts through the graphite sky, a blazing shock of white, forking quietly to the flooded streets. The mighty boom follows quickly, rippling through my marrow like the shockwave of a damn explosion. Mrs. Munch, our old Sunday school teacher, used to call lightning storms the wrath of God. “Hear that, Alexander?” she said to me once. “That’s God and he’s mad at you.” I’m still not sure I believe in an old grumpy dude with a white beard sitting up there on his throne watching us screw up his creation. But if he does exist and Mrs. Munch was right, he’s beyond pissed.
Pissed I’m alive when I should be rotting in hell.
Pissed the demon didn’t claim my soul.
Pissed the damn hellhound retreated as the clock struck midnight.
I know it sounds crazy. Why would God be ticked off because I wasn’t deported to hell, right? He should pull a John Bender, throwing his mighty fist up in the air. I did after all; score God one, Satan zero. Fucking shame it doesn’t feel like a win. I made a deal with a demon, sold my soul for…Well, it doesn’t matter why. The thing is my soul should be on its merry way to the infernal regions where hellfire and torture are the daily dish, garnished with the prospect of eternity.
Why the fuck I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my beloved Mustang is a mystery to all of us, including Bonnie. Queen B, as she likes to be called, is Amanda Bishop’s—she’s my lying, runaway ex, by the way—best, extremely neurotic, mamba friend. On normal days, I’d put a bullet between her gorgeous cognac eyes. I’m a hunter after all. My prey? Witches like B and Amanda. Sometimes other creatures too—vamps, succubuses, wendigos. You name it I killed it. The urge to off supernatural abominations runs through my hunter DNA. But Queen B isn’t just any witch. She stuck with me when I needed help, tried to save me despite my heritage. And although she drives me nuts most of the time, she kinda grew on me the way Richard Gecko, one of the protagonists of From Dusk Till Dawn, grows on you.
Still assaulting her phone, she watches me in the rear-view mirror. Her heart-shaped face painted with w
orry and suspicion alike. The mamba knows better than anyone hell doesn’t just give up on a soul. “That’s impossible,” she said as the dog-like creature with the red glowing eyes merged with the night, leaving me completely unharmed. “Anna wasn’t your soulmate. The smoke… It was black.”
For anyone who doesn’t speak witch it translates to: Bonnie performed a ritual to determine if Anna, an ex-flame of mine, was my soulmate. Why? Because according to the Bishop grimoire—one of the oldest and most powerful spell books in the world, belonging to my lying ex’s family—there’s only one way to get out of a deal with a demon. Find your soulmate, ask her to claim your soul, and exchange hell for fated love. It’s why we—Bonnie, Jesse, Manda (’til she ditched us in Winter Harbor for no other reason than being the selfish witch she is), and I—spent the past nine days roaming the country, trying to find every girl I ever liked. Needless to say, the Find-Alex’s-Soulmate mission was a complete flop. Neither Anna nor any of the other girls on the soulmate list was the one. It wasn’t a rude awakening or anything. I liked those girls. They were nice, kind, and good. But I didn’t love them. My heart doesn’t dig good girls. It has sick, masochistic tendencies, beating only for the rotten apples. You know, the ones that screw you lovingly and leave you desperately. What can I say? I, Alexander Ethan Remington, am a sucker for the I-ruin-you-forever chicks.
So, why the fuck didn’t the hellhound tear me apart even though we never found my soulmate and no other way out of this deal existed, according to the witches? Nobody knows. Not even Queen B, the mamba, who likes to pretend she’s omniscient.
Letting my head melt into the leather seat, I focus on the pouring rain while we wait for Jesse to book us a room in the Westminster Motel. Any other day, the sound would calm me. Maybe even help me make sense of all this madness. Today, however, it stirs up the restlessness in the pit of my stomach. A constant, unpleasant flutter, screaming at me, “This isn’t right. You should be dead.”
B is just as edgy as I am. “Amanda,” she barks into her phone, eyes on me. “If you get this, call me back.” Voicemail number two-hundred-seventy-eight. The mamba isn’t a quitter. She’s been trying to get a hold of Mrs. I-promised-to-fight-Satan-over-your-soul-just-to-walk-away-when-you-needed-me-most for over an hour. Unsuccessfully.
“Where the fuck is she?” Must be a rhetorical question because she knows damn well I have no clue where Manda is. The witch called half an hour before my hellish-deadline ended, told me I was never more than a good fuck for her, and hasn’t been heard from since. Yup, that’s Manda. Never cares about anyone other than herself. Not sure why I thought she’d give a shit if I lived or died. Blame it on wishful thinking.
“Amanda Caroline Bishop,” she yells, close to pulling her wild curls out. “Call me! Now!” I sorta feel sorry for the mamba. She deserves better than a BFF who leaves her hanging with two witch hunters.
Another flash of too bright light lights the dark sky. Thunder rumbles, bouncing off the ground with an anger that makes us both jump in our seats.
Across the parking lot, under the safety of a small roof, is Jesse. He waves us over, keys dangling from his fingers. He got us a room. Finally.
B and I run through the icy rain. The street is a muddy war zone. Buckets full of water turned snow and soil into a slippery death trap. We make it to the other side without breaking our necks. But not without being soaked, head to toe.
“You okay?” Is the first thing my brother asks.
I have no fucking clue how many times I’ve heard that question today, but I’m getting real tired of it. “I will be if we ever get out of this shitty storm.” Violent winds level even the mightiest trees behind the motel. Staying outside is suicide.
We—two hunters and a mamba, natural born enemies—march into room number 237. Two king-sized beds, shabby carpet, and a small kitchen—Westminster Motel is just like any other rat-hole we’ve slept in over the past few years. But thanks to Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of The Shining, I’ll probably dream about a rotting, old woman, trying to seduce and kill me. Fun times.
Under Jesse’s scrutiny, I kick my shoes off and take up the bed on the right. I hate the way he looks at me. Like I’m fragile and broken.
“Alex?” Reluctantly, I meet his gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I get he’s worried. For all he knows, hell could come barging in here any second, reversing their little mistake. But enough is enough.
“Ask me again,” I mutter, flinging myself onto the hard mattress, “and I’ll give you a taste of how o-kay I am.” Hey, he’s my little brother and I love him. Doesn’t mean I can’t lovingly beat the crap out of him every once in a while.
“Amanda!” B pushes past Jesse, throwing her bag onto the left bed. “Last chance. Call me back, or I swear I’ll donate your dildos to the Salvation Army.” Can’t believe she’s still calling her. Someone’s gotta tell her how pathetic she is. Manda walked away. She doesn’t care about us.
When the mamba dials her again, I can’t take it anymore. “It’s pretty damn obvious she doesn’t want to talk to you.” That came out harsher than intended. It’s Manda’s fault though. She’s got that certain something. It turns me into an asshole every time I think about her mesmerizing emerald eyes. The clinical term for my disease? I believe it’s called Having Been Screwed Over By Amanda Bishop syndrome.
B snaps her head my way, piercing holes in my soul. “Don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Hey.” I shrug out of my wet leather jacket, dropping it on the chair beside my bed. “Just trying to make sure you don’t lose your dignity.”
She slams both hands on her well-formed hips. “Says the guy who doesn’t even know how to spell dignity.”
Jesse’s face slips into a major frown. “Guys,” he grumbles, tired as hell. “Can we not fight?” The whole my-bro-should-be-in-hell-but-isn’t business still messes with him. He fears the demon will realize the glitch in the system and come back to drag me to hell. I have the nagging feeling he won’t.
“Look,” I say, hands up in defense. “I’m not trying to be an ass—”
“You don’t have to try,” B cuts in.
I ignore her hostility, for now. “All I’m saying is you’re wasting your time.” Like I wasted my hopes. Fuck, I want to bang my head against the wall for even considering a girl like Manda—a goddamn witch—could be my soulmate. Yup, for the fraction of a second, back in Winter Harbor, I thought Amanda Bishop might be the one. Never mind she’s a witch and I’m a hunter destined to kill her. Forget the lies and hurt she brought into my life. When she loved me the way I thought she could only ever love herself, I believed the illusion she sold me. The fairytale of a dark queen and a white knight riding off into the sunset together. Pathetic, huh? But can you blame me? Manda has perfected the art of manipulation to a point where she believes her own lies. Buying her bullshit, when she moaned my name as if made for her lips, was easy. Too easy.
Anger flashes across B’s eyes. “You do realize you’re talking about my best friend, right?”
“Best friend, huh?” I don’t think Amanda is cut out for that. I hear friendship is a give and take relationship. All she knows is how to take—your heart, your brain, your fucking life. “With friends like these—”
“What’s the matter with you, Alex?”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you.”
“No, seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you?” She cocks a brow, ogling me like a true killer witch. “When you came barging back into her life, half dead and doomed for hell, she left everything behind she worked so hard for to help you. Fuck, she took a goddamn bullet for you in Bakersfield. Yet here you are, acting like Amanda is the queen of darkness?”
I don’t think Manda is the queen of darkness, more like the queen of selfishness, but I never get to correct B. “Maybe,” Jesse interferes, casting me a warning glance. “We should give Manda some time. For all we know, she thinks you’re in hell.” Jesse shrugs. “We all grieve differently.�
�
Grieve? The girl gives a shit about others. Especially me.
Even B doesn’t buy my brother’s lame excuse. “Time?” she barks. “Are you kidding me? I’ve known her most of my life and I’m telling you something is wrong. I feel it in my bones.”
When it comes to Manda nothing is ever right. Why can’t the mamba see she’s the definition of wrong? “C’mon,” I say, starting a last attempt to take off her pink glasses. “We all know this isn’t the first time she ran.” Won’t be the last either. It’s kind of her trademark.
Remember the expression on Voldemort’s face moments before he whacked poor Cedric? That evil half-smile, paired with unspeakable darkness in his eyes? That’s pretty much how B stares at me. “You, Alexander Remington, don’t know shit about her.” There’s so much confidence in her voice, I almost believe her. Almost.
“I know she claimed she’d fight Lucifer over my soul.” Yup, a guy doesn’t forget when a chick tells him she’s ready to rumble with the ruler of the infernal regions for him. “Then she steals JJ’s car a day before I’m supposed to go to hell and leaves us all hanging.” I shake my head, nails digging into my palms. “Sorry, B. That’s exactly the Amanda Bishop I know. Selfish. Careless. Unreliable.”
The mamba’s light brown eyes catch fire. “What about the Malleus Maleficarum Order?” She blows out some steam. “They’re gunning for her, remember? So, what if she didn’t just leave us hanging? What if she…” She trails off.
“What, B?” I raise my brows. “What if she what?” Secretly, I want her to give me a reason to believe in Manda. Despite everything she did, I always thought there was goodness underneath that armor of bitch-attitude—a damn heart inside her thorny chest. After last night, I’m not so sure anymore.
It looks like even her best friend can no longer find reasons to justify her shitty-act. “I don’t know, okay.” She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know why she stole the damn car, or why she said all those things on the phone. She had to have had a reason, though.” B’s gaze darts to me. “I’m telling you, she cares about you… More than you think.”
No, she doesn’t. And as hard as it may be to admit, she never did.
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