Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  Tired and drained, we sit on our beds. Awkward silence wraps the gloomy room in an uncomfortable blanket of unspoken accusations and unrequited feelings. None of us—neither B, nor I—is ready to give up our prefabricated opinions. And Jesse? Well, I think he’s just glad B and I stopped fighting.

  Flashes of lightning illuminate the room, accompanied by deafening thunder, rolling through the night sky like a damn bowling ball. I’m so focused on the storm, I don’t immediately hear the buzzing of B’s phone. Only when she jumps to her feet like a damn rocket, do I recognize her ringtone “Crazy in Love” by Beyoncé.

  “Amanda?” she yells into the phone.

  My pulse races faster than my Mustang at full speed. Jesus, what a traitorous, ungrateful mother my heart is. Never mind the countless times Manda shattered it. The hollow, muscular organ doing backhand springs in my chest is eager for more. More pain. More lies. More tragedy.

  Judging by the grim look plastered across the mamba’s face, I won’t have to fight another Love Her, Hate Her battle just yet. “Are you serious?” B hisses through gritted teeth. “She left JJ’s car at your place?”

  Who the hell is she talking to?

  “In Salem?” B goes on.

  I’m guessing Melinda, Amanda’s sister.

  “No way.” B paces the room like a tennis player on steroids, her sexy dark complexion paling. “She’d never—” She clenches her jaw. “Bullshit, M.”

  You don’t have to be a witch to tell something bad is cooking.

  “Just tell me where she is,” the mamba demands with a force that’s rather impressive. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  Jesse cups B’s elbow. “What’s going on?”

  She pulls back, ignoring him completely. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. And M…when I get there you better tell me the truth before I share a certain secret with a certain someone.”

  Share a certain secret with a certain someone? God, why do witches always speak in damn riddles? Do they suffer from some kind of speech impairment? Or do they get off on annoying the shit out of people? A combination of both, I assume.

  “Got it?” she asks. “Good.”

  Arms crossed, my little brother draws to his full height. “What is going on?”

  B heads straight for her bag, tossing her phone in it. “I gotta go.”

  “Go where?” Jesse inquires, half worried, half pissed, totally unhappy.

  “Salem.”

  “Now?” Jesse narrows his eyes, pointing at the ugly orange clock hanging above the bed. “It’s the middle of the night, B.”

  “So?”

  His eyes soften. “So, let’s get some sleep and leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Did he just suggest we’d drive her back to Salem? What the hell is wrong with him? Did his Queen B obsession corrupt his damn brain cells? “I ain’t going nowhere,” I clarify.

  They both glare at me as if I sacrificed a damn puppy. I don’t care. I’m done with Manda. She wanted me out of her life and I’m finally ready to honor the deal we made back in Bakersfield. I won’t bother her again. Ever. It’s what she wants. It’s what I need.

  “Alex!” Every fucking argument Jess and I ever had started like this. Him barking my name. Me grinning. This one is no different. “I know you’re mad at her, but—”

  “I’m not mad,” I assure him, calmly. “I’m just done.”

  “Of course, you are.” B curls her small hands into ironclad fists. “I mean, now that you didn’t go to hell you don’t need her anymore, right?” The wicked grin on her lips scares the shit out of me. “And you dare to call her selfish?”

  How is it Manda walked away and yet I’m the boogeyman? Doesn’t matter. I don’t need to justify myself. Not when Amanda was the one who put a nail in our coffin. “Exactly,” I say, standing taller than ever. “I don’t need a witch like her in my life. For all I care”—I shrug—“she can go to hell.” Not literally. Even Amanda “Queen of Selfish” Bishop doesn’t deserve an eternity of demonic torture. Still, it wouldn’t hurt her to get a taste of her own bad medicine, for once. Karma, if you will.

  B might be pissed, but that’s nothing compared to my little brother. He crosses over from anger to burning wrath in a nanosecond. “Are you fucking serious, dude?”

  Am I serious about never wanting to see the witch again? About never wanting to feel the pain she caused me when she said I was just another one of her lucky nights? “Yeah,” I assure him. “Yeah, I am.” My heart won’t survive another game of Love Me, Hate Me. Not when I was ready to give up everything I am just to be with her. Not when she left me, again.

  B has heard enough. Without another word, she marches to the door. Her grip on the doorknob is so tight it turns her knuckles white. “I can’t believe”—she catches some air—“she almost died for a guy like you.” That said she walks into the stormy night, never looking back.

  Disgust with a hint of shame is what I see in Jesse’s eyes. He hates me a little, right now. But that’s okay. I hate myself as well.

  By the time he realizes I won’t change my mind, he rushes outside. “Wait,” he yells after B. “I’m coming with you.”

  If he thinks I’ll follow him, he clearly doesn’t know me.

  Leaning back on my elbows, I enjoy the chilly wind wafting through the open door. The rain beats against the roof, the wind howls, and in the midst of all those noises I hear the love of my life, a black ’65 Mustang roaring to life.

  This has got to be a joke. He’d never—

  Nope, this isn’t a joke. I’d recognize the sound of that engine anytime, everywhere. I spent years working on that car.

  Jumping up, I grab my stuff and run outside. They’re halfway out of the parking lot. I almost break my damn leg getting to them.

  “Stop,” I order, yanking the backdoor open.

  Jesse grins like a mother. “Changed your mind?”

  “No.” Feeling like a drowned rat, I hop in. “But my car isn’t going anywhere without me.”

  Chapter 2

  I’ve never given much thought to climate change. All that fuss about rising sea levels, expansions of deserts, and heat waves don’t sound half as threatening as a striga, a wendigo, or Amanda Bishop. Plus, there’s no way in hell I’d give up my beloved Mustang just because it blows out more exhaust fumes than a calumet. But staring out the window from the back seat of my car I come to think the whole we-are-fucking-up-the-world mythos might not be a mythos after all. In a little less than two hours, we drove from a murderous thunderstorm right into a damn blizzard. It’s snowing so heavily, you barely see a mile ahead.

  “Think we’re passing by Westford,” he says, eyes on the road signs.

  Isn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic? In about forty minutes—maybe more if the snow keeps obscuring my brother’s sight—we’ll be in Salem. Jesus, why the hell did I get in the car again? Oh, right. I refused to let my brother drive the love of my life without being there to protect her. Now that we’ve almost reached our destination, I’m not sure that was such a great idea. Coming face to face, eye to eye with Manda never is. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say to her? Thanks for using me? I’d sound like a damn girl. Or how about, you’re a goddamn liar. Why did I ever believe you cared about me? Nope. Still sounds like a chick suffering from the unrequited love syndrome. Why say anything? I’m just going to stay in the car and wait ’til B is certain witch-bitch is all right. Then Jesse and I can go back to our old lives, the one where we kill witches rather than fall for them.

  Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love” blasts through the speakers. B, as agitated as ever, changes the station. Judging by the way she glares at my radio, I’d say she’s not a big fan of the “Bat Out of Hell” singer. Or maybe she just hates nineties love songs. Whatever it is, she desperate tries to find another song. “What the actual fuck?” she murmurs when the same song plays on every damn station.

  “Weird,” Jesse admits, maneuvering the car over the slippery
road.

  Yup, especially because the same line—the one about him running into hell and back for a chick—plays simultaneously on every station.

  B slams her thumb against the “off” button, but the radio has a mind of its own. It keeps playing. “I think it’s broken,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. How do I know? She hasn’t spoken to us since we hit the road. Even ignores Jesse, though he was the one who didn’t think twice before offering her a ride to Salem.

  “Hold on.” Jesse pushes one of my old cassettes in. “That should do it.”

  Takes me less than two beats to recognize “Sympathy for the Devil.” It’s one of my favorite Stones songs. There’s something about Mick Jagger’s smoky voice and the lyrics that gives me goosebumps.

  B blows out a long, frustrated breath and leans back in her seat. Gazing at the trees flying past us, she’s still on edge. Has been ever since she got that call from Melinda. I admit, it’s weird Manda voluntarily went back to Salem. I saw the way her sister treated her when we barged into the Bishop residency, looking for a way to save my soul. Manda wasn’t welcome. Worse, her family went to great lengths to erase the witch’s existence from their memories. There wasn’t a single picture of Manda. All right, there was one, but I have a feeling the only reason it survived the purge was the fact Melinda was in it, too. Selfish witch or not, you don’t treat family like that.

  So, why did she go back?

  The question still echoes through my mind when Mick Jagger’s voice is cut off by static, white noise. At first, it sounds like a woman screaming for help. Then the static sound fades and Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love” is back on. Same line. Same old “I’d barge into hell for you” nonsense.

  Jesse’s gaze darts to the radio. He doesn’t say anything, but I’d bet my Beretta we think the same: What the hell is going on?

  B pales to a point where she resembles Manda, in the morgue, back in Bakersfield. You know, when the spirit of little Isobelle—one of Francoise and Walter’s victims—killed her. “Please,” she pleads. “Just hurry.” My brother speeds like a bitch in a damn blizzard. Any faster and my beloved Mustang turns into the Weasly Family’s flying Ford Anglia. Or worse, we hit a tree.

  “We’re almost there,” he promises her, but it doesn’t calm the mamba. Instead, it makes her more restless.

  B isn’t the only one who feels the heat. Remember that unpleasant flutter in the pit of my stomach? Well, it’s back to send chills down my spine. “Always trust your gut,” was my dad’s advice when he heard Jesse and I would join the family business, hunting witches, saving innocent. The thing is, right now, my gut screams “trouble” louder than ever.

  ****

  Half an hour later—that goddamn song continues to torture us, but at least it stopped snowing—Jesse pulls into the Bishop driveway. Like Melinda predicted, JJ’s car is parked near the First Period Colonial house with the ivory façade. Still can’t believe Manda gave up this for a life on the road. The mansion is breathtaking, inside and out. On the other hand, money can’t buy everything. Sure as hell couldn’t buy Manda the love and appreciation of her family.

  Jesse hasn’t killed the engine yet when B yanks the door open and jumps out of the car, running toward the massive wooden door.

  “B,” he yells after her, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Wait.” He’s out of the Mustang and next to her in a damn heartbeat. He so likes that chick more than he should.

  Needing to stretch my legs, I get out and lean against my love. I will stay right here until Jesse gets back. No way in hell I set foot in that house again.

  B’s expression is an odd mixture of being pissed, worried, and happy we made it to Salem. “Thanks for the ride.” She crosses her arms. “I can take it from here.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Jesse insists.

  “Amanda is my friend. My responsibility.” The mamba’s fiery eyes dart to me. “Go, take your brother and get out of here. I’m sure you guys want to celebrate his out-of-hell experience at the next strip club.”

  Jesse rarely gets mad. He’s one of those guys who believes in love, peace, and sex. Only a handful of people can push his get-out-of-his-way-or-die-a-cruel-death button. Me? I’m one of them. So is B, apparently. “Manda is my friend, too.”

  Friend, huh? I laugh. What a lot of crap. Amanda Bishop is so much more than just a friend to my brother. The instant he laid eyes on her in that alley he adored her. Don’t ask me why, but Jesse loves Manda. Truth be told, there were days when I believed his feelings ran deeper than brotherly-friendship. The way he looked at her, the spark in his eyes when she gave me hell—it made me wonder if maybe he, too, fell for her wickedness. Soon I came to realize how absurd the idea was. Jesse Remington has never been, and will never be, a one-lady type of guy. Just the word “settle” turns his stomach into knots.

  “Is she now?” B barks, voice sharper than my hunting knife.

  The muscles in his arms flex, expanding his tight shirt. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he shoots back, raw anger poisoning his vocal chords. Congrats, B. You really do know how to push his buttons.

  The mamba doesn’t back down. “One”—her index finger comes up—“you’re a hunter. Two”—middle finger follows—“you’re a guy.”

  “I have no fucking clue what you’re saying.” Wow, mad and confused. This should be good.

  Bonnie shrugs a lazy shoulder. “Guys never do anything out of the goodness of their hearts. They play the long game, always wanting something in exchange.” She cocks her head to the side. “And hunters?” She laughs. “Dude, you kill our kind. Don’t even try pretending you care about what happens to us witches.”

  One: B has a problem with men.

  Two: She really does hate hunters.

  “Listen.” Jesse moves in on her, lips inches from hers. One move and they get it on, right here, in the driveway of the Bishop mansion. “I have no idea what sorta guys you let into your life, but I don’t play any games.” True. He might be a younger version of Hugh Hefner, but he’s never been a player. He doesn’t have to be. Chicks dig him so much they’d do anything for a night with him. Even when they know it’s a one-time ride.

  Their gazes collide. Jolts of pure attraction fly through heavy snow clouds, electrifying the air. “Manda is the closest thing I have left to a sister,” he goes on, voice heavy and thick. “So excuse me if I don’t give a fuck about what you want right now.”

  Bonnie’s brows fly up. Witch or no witch, she didn’t see that coming.

  “And about the hunter thing,” he adds. “I don’t remember pulling my gun on you or Manda. Ever.” He blows out some angered steam. “Now, I’d greatly appreciate if you could get over yourself, so we can check on our friend.”

  For a second there, the mamba is rendered speechless. I don’t think anyone has ever given her that kind of attitude. And Jesse isn’t quite done yet. “You just gonna stand here and grow roots, or can we move on?”

  “Whatever,” she murmurs, spinning toward the entrance.

  I’m pretty damn sure those two are another tragedy in the making.

  “Alex,” Jesse shouts across the driveway.

  Why the fuck is he mad at me? I didn’t do shit. “What?”

  He stares me down, murder on his face. “You coming or what?”

  The way I see it I have two options. Holding my ground and directing all his anger at me will probably result in a fistfight and for once, I’m not sure I’ll come out on top. Or going against my new I-never-want-to-see-the-witch resolution and beating myself up for it.

  “Alex,” he yells.

  Yeah, I think I would like to live some more. Besides, I am dying to know what lies Manda will throw at us. Maybe it’ll help my heart to get over the witch once and for all.

  “Fine,” I grumble, pushing myself off the car. “Let’s hear the cheap excuses.”

  Chapter 3

  The pregnant cloud tailing us since Westford gave birth a while ag
o, covering most of the driveway with a thick layer of fresh snow. It’s like eleven degrees out here and I’m freezing my nuts off.

  Why’s no one answering the fucking door?

  B has been knocking so hard, her knuckles are torn. If Melinda doesn’t let us in soon, we’ll all make a trip to the next ER for frost boils, pneumonia, and in Queen B’s case, a broken hand.

  “Melinda,” she yells like a lunatic. “I know you’re home.” Her gaze shoots to the black BMW parked in front of the garage. “Your fucking car is in the driveway.”

  Unlike B, I’m not eager to come face to face with any of the Bishop sisters, but I get why she’s acting like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson on meth. She assumes the worst. Why? Because Melinda Bishop isn’t the kind of woman who leaves anyone outside to catch death.

  “I’m going to kill her,” B barks, close to kicking the door down.

  “Hey.” Jesse cups her elbow. “Maybe she’s running an errand. Let’s wait in the car.” He’s not half as concerned about losing his nuts to the cold than he is about Queen B’s torn knuckles and neurotic behavior.

  She jerks her arm away, casting him a killer glance. “An errand?” She shoves her phone under his nose. “It’s four in the morning. Who hits a grocery store in the middle of the night?”

  Jesse and I do. It’s kind of our thing after a successful hunt. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s lame. You’d expect guys like us to hit the next bar, right? What can I say? Real life isn’t half as glamourous as the movies. Killing witches is exhausting. It’s why we look for an open twenty-four-seven, grab our favorite stuff—Reese’s and OJ for my brother, chips and soda for me—and fling ourselves in front of the TV. Still, Bonnie has a point. Melinda has a little boy. I highly doubt she’d leave the house in the wee morning hours for diapers, or snacks. The woman is way too Martha Stewart to pull a stunt like that. So, the question remains. Why isn’t she answering the door?

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The mamba is going to wake the whole damn street. “Melinda! Open up! Now!”

  All right, enough is enough. “Turn it down a notch,” I order, leaning against the porch railing.