Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  ****

  Yup. It was in that very apartment I understood Amanda Bishop was the only girl that could bring me back from the dead.

  Chapter 11

  I used to wonder why the mere thought of applying to university gave me insomnia. Back in the days before the PAU knocked on our door, Mom and Dad sat me down at the kitchen table, hell-bent to talk me into giving academic life a shot. “You can explore all your options,” Dad said, grinning wickedly. Translated, it meant something like plenty of girls, son.

  Mom tried a subtler approach. “Education is power, Alex. Think about it, you can be anything you want—a lawyer, a doctor…you don’t have to follow in your grandpa’s footsteps. The world is at your feet with the right degree. Don’t waste your life chasing ghosts,” were her exact words.

  Neither the prospect of booze and boobs, nor money and power could change my mind. I was going to be the hunter I was born to be. The guy who would chase down the witch that took my little sister to put a damn bullet between her eyes.

  And as I stand here in the overcrowded hallway of Green House, on a Friday night, I get why I’d rather spent my life on the road chasing ghosts than inside a library. Students are a breed of their own. Fun seeking Homo sapiens, breathing carelessness, while they have no clue what’s happening outside their safeguarded university halls. Their worlds revolve around theories. The solutions to their problems is found in books. My world revolves around brutal realities. The solution is usually raw violence.

  Jesse elbows me. “You good, man?”

  The second B has signed us in as visitors and we shut the door of her apartment, keeping this alien world out, I will be. “Sure.”

  His gaze darts to his boots. “Good.”

  “Hey.” I cross my arms. “What’s with you and B?” They don’t even look at each other anymore. The argument in front of Mr. Wong’s seems responsible for the sudden “I ignore him, I ignore her, we both feel like crap” attitude.

  My little brother won’t look at me. “It’s nothing.”

  That little nothing is somehow connected to me and I like to know shit when it concerns me. “I—”

  Some douchebag bumps into me. Did no one ever tell him about the consequences of reading and walking?

  “Watch it,” I hiss, slightly annoyed.

  You’d think as a future man in power, he’d have the decency to apologize, right? Way off the mark. He gawks at me, shakes his head, and moves on. Jackass.

  I return my focus to Jesse and his bitch fight with the mamba. I want…no, I need to know what the deal is. Too bad, B marches out of the residence hall director’s office before I get to interrogate him some more. “Let’s go,” she orders, pissed off like hell.

  “Let me guess,” I say, tilting my head at the office door. “They’re not really up for visitors, are they?” University housing has strict rules. They don’t just let anyone in. It’s one of the reasons Jesse had to bring my half-dead ass in through the back door last time we were here. The other being the fact we were both wanted men—still are since Carter hasn’t given us a green light yet—and drenched in blood. I highly doubt any sane person would have allowed us up to Manda and B’s apartment, looking like victims of Michael fucking Myers.

  She sighs. “Now, they are.”

  “You manipulated them?” Jesse asks, a bit nervous. “What if it fades?”

  She doesn’t grace him with a reply. Instead, she proceeds toward the stairs, shoulders and head hanging low.

  A bunch of giggling chicks with belt-like skirts and extremely tight tops block the staircase. They eyeball Jesse and me like two pieces of yummy fresh meat. I swear if we looked at them that way, we’d be arrested for sexual harassment. So much for gender equality.

  “Move,” B barks.

  The group pays no attention to the stewing mamba. They’re too busy eating us alive. Kylie Jenner lookalike flashes Jesse a not so innocent smile. “How’s it going, handsome?”

  My brother wouldn’t be the man-whore he is if he didn’t wink at her. “It’s going great.” His voice drops ten octaves, making him sound like a male telephone sex-operator.

  The group breaks into laughter.

  And B? She’s on the brink of slamming her fist into their Barbie faces. “Get the fuck out of my way, Romy.” She knows Kylie Jenner wannabe by name. She also doesn’t like her very much. Ten bucks says it’s not just because the chick has her eyes set on my little brother.

  Kylie-wannabe plays with a strand of her long, dark hair. “C’mon, Bonnie. What about sharing is caring?” Her gaze darts from Jesse to me and back to B. “You can’t possibly please them both.”

  Wow. Seriously, just wow.

  B gets in her face. “Out. Of. My. Way.”

  Had she given me that killer-stare, I’d run for the hills. Romy, however, is too overloaded with hormones to care. “Fun killer.”

  B has had enough. She pushes past her, deliberately bumping into her.

  “Apartment two B. Come find me if you want some real fun,” Romy shouts after us.

  “I don’t get it,” I murmur, still trying to wrap my head around the student species.

  Jesse narrows his eyes. “Get what?”

  I look down at the snickering chicks. They’re undressing our butts. Superman would be jealous of their X-ray vision. “How did Manda do it, man? She doesn’t fit.” Between hipsters, privileged brats, and Confessions of a Shopaholic slash American Pie chicks, Amanda Bishop is Pretty in Pink—the outcast who happens to understand the definition of hardship without a damn dictionary.

  Jesse’s lips part, but the mamba with anger issues is quicker. “And why wouldn’t she fit?” she asks, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.

  Something tells me the wrong answer will get me into real trouble. “She—”

  “She what?” B barks, not waiting for a reply. “Is smarter than most folks, including you? Damn right.”

  Why does everyone—including Manda—assume I underestimate her intelligence? Jesus, I’m well aware the witch’s mind is sharper than a katana. It can slice you in two with a single blow. I’ll never forget the moment in Bakersfield, when she scientifically explained the ritual she was about to perform to find my missing brother. Manda sounded like Stephen Hawking, Freud, and Einstein all rolled into Jennifer’s Body.

  “As adjustable as a chameleon?” B continues her defense, lips curved into a half-smile. “You can bet your ass on it. Totally—”

  “Stop.” I hold my hand up. “All I’m saying is the girl isn’t cut out for”—I scan the girls group down the stairs—“this.”

  B cocks a brow. “You don’t know the first thing about her, Alex.”

  I know how much she loved to roam the country, seeing new places, meeting new people. Freedom is the one thing a girl like her wouldn’t give up voluntarily. Not for this. So what made her change her mind? What turned a loose cannon like Manda, a girl who loved to live life on the edge, into a student? I just can’t shake the feeling I’m missing a crucial piece of the jigsaw called Amanda Bishop.

  “You coming or what?” B barks from the top of the staircase.

  How the hell did she get there so quickly?

  Jesse and I march up the final stairs, following Queen B aka Queen Bitch to her apartment.

  The door hasn’t shut behind us yet when B disappears inside the bathroom. The fraction of a second later, she turns the shower on, leaving Jesse and me all alone in the small common room, consisting of an open kitchen and a tiny living room.

  “Hey.” Jesse elbows me. “Didn’t they mention a roommate?”

  “Yeah.” I squint. “Why?”

  He points to the couch. “How did she not call the cops?” What used to be a cream couch looks like Dexter’s new playground. Bloodstains cover the thing. My blood. “Looks like a prop from Scream.”

  I shrug. “Don’t ask me, man.” I gaze at the crimson spots on the couch that have no resemblance to corn syrup. “I’ll never understand those kids.”

&n
bsp; My brother laughs. “Dude, you’re barely older than they are.”

  “Age is just a number.” It merely measures the years you’ve spent on this world, not the experiences you’ve had. And experiences are what make you, in Manda’s words, an old soul.

  Jesse rolls his eyes. “You sound like Grandpa.”

  “He was a wise man.” Not kidding. Our grandpa, Mom’s dad, was a genius. He invented shit in his garage. Granted, it wasn’t the next iPhone, or Windows. Grandpa was a freelance hunter. He killed hundreds, if not thousands of witches, and when the time came to retire, he devoted the rest of his life to making other hunters’ lives easier. Take my Beretta, for example. From the outside, it looks like any gun of the make and model, but inside it’s warded with Celtic protection runes to keep the owner safe. So far, it’s worked just fine. I mean I’m alive, aren’t I?

  “Whatever.” Jesse moves to the coffee maker. “Want some?”

  “Bring it on.”

  Three steaming cups sit on the coffee table when the mamba stomps out of the bathroom. She wears tight shorts, an oversized shirt, and her hair is wrapped in…I was gonna say towel, but from where I’m standing it looks like an old T-shirt. I highly doubt Mrs. Louis Vuitton bag slash Gucci boots can’t afford a towel. Must be deliberate then.

  Jesse points to the steaming liquid. “Coffee?”

  I prepare for B to unleash the bitch. Instead, she plummets down on the armchair, grabs the mug, and looks completely at ease. “Thanks.” Wow. Whatever is in the water, I need some of it, too.

  Jesse and I pull up two chairs. “So what’s the plan?” I ask, unable to shut my damn mind off.

  B blows some air on her drink. “For now, we have to wait for Josephine to come back.” She doesn’t like it.

  Neither do I. “Can I ask you something?”

  She cocks a brow.

  “Without starting a war?” I add, just in case the shower-effect wears off. She gestures for me to continue. “What’s your theory?”

  B squints. “My theory?”

  “Yeah.” I put my coffee down. “What do you think happened in that house, and why did Manda run?”

  B’s gaze darts to Jesse. He rocks an odd expression. A mix of worried and scared? Or maybe it’s more “don’t say anything” and “please, don’t say anything”? I really can’t be sure.

  “Bonnie?” I meet her gaze. “What do you think happened to Manda?”

  “I’m tired.” She gets on her feet. “You guys can sleep in Manda’s room, or on the couch. I really don’t care.”

  What the hell is going on with her? One minute, she’s a bitch. The next, she’s bearable. Then, without any warning, she goes back to the Queen Bitch status? Her mood swings are worse than mine when Manda is around.

  “Here.” She throws a pillow, a blanket, and sheets our way. “That should do.” A second later, she slams her door shut with a bang that has the ability to wake the walking dead.

  My gaze shoots to Jesse. “What was that about?”

  “She’s tired,” he says, spreading the sheets on the bloody couch.

  I raise my brows. He’s always been a rotten liar. Today, however, he’d get a Golden Raspberry for worst performance ever. “Dude.” I grab him by the shoulder, spinning him around. “What aren’t you two telling me?”

  “I love you, big brother.” A lopsided grin plays on his lips. “But some things are mine and mine only.” I used those same words when he asked me why I sold my soul.

  “Seriously?”

  “I learned from the best.” He looks me in the eye. “I learned from you.”

  Nicely played, Jesse. Shame I’d never, ever admit it. “Dude.” I cross my arms. “What did I tell you about Mom’s Whitney Houston LPs?” She’s a huge fan. Her collection includes every album the queen of cheesy love songs ever made.

  He throws the blanket on the couch. “To bring them to you once I’m done with them?”

  “Jackass.” I did no such thing. Songs like “I Will Always Love You” were never my kinda thing. Partly because I missed the guitar tunes. Mostly, because I never believed in the “forever” kind of love.

  He flings himself onto the couch. “Goodnight, Alex.”

  Wait. If he takes the couch then— “Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”

  He lifts his head. “In a bed?”

  “Quit being a smart ass.” I’m not in the mood for his games.

  He sighs. “Remember what Bonnie said about Manda’s room?”

  My gaze darts to the door I avoided since we walked in here. The door that separates reality from an ocean of painful memories. “You want me to sleep in Manda’s bed?”

  He smirks. “Gee, bro. You make it sound like it’d be the first time.”

  I don’t like this cocky version of my brother. Don’t like it at all. “You know,” I say, facing the door I didn’t want to open today. Possibly ever. “Hiding behind that attitude is only going to get you so far.” I should know. I’m the master of pretentious jerkiness. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did.” One Remington brother fucked hard by karma is more than enough.

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Deep down, he knows I’m right.

  I step into Manda’s room. Her scent crawls into my nostrils. It’s all over the place. Flowery, yet herb-like. Alluring, yet bitter. Just like her.

  The bed is just like we left it. Messy, cozy, and drenched with sweat and tears. Hell, I can still see the imprints of our heads on the pillows. It feels like yesterday when I lay there, next to her. I remember thinking how dying in her arms would be worth going to the pit. She proved me right in that tiny apartment above JJ’s bar. For the time being, Amanda Bishop dropped her guard. I know because a soft longing that she had never showed me before replaced all the hardness that formed her armor.

  God, I miss her.

  I miss her so much it fucking hurts, like it hurt every damn day after I pulled my gun on her.

  I close my eyes, determined to lock those memories away. It wasn’t the last time I felt her breath on my face, I assure myself. Manda is okay. She’s always okay.

  I rest my head on her pillow, drawing in her scent, begging every God I’d ever heard of to let her be okay. But that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one I’ve battled since I spoke to Manda on the phone, grows like an inoperable ulcer.

  Chapter 12

  Amanda

  A woman who called me Satan’s bride, a woman who foresaw my future as the queen of darkness, raised me. Mother Dearest didn’t keep my predicted fate under cloak-and-dagger. She shared her vision—the one she had while I grew in her womb—with anyone willing to listen. Other witches were afraid of me. They feared what I could…what I would become. They looked at seven-year-old Amanda Bishop, but didn’t see a child desperate for her mother’s love and approval. They caught sight of Amanda Bishop, the murderous witch, devoted to the dark side.

  Present me.

  The me I hate so much I’m unable to face its reflection.

  The me with bloodstained clothes.

  The me who used love as a scapegoat for evil.

  The me who needs to be stopped before it’s too fucking late.

  “You did well,” Clyde assures me, his voice nothing but a distant calling, echoing through the blackness of what used to be my soul.

  I’m not sure what he expects. For me to smile and be proud of what I did? Does he want a “thank you” for his praise? Or should I empty my aching stomach in his freakin’ face to show him how I really feel?

  I’d opt for the latter. Except, it would require for me to shift in my seat. I can’t do that. I’m paralyzed, my whole body frozen in a state of shock and disbelief. What I did—

  God, I belong in hell.

  I always did. Mother Dearest had been right all along. I was born to be evil. It explains how I could go through with Clyde’s plan. How I—

  My gaze darts to the scarlet stains covering most of my clothes. The stink of tinny metal crawls up my
nose, invoking a gag reflex I can’t control.

  “Not in my car,” Clyde barks, pulling onto the breakdown lane.

  I yank the door open. Just in time. A fraction of a second later and the windshield of Clyde’s precious Audi would be smeared with bile.

  I don’t bother holding my hair back. I’m drenched in the bodily fluids of strangers. What a hypocrite would I be if I minded my own goddamn vomit?

  The Knight of Hell stands before me, watching me as I get rid of my last meal. “The first ones are the hardest,” he says, pity in his amber eyes. “It’ll get easier. I promise.”

  Fuck his promises.

  Fuck easier.

  Fuck him.

  “Here”—he holds a bottle of water under my nose—“this will help.”

  I wipe some puke off my lips, the taste of acid still lingering in my mouth. I don’t want to wash it down. I want to taste what I’ve become. What I am.

  “Amanda.” His voice is low and demanding. “Drink the bloody water.”

  Climbing back inside the car, I slam the damn door in his face. He took my soul, my life. I’ll be damned if he takes my last bit of free will.

  The engine roars to life.

  I scan the car, searching for a fixed point. Something to focus on. Something to keep my mind away from what happened in Washington D.C. Instead, I find the one thing reminding me of how evil I truly am. The book that cost several agents their lives—The First Grimoire.

  Chapter 13

  Alex

  Sleep never came last night. The sandman had better places to be, less vicious dreams to feed. Frankly, I didn’t need him to recall all the ugly things I said to Manda in the past. Didn’t need a reminder of our last night together. The memories crashed over me like a fucking tsunami every time I closed my eyes. That wasn’t even the worst part of my night. Creepy images haunted me—blood, more blood, death, darkness, and in the midst of it all Manda rocking flaming green eyes.

  “Stop me, Alex. You have to stop me,” Manda begged, her voice a constant feature in the back of my mind.

  I tried to ignore it. Assured myself it was my guilty conscience plaguing me. But the more effort I put into shutting her out, the louder her pleas grew. “Stop me. Please. You’re the only one who can.”