Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  It got to the point where I was absolutely certain about three things. One: I was losing my mind and I could do nothing about it. Two: I had to find her before it was too late—for what, I’m not sure yet. Three: Amanda Bishop was in trouble. The kind that made a girl afraid of nothing terrified of everything.

  Now, in the wee hours of a hopefully better morning, I sit on the kitchen counter, waiting for my third pot of coffee, listening to my little brother’s exhausted snores. He sleeps like a rock. Good for him.

  B must have drifted off, too. She paced her room like a crazy person, last night. Shortly after three a.m., the commotion in B’s room died down. I was tempted to check on her, see if she succumbed to weariness. After a quiet argument with myself, I decided against it. C’mon, it’d be kinda weird to waltz into the mamba’s room to tuck her in, right?

  With the sun slowly rising, casting a dim orange light onto the windowsill, I wait for the rest of the crew to wake from their slumber, so we can hit the road, paying the ominous Madame Josephine a visit. In the meantime, to battle the eerie silence cloaking the apartment, I check the news on my phone, hoping to find some sort of normalcy in an absurd situation.

  The New York Times is my first stop. The headline of the first article reads New York’s Night of Terror. Doesn’t sound good. Skimming through it, I realize the headline doesn’t do the shit justice. Apparently, some hardcore The Purge fans decided it was time to blur the boundaries between fiction and reality. They put on some fucked up clown masks, wreaking havoc all across the city. So far, the police confirmed ten casualties, over sixty-eight injured, and about two point one million bucks in property damage.

  The world’s going to shit.

  I’m not joking. New York wasn’t the only city hit by an unpreceded crime wave. CNN reports about similar incidents all across the country—Miami, Los Angeles, Martinsburg—no state was safe.

  Even London had a rocky night, if one believes the videos of burning cars, and houses, on BBC’s website. Sorta feels like watching a damn end-of-days movie. You know the Arnold Schwarzenegger kind.

  I’m about to move on to the Washington Post when my brother’s sleepy voice wafts through the small apartment. “Have you even slept?”

  “Sure.” He’s already worried about my not going to hell and Manda’s vanishing act. I don’t see any reason to add my lack of sleep to his list of sorrows.

  “Uh-huh, right.” He stumbles toward the coffee maker in need of black gold to cure him of fatigue.

  He pours himself a cup. “Anything interesting?”

  I press the lock button on my phone and sigh. “Other than the fact the world’s about to go down in flames?” He nods. “Nope. Nothing.” The Purge like riots aren’t our gig. Why tell him about it?

  We sip our steaming coffees in silence when B’s door flings open. “Coffee,” she grumbles, stomping into the kitchen.

  Jesse hands her a cup, his gaze trained on the hollows beneath her cognac eyes. “You okay?” His voice is soft but demanding. I fear he might actually expect an honest reply. Something tells me he’d be more successful finding water in the desert.

  “What time is it?” she asks, completely ignoring my brother’s worries.

  I glance at my phone. “Twenty past six.”

  She puts her cup down, rubbing the exhaustion off her face. Or she tries. “I’ll hit the shower. Then we’ll leave.”

  Jesse’s gaze drifts over her unusually pale face. “Don’t you think it’s a little too early?” He tops up her cup. “Madame Josephine might not even be back yet.”

  B couldn’t care less. “Give me twenty minutes.”

  The bathroom door slams shut behind her, leaving my little brother with an expression I know too damn well—hurt with a great amount of fret.

  He glares at the full cup on the counter. “I just don’t get this girl.”

  I pat his shoulder. “It’s the curse.”

  “What curse?”

  A smile pulls at the edges of my lips. “The ‘man meets woman, likes woman, woman drives him insane’ curse.” I shrug. “You’re not its first victim and will likely not be its last.” I should know. Amanda Bishop took me to the madhouse, only to leave me in a straitjacket made of heartache and fear.

  He cocks a brow. “I don’t like—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence, little brother.” I jump to my feet. “It’s bad enough you’re lying to me; don’t lie to yourself.”

  He rolls his eyes in dramatic Jesse-style. “What happened to my brother, dude? The guy who hates chick-flick moments and thinks Dr. Phil is a charlatan?”

  What I want to say is he understands that real hell is a state of mind in which you’re bound to regret your failures over and over. What I do say is, “Shut up and drink your damn coffee.”

  Like clockwork, B marches out of the bathroom. Dressed like the showstopper of Prada—tight jeans, a rose-colored silk blouse, and ankle boots with killer heels—she moves toward us. All signs of debility hidden beneath carefully applied, natural makeup, emphasizing her stunning almond-shaped eyes. It’s amazing what a girl can do in twenty minutes given hot water, some makeup, and decent clothes.

  “Ready?” She certainly is.

  I head to Manda’s room. “Let me get the keys.” I left them on her nightstand last night, when I engaged in the illusion to catch some sleep.

  “Hurry,” she orders, accompanied by a queen-like hand gesture.

  The very instant I reach for the doorknob sharp pain hits my head. I inhale, hoping it’ll fade. It gets worse instead. Feels like someone driving a sword right through my damn brain.

  “Alex.” In my peripheral, I spot Jesse running across the living room.

  Hands pressed against each side of my head, I drop to my knees. The pain knocks the air out of my lungs. Soon, I find myself breathless on the floor.

  “Alex.” This time it’s B’s voice screaming my name in terror. “Alex, what is it?”

  Jesse lingers over me, his shape blurring. “Dude…talk to me.”

  I blink. Again. Again. And again.

  “Do something,” he barks at B.

  “What am I supposed to do? I don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”

  Their voices are farther and farther away. The darkness slowly taking my vision, closer than ever.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  Green flames blaze in the distance, penetrating the blackness.

  Green is good, I tell myself. Green is hope.

  Except, it’s neither good, nor hope. Green is—

  ****

  Amanda’s eyes burn brighter than a damn wildfire. I’ve never seen anything like it. “I knew you’d hear me,” she whispers, sitting cross-legged on the cold cement floor. “You always have.” The utter sadness radiating from her whole being drives a stick through my heart.

  “Manda, what—”

  “Don’t,” she warns, holding her palm up. “Don’t come any closer.”

  What the hell is she thinking? That I just stand here like a damn statue?

  Sorry, baby, ain’t gonna happen.

  “Alex,” she pleads. “Please, for once…” She trails off, aware it’s pointless.

  I hunker down in front of her. My fingers itching to touch her marvelous face. A face that killed and revived me several times, one that haunted my dreams long before we met. Yup, that’s right. I, Alexander Ethan Remington, dreamed of Manda long before I found her in that alley. She snuck into my world shortly after Natasha disappeared, comforting me. “Manda”—I lift her chin—“what’s going on?”

  She looks over my shoulder, refusing to meet my gaze. “You have to stop me.” Those words had tortured me all night. “Please, Alex. You’re the only one who can.”

  Cupping her face, I ignore her weird request. There are more important things to talk about. “Where are you?”

  She says nothing.

  I scan the surroundings. Brick walls covered with old runes, warding off magic. Some of them I’v
e seen before. Hunters use them to protect themselves from hexes. Behind her, pushed against a damp wall, is a cot with a single pillow but no blanket. I don’t spot any windows. And just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, I catch a glimpse of the iron bars, holding her prisoner in this godforsaken dungeon.

  “Amanda.” My pulse thunders. “Tell me where we are.”

  Our eyes lock. “Promise me,” she says. “Promise you’ll do whatever it takes to stop me.”

  I can’t take it anymore. The events of the previous days tighten their grip around my throat—the love we shared at JJ’s, the pain when she was gone the next morning, the fear of last night when I heard her calling, the desperation of seeing her locked away behind iron bars. “Drop the bullshit and tell me where the fuck you are, so I can come and get you.”

  “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 the 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.”

  I want to rattle the madness out of her when a heavy door creaks. Instinctively, I get on my feet, ready to fight whatever is coming our way.

  “Shit.” Manda is next to me in a heartbeat. “He’s coming.” Fear clouds the flames, burning in her eyes. “You gotta go. Now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, standing my ground.

  “Stubborn as always,” she whispers, slamming both her palms against my chest.

  The impact knocks me down. Darkness—the one that brought me here—swallows me.

  I’m floating.

  “Take care of our s—”

  ****

  “Alex!” B’s palm connects with my jaw. “Wake the fuck up!”

  My head spins like a tumble dryer. Slowly, I manage to open my eyes. The light streaming through the windows pierces through my already scrambled brain.

  “Dude.” Jesse helps me up. “What happened?” The blood has drained from his face, leaving nothing but a ghostly shell.

  “Manda,” I choke out, mouth dry.

  Hope sparks in B’s eyes. “You saw her? Is she okay? Where is she? What did she—”

  “She’s in trouble,” I cut her off, before she gives in to the illusion my little magical excursion is the answer to her prayers.

  Horror claws into her expression, hardening her face. “What kind of trouble?”

  The kind that makes her long for a bullet in her brain. I can hardly say that, can I? “We”—I struggle to my feet—“need to find her. Now.” Preferably before she continues down suicide lane.

  “Wait,” Jesse insists as I try to get the keys from Manda’s room. “I’ll get them. You should…” He studies me. “I don’t know…have some water, maybe?”

  Water is the last thing on my mind. Manda is locked away in some magical dungeon, with a creepy old book, and begged me to kill her. It doesn’t get much worse than that. And then there’s the last thing she said, before B slapped me. “Take care of our s—”

  Our S…? What the fuck does that even mean? What or who is S? And why does she beg me to take care of…it? Him?

  I ogle the mamba. If anyone knows what Manda was trying to say, it’d be her. I’m all set to ask her when Carter’s name flickers across the screen of my phone.

  Maybe he found her, the last glimmer of hope says. But the cramping of my stomach speaks another language. One I’m not sure I want translated.

  “Alex,” he practically yells into the speaker. “Alex, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I choke out. “What’s up?” I don’t want an answer to that question. I have to hear it regardless.

  “Where are you?” Carter is completely out of breath.

  “New York.”

  “Stay there,” he orders. “I’m on my way.”

  Carter leaving the safety of his office? This is apocalyptic bad. “Dude, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Amanda.” He pauses. “She…she…”

  “She what?”

  “You have to see for yourself,” he says, fear dominating his voice. “I’ll catch the next plane. Just stay where you are. I’m coming.”

  He cuts the line before I can say a damn word.

  “What’s going on?” Jesse asks, the keys to the Mustang dangling from his index finger.

  “I don’t know.” But whatever it is put the fear of God into the leader of the Paranormal Analysis Unit of the FBI. A man who interrogated witches, demons, and monsters for the past six years of his life.

  Jesse narrows his eyes. “Well, who was it?”

  “Carter.”

  My brother frowns. “And what did he say?”

  “That he’s on his way.”

  “To New York?” A deaf man could hear the surprise in Jesse’s high-pitched tone. Like me, my brother knows all about Carter’s field phobia. We were both present in Bridgewater when a full-blooded succubus attempted to suck the life out of our boss. We barely managed to get him out of there alive. “Did he say why?”

  “Something about Manda,” I choke out, unable to face the mamba.

  Chapter 14

  Amanda

  Standing on the other side of the bars, carrying a tray loaded with food, Clyde watches me, assesses me. His stone-like expression never wavers. His eyes remain on me and me only.

  Clyde’s aura is dark pink, indicating deceit and weariness. Yes, demons have auras, which means they have souls. And no, it’s not plain black.

  He knows.

  Or at the very least, he suspects. Clyde’s a Knight of Hell. A killer trained in the art of cabal and lies. Creatures like him spot the faintest signs of dishonesty.

  Aware every misstep could give away what I did, I keep my gaze glued to the aged tome, a collection of spells and rituals written in an otherworldly language I didn’t know I could speak. To my surprise, I do—speak alien that is. The grimoire, more dangerous than any nuke, rests on the altar Clyde’s minion built. Its power electrifies the air.

  Show no fear, a quiet voice urges me. It’s the voice of the witch that died the second she signed that godforsaken deal with her blood. The only reminder of who Amanda Bishop used to be—fearless, selfish, alive.

  He’s going to kill him along with everyone you love if he finds out you summoned him. The terms and conditions of our agreement specifically forbid me from ever seeing Alexander Remington again. I gambled with his very soul when I brought him to my new home—a dungeon made to imprison the worst kinds of evil. I had no choice, though. There’s only one way to stop this madness; it starts with me and ends with death by the hands of—

  Don’t think of him!

  Liquefying amber eyes lance through me. He uses his magic, trying to read me like I read so many people before. He can’t get through my armor. His
anger and anxiousness give him away.

  You can do this. For Alex. For Leandro. For the people who care about me, regardless of my many flaws—my friends.

  I breathe my fears out, draw the will to fight in. He can have my soul, my life, my everything. But he can’t have my heart. It belongs to someone else. Someone who occupied it long before we even met. A knight in shining armor, who galloped into my life on his black steel horse—the hunter I went to hell for.

  Play the game, Amanda. Just make sure you don’t lose.

  “You could earn some decent money,” I say, attempting to sound cool rather than broken.

  He remains quiet.

  “I’m sure some folks would pay to see a freak show like me.” They pay for zoos and haunted attractions. Why not for a supernatural prison cell hosting an evil witch?

  The sound of Clyde’s silence—an absence of breath and humanity—drives me toward my breaking point. If he finds out what I did, everything was for nothing. Those agents and all the other people died for nothing more than my failure. Alex will go to hell. And God knows what Clyde has in store for the others.

  I can’t let that happen.

  “There’s this dude on Destination America,” I continue my charade. “Name’s Nick Groff. Maybe you should give him a call. I bet he could set you up with the right people to promote what you’ve got here.” The ghost hunter digs paranormal lockdowns. Something tells me an evil, untouchable witch, imprisoned by a Knight of Hell would be a dream come true for him.

  I can’t tell if Nick Groff provoked Clyde to unlock the cell, or if he’s simply tired of my lame jokes. Either way, he comes at me.

  “I hope you like burritos,” he says, putting the tray onto the small table next to my un-comfy cot.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I groan.

  The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “Black bean and vegetables.”

  The reality a demon knows what I like sends shivers down my spine. “Uhm, thanks?”

  Spine straight, he nods once.

  Needing to escape his demanding stare, I pick up my drained body and move toward the delicious-smelling food. My bones have the consistency of mashed potatoes. Summoning Alex on top of the ritual Clyde forced me to do last night weakened me. In all my years as a witch, I never used or rather abused magic the way I did within the past few days.