Ladon vaulted across the room and slammed Harold against the wall. “What happened to Daniel and Timothy was not my fault. They told me nothing! I had no idea that Les Enfants de Guerre had come for them.”
Rysa spasmed. Ladon felt it, a bit of sensing picked up from Dragon. He dropped Harold, his attention pulled back to her scent, her shape. He knelt again, stroking her arm.
“Harold.” Marcus beckoned for him to calm down. “Please get me a glass of water. And some for the young lady. She’s been thirsty since they left The Cities.” He stroked Rysa’s forehead, the melody of his past-seer playing through the room.
“But—”
Marcus’s past-seer flared and Ladon held in a wince.
“We all must follow the thread fate has set for us. Letting it upset you helps no one. Besides, she’s Mira’s daughter. Not Faustus’s. She means us no harm.” Marcus crinkled his nose.
Les Enfants, the War Babies as the Shifters called them, were destined to become the next Jani Prime. Their father, Faustus, Rysa’s uncle and Mira’s triad-mate, had groomed them as such for six centuries, to the annoyance of his sisters. Or so the rumors said.
“Mira never told her about her heritage. She has no idea who she is. Or what she can do.” Marcus waved at Harold. “Please get the water.” He leaned over Rysa. “Her mother vanished from her life tonight.”
Ladon tapped the edge of the cushion. “Mira—” He stopped speaking, wondering how to phrase what he needed to say. “Mira called her terrible things, Marcus. Accused her of being a monster.” Which Rysa wasn’t. “Then she touched an implosion.”
Marcus scoffed. “That is why she’s vanished so thoroughly. I see nothing of her. Not even a wisp of a trail.”
Ladon nodded. He’d seen Marcus track other Fates who thought themselves hidden. They’d been wrong.
Marcus shook his head. “Damned burndust will do permanent damage, Ladon-Human. Harm Mira’s heart and lungs.” He kneaded the knuckles of his right hand. “She submerged herself in their chaos. Risky.” He sat back, his face drawn. “So Mira of the Jani Prime hides.”
He laid his palm on Rysa’s forehead. “We had better wake the young lady.”
12
Quick and lovely music wafted to Rysa. The weave and warp of the universe vibrated with its notes. It sang, touching what-was.
“Rysa, can you hear me? Wake up, beautiful.” A pause. “She’s still not opening her eyes.”
“The vision calms.” The music of the past played through what-is. “I’ve never seen such power. She’s Prime, Ladon-Human. Oh—”
“Marcus!”
“I’m fine.”
A new voice: “I want you out of my house!”
“I said I’m fine.”
The music fatigued. It faltered, only a little, but enough that pain scratched at the delicate parts of Rysa’s mind.
New burning would soon flow in through a gash at the back of her mind, like cockroaches swarming through floorboards.
Her body thrashed and her eyes flew open. She sucked in air through a wide open mouth, her lungs filling to capacity. The world. The real world. No fire. She had to heal the gash. Heal, or—
“Hold still. Don’t hit anyone with those cuffs.”
She’d had a vision. The Cities burned. She saw it in the sky, on the underside of the clouds. The whole world burned. She hadn’t heard it, or felt it, or smelled the acid and smoke and ash she should have. But it popped into the back of her mind like the reflection of a television screen on a window.
She felt more confused than terrified.
Should she be screaming? Didn’t sociopaths act this way? Unfeeling in the face of horror? What was wrong with her?
But something did coil itself around her gut. Something causing fear. It felt separate, and small, as if little bugs had moved in under her mind. Then the feeling vaporized, like a bubble popping.
Or a Burner.
She truly was a subpar Fate. Terrible and stupid and she’d set the world on fire and not care.
She gulped, trying desperately to pull in her arms. Nothing moved even though her shoulders wrenched—
Dragon’s head descended from above, the side of his jaw and a cat-like eye inches from her nose. His talons wrapped around the metal engulfing her wrists.
He let go and her arms dropped, but her legs didn’t move.
“Are you okay?” Ladon’s hands gripped her knees.
His rich voice filled her with the strength. They’d get her through this. They’d make sure she was okay, no matter what happened. She blinked, realizing she was staring into his uncanny eyes.
But she’d burn the world. Set it on fire. She hiccupped, holding down the need to vomit.
She looked away.
“You were unconscious for a long time. It might take a moment to get your bearings.” Ladon glanced between her and an older man sitting in a chair next to the couch. “Correct?”
The man shifted and the fabric of the comfortable but modern chair whiffed against his clothes. “Yes.” He offered his hand. “I am Marcus, past-seer of the Draki Prime. It is good to meet you, Ms. Torres, daughter of Mira of the Jani.”
They didn’t know. Marcus was a past-seer and he didn’t read the burn burn burn that must be pouring off her soul like a chemical spill. He didn’t see it.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe, again, her God-awful hyperactivity made the world look worse than it was.
Ladon released her knees and she bent forward, holding her stomach. She sat on a chocolate-colored couch in a small but inviting living room. Soft sounds filtered in from outside. The remote cottage she’d awoken in looked like the mirror opposite of her home in Shoreview. She’d stepped through the looking glass into a comfortable corner of a world full of handsome men and brilliant beasts.
Men and a beast who could stand against anything.
Maybe she’d be okay.
She took Marcus’s still extended hand. His grip was firm, despite his swollen knuckles.
Swollen, like her mom’s.
“Do all Fates get rheumatoid arthritis?” she blurted out. What if that Burner concentrate in her mom’s body made it worse? Her mother would moan and throw up because the pain was so bad and—
Pressure flared behind her left eye and she flinched. The cuffs smacked her cheeks when she pressed her temples. Her mom had yelled at her. She’d done something stupid again, not paid attention, the child who bumbled through life and couldn’t even activate on the right talisman. And now look, she was going to set the world on fire!
Rysa Torres, the Burner-Fate. “Where’s my mom!” It came out too loud, but—
Ladon dropped onto the couch next to her, his arm curling around her shoulder. “We don’t know where she is and we won’t be able to track her until her body sheds the burndust in her system. So we take care of your safety first, okay? We make sure these uncontrolled visions stop. I think that’s what she’d want, anyway. Right?”
Behind her, Dragon nodded.
The Burners might eat her mom. “But…”
“We’ll get her back. I promise. She probably escaped and is sleeping it off under a tree right now.”
This man who had been mean to her earlier sat right next to her with his arm around her shoulder. He sat with their bodies parallel, though, like they were drinking buddies.
“One should never underestimate a Prime present-seer, even one crazy from dust.”
Behind them, Dragon snorted. Rysa picked up a distinct sense of affirmation.
She flopped under Ladon’s arm and against the couch. Tears started and she gritted her teeth, repressing another whimper. She’d be strong, for her mom, even though her world was disintegrating. Home, school, everything fell apart around her.
She felt like a toddler, terrified and alone in the grocery store because she’d lost her mommy. And now some weirdo with a flamethrower was chasing her through the aisles. “I see fire.” More gritting of her teeth, this time to repress a hiccup.
Ladon shrugged. “These particular Burners.” He plucked at his t-shirt and pulled it up to his nose. “The bastards smell terrible.”
Rysa snorted, the tiniest smile edging out from under her anxiety. At least they were confident men and not spazzes, like her. Ladon chuckled and smoothed a hair from her forehead.
She stiffened. She didn’t mean to, but such an intimate touch surprised her. Tom never touched her hair. Not once.
Ladon pulled back. Shock played across his face, followed by something she never expected to see—his shoulders slumping in disappointment. His gaze settled on the man standing behind Marcus. He didn’t look at her again.
At the house, he’d held her against his side. Picked her up and carried her out. So to him, touching her face must have been the most natural thing in the world. Though he’d been a jerk earlier and should have felt she wouldn’t appreciate it, natural or not.
“We’ll cut off those cuffs in the morning. Right, Harold?” Disappointment still knotted his shoulders. “And make you a talisman you can wear.” He still refused to look at her.
All she wanted to do was to apologize, though he should apologize to her.
Behind Marcus, Harold’s eyes hardened, drawing her attention away from Ladon. The tall man held a glass of water in each hand. Annoyance hummed from his coiled muscles as he offered one to Marcus and the other to her.
“That’s right. In the morning.” Scowling at Ladon, he adjusted the holster under his left arm. A gun poked out. A big gun.
“Thanks for the water.” Rysa’s throat grated like she’d swallowed sand. The water helped, despite Harold huffing like he’d shared his last drop with the Devil himself.
He leaned close to Marcus’s ear. “Don’t tax yourself.”
Marcus frowned. “I’m fine.” He nodded toward Rysa. “She has only the shirt on her back.”
Harold’s back stiffened. “What do you know about your family? Tell me the truth.” He pinched his lips together and poked out his chest. “I may not be Parcae but I can tell if you’re lying.”
Ladon’s arm snaked around her shoulder again. Dragon nudged the nape of her neck, his snout next to her ear. They shored up her strength, but Harold’s antagonism pressed on her like a weight. She didn’t know anything about the Jani. And the way he glared at her, it took all her self-control not to curl up on Ladon’s lap.
Harold grunted. “Just like a Jani.”
“Leave her alone.” Ladon’s arm tightened. He sounded like a cop, or a teacher, or maybe a general. He’d infused the authority of war into those three words.
Neither Ladon nor Dragon looked at her, but Ladon leaned forward. Dragon’s forelimb moved over the back of the couch and wrapped around her other side. They insulated her with a warmth completely the opposite of the ice she heard in Ladon’s voice—and of Harold’s bitterness.
“She doesn’t know anything. If she did, I would have seen it.” Marcus set down his glass. “And I didn’t. Yet someone saw you before you activated, young lady, even though Mira’s been hiding you. The events of your entire twenty years are muddled.” He inhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Timothy could do that. Stitch up the present so that a past-seer couldn’t read it. It takes considerable skill and willpower. But to hold it for twenty years? Your mother is formidable, Ms. Torres.” He shrugged. “Though we knew that already.”
“Then how do you know she isn’t lying?” The question hissed from Harold, low and menacing.
Marcus turned his head, his dark gray eyes more resigned than angry. “Because I am the past-seer of the Draki Prime, that is why. Even for the time I have left, I am better at what I do than any other Prime.” He pushed himself to standing. “Justinian would not have failed to hold the Empire if we had become his tribute. This—” He waved. “This all would have been Rome. All of it.”
Marcus teetered.
Harold grasped his arms. “Marcus, I’m sorry. I’m—”
“I can read the edges of your past, but only your aunt Ismene can undo the stitching.” Marcus pulled away from Harold and pointed at Rysa. “Everything around you is muddled. I cannot see the Jani.” He rubbed his temple. “I will try again in the morning.”
Ladon pulled his arm from behind Rysa and stood up, taking Marcus’s elbow. They whispered, Harold on the other side of Marcus glowering first at Ladon, then over his shoulder at Rysa.
Dragon touched Marcus’s shoulder. He nodded, then stood straight. “We do what we must, Ladon-Human,” he said.
Ladon looked at Rysa and grinned.
Smiles like that only crossed people’s faces right before they said things like “buck up” or “it could be worse” or “at least we have food to eat and a roof over our heads.”
“There’s a spare room upstairs.” Ladon pointed at the stairwell along the outer wall of the house, but didn’t say anything more.
Harold helped Marcus vanish into the gloom of the dark hallway behind the couch, glancing over his shoulder before the shadows took him.
13
Rysa sat on the edge of the huge bed in the center of the tiny room. Moonlight trickled in through the dormered window tucked into a corner of the little house.
When she brushed her fingers along the white-painted headboard, her seers flared, the image flickering on the outer edge of Rysa’s abilities: Dark hair and warm skin. The woman laid hands on Marcus and her touch helped for decades.
Rysa pulled back her hand. The past was more obvious than the present or the future. She distinguished it only because the people or the technology made it obvious. Otherwise, it looked the same as what-is and what-will-be.
Dragon wedged himself between her feet and the wall, his head draped over the blankets, next to her side. He kept his colors muted but bright enough she saw the furnishings clearly. The kaleidoscope of patterns dancing on his hide reflected off the dresser against the wall and the small chair in the corner.
“So it’s called Parcae sickness?” Rysa asked Dragon. Not rheumatoid arthritis. Something distinctly Fate attacked both Marcus and her mother.
Ladon had followed her up the stairs and she’d asked about it while he stood in the doorframe. She faked calm and he’d gone off, presumably to sleep. But she heard rattling and electronic noises coming from the porch swing below the window.
He’d let it slip that it struck Fates who’d lost a member—or members—of their triad, like Marcus had lost his brothers. Her mom’s knuckles were as swollen as Marcus’s, too. And her pain had been bad for many years. Did this mean her mother’s triad were dead?
They had to be. Her mom must be the only Jani Prime left. Maybe Rysa’s seers could show her the truth, but she didn’t know how to use them for simple questions like “What am I going to eat for breakfast?” much less complicated stuff about people she didn’t even know. And if she did see some aunt or uncle she didn’t know die, how would she know if it was in the past, present, or future? It all looked the same.
Dragon rolled toward Rysa, his patterns flowing in calming blues and greens, and puffed out a small flame.
A noise from the hallway caught her attention.
“I brought you a t-shirt and sweats.” Harold stood in the door holding a stack of clothes. He pointed at her wrists. “We’ll get those off tomorrow.”
He was being nice?
An apologetic smile jumped awkwardly across his face as he set the clothes on the foot of the bed. “Marcus scolded me for a full ten minutes.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t think. But if anyone can judge character, it’s a past-seer. He says you’re okay.”
She nodded and tried to smile back. “It’s alright.” He was only trying to protect Marcus.
He’d changed into street clothes but the gun still poked out from under his arm. “The sweats will be too big.” He shrugged again. “They’ll do until you get clothes that fit.”
; “Thanks.” She patted the t-shirt.
A micro-vision bounced through her mind’s eye, a sudden little squirm of one of the tentacles: The half-built house silhouetted against a sunset. Chainmail in a wooden crate. Army fatigues.
It dissipated as fast as it appeared. At least this time nothing burned. And it didn’t disorient. She breathed deep, thankful the vision hadn’t taken over.
Harold watched her from the foot of the bed. “You just had a vision, didn’t you?” He frowned and tapped the mattress.
“Can you feel it?” She sat up straight. “Ladon and Dragon can feel it. Will everyone know when it happens?” If she had an uncontrolled vision somewhere public, would all the passersby stop and stare? “What if someone calls the cops?”
Harold chuckled. “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?” He wiggled between the bed and Dragon to sit next to her. “Normals can’t feel seers, so don’t worry too much about it.”
“What are you? You’re not a Fate, but you were here when Marcus built the house.” She’d seen something she was pretty sure had happened before the invention of automobiles. The clothes all looked uncomfortable.
“I’m a normal.” He shrugged. “Mostly normal. A Mutatae made me like this.”
“Mutatae? Mutants? Like eye blasts and telekinesis?” Shifters were bad enough.
“No, no. Nothing like that. That’s silly, anyway.”
“No sillier than dragons.” She leaned against the beast when he snorted.
Harold scooted back on the bed. “True. The Mutatae call themselves Shifters now. Most can morph their bodies.”
“Oh, Ladon told me about them.” Parcae. Mutatae. “The Burners are called Ambustae, aren’t they?”
Harold nodded. “Yep.”
Which was why her mom called her the Ambusti Prime. She suspected the naming rules had little to do with Latin grammar and everything to do with Fate arrogance. Anything to make themselves sound grand and imposing.
Harold scratched Dragon’s eye ridge. “There’s only two Dracae, though. Right, Great Sir?”
Dragon snorted again and rubbed against Rysa. She’d sensed something about a sister. Something dark hidden so deep in the past her seer couldn’t find it.
Games of Fate (Fate ~ Fire ~ Shifter ~ Dragon #1) Page 9