Fates (7 page)

There was little traffic on Marina Boulevard, and after a few minutes, he slowed to a walk. His lungs hurt, as if someone were squeezing them. The image of Karen and Mike swirled around in his head. Weirdly, he didn't feel mad anymore. He felt strangely detached, as if he were watching a movie from someone else's life. Already he regretted swinging at Mike.

Luc jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried across the street, cutting down Baker. Ahead, the lights from the Palace of Fine Arts reflected across the lagoon.

The place always felt peaceful to him. He and Jas used to go there a lot when they were younger. With Mom. Luc hadn't been back since she left. His mother had loved the rotunda. She said it was a magical place. Jasmine would sit curled up in her lap, wide-eyed and silent, as she told stories about fairies and knights and beautiful princesses rescued in the nick of time.

After their mother left, Luc had stopped believing.

There was no such thing as happily ever after.

T
he Messenger was nestled in the palm of Corinthe's hand. Once outside, on the safety of the deck, she released it. It flew up and hummed past her, its flickering glow fading into darkness. It would make its way back to the lagoon to deliver the message: another destiny fulfilled. Corinthe leaned over the polished wooden railing of the lower deck and watched Luc until he disappeared into the darkness. She felt … troubled. Was that the word? Was that the
feeling
?

Humans, she thought, didn't understand that they were simply parts of a much vaster plan. Karen was fated to fall in love with someone else; Corinthe wished she could have explained it to the boy, Luc, so he would understand.

This had been an easy task—so easy, in fact, Corinthe wondered why this particular fate had required the aid of an Executor. Corinthe had sought out Mike at the party and encouraged him to act on his feelings toward Karen. He had hesitated, sure that Karen already had a boyfriend. It took a persuasive conversation and one small lie to convince him otherwise.

Karen had been easier to sway. Her doubts had obviously been there even before Corinthe intervened.

“Where is he now?” Corinthe had asked, widening her eyes, imitating a look of
surprise
and
concern
(Was it concern? Or was it caring?) when Karen mentioned her boyfriend.

Mike and Karen had done the rest.

She grabbed a crystal flute of champagne and quickly shouldered her way out of the crowd. People were whispering and giggling, and several times she heard his—Luc's—name. It made her unaccountably
angry
—that was a word, and a feeling, she knew.

Humans concerned themselves with so much that didn't matter, with so much they had no stake in. Why?

As a Fate, she and her sister Fates had lived in perfect harmony. Each had a task and a role. They were like threads in a large tapestry. Each individual strand was insignificant, but together they made something whole and beautiful. That was the essence of Pyralis: balance, equilibrium. As an Executor, her job was equally clear: do as the Messengers instructed.

That was the beautiful thing about the universe…it was a vast mechanism, full of a billion tiny spinning parts, all of them moving in tandem, like one enormous clock with a vast pendulum that ticked back and forth between night and day, death and life.

And yet, the strange sensation crept through her even as she struggled to put a name to it. The urge to run after the boy, Luc, made her muscles tense. She wanted to know he would be okay. She wanted to comfort him in some way.

She had to take several deep breaths before she could relax. Her job was done. She was one step closer to going home, so why couldn't she just be happy and celebrate?

She took a long drink of the champagne as she made her way off the gangplank, enjoying the cool fizz of the liquid in her throat and the feel of the rough, still-warm planks underneath her feet. There were very few benefits to being exiled in Humana, but one of them was this: the vast collection of surfaces and sensations, the sting of new rain and the smooth bite of gravel. She remembered how the first time she'd ever had a drink of ice water it had brought a blinding pain to her head, directly behind her eyes—but it had made her laugh at the same time.

She turned in the direction the boy had gone, telling herself that she was not looking for him—only heading down to the water, where she could sit in the sand and watch the stars.

Lucas.

A nice human name—comfortable and rough at the same time, like the old blanket she used in her rooms underneath the rotunda. For ten years she'd been dwelling in this world, executing fates as the Unseen Ones willed, but none of the humans had made her feel this way before. What was different this time?

She had remembered the boy from the accident as soon as she'd seen him. Tasks rarely intertwined. At first, she thought surely something had gone wrong.

But something had rooted her in place, made it difficult to leave his side. She discovered that he was …
funny.
Humor was another human invention she still barely understood, but the boy had made her laugh, as she had that day when the ice water first slid down her throat and she had a sudden image of stars exploding behind her eyes.

She'd interacted with boys before over the course of her years in Humana. But it was work, duty, nothing more. Brief moments of contact: a push at the right moment, a whispered word, a communicated secret. And she had never actually spoken with a boy—not about anything important. Lucas had asked her about stars, almost as if he knew. …

He was different—he looked at
her
differently, too, as if he could see something behind her eyes.

When his arm almost brushed hers as he looked out onto the water, she had felt those electric sensations again, as she had at the scene of the accident when he had leaned in close to unbuckle her seat belt. In all her time in Humana, no one had affected her like that. What were the chances that she would see him twice in the span of two days?

The Unseen Ones guided everything in the universe. There was no chance. There was no coincidence, either.

Corinthe's hand still tingled from where she had touched him, not an unpleasant feeling at all. Luc had been funny and smart and nice to look at: His strong, lean body and handsome face. And that smile.

She had wondered before—about the woman at the flower market who had fallen in love with an older man on a bicycle, or the small boy with freckles who Corinthe had helped reunite with his mother—but she had known, instinctively, that she must never give in to the instinct to
know.
Knowing was for the Unseen Ones.

But Luc was different. She wanted to see him again. She had to. After she had checked to make sure he was okay, her success—her duty—would feel complete.

That was her excuse for pulling the knife free from its sheath. As she made her way toward the beach, she used the sharp tip to prick her finger.

Blood welled up from the small wound on her pointer finger. She squeezed until a single drop of blood fell into the glass half filled with champagne, then moved the glass in small circles until the liquid, now stained a faint pink, rolled around in the glass.

The surface went from clear to reflective, like a tiny mirror. An image wavered across its surface; then a boy materialized.
The
boy. He walked alone along a darkened street. The glow of streetlights illuminated his downturned face. Every few minutes he looked up, his face momentarily visible—the set of his jaw, the dark eyes, and full lips—before hair obscured his face again. She saw him stop in front of an old apartment building and fumble with his keys. Corinthe overturned the liquid in the glass, letting it run into the sand.

He was okay.

She let the glass fall from her fingers into the water at the edge of the planks and strapped the knife back in place. She was exhausted. The physical strain of performing her tasks drained her energy too fast. Despite her success, Corinthe desperately wanted to recharge. Weakness scared her. She had never known weakness in Pyralis. Only peace and contentment. Not happiness, exactly, but even better: the absence of unhappiness.

The water lapped gently against the piles under her feet, and she slipped her shoes off. A tiny trickle of energy seeped up between the cracks in the rocks. The water would provide her enough strength to get back to the rotunda and then some.

She walked faster along the jagged rocks that lined the water, then lifted the edges of her skirt and started to run when she hit the main bay. Her feet flew, barely making a sound, and she could feel the sparkling earrings bounce against her neck.

The rocks came to an end and Corinthe leapt off toward the water ten feet below, arms wide, practically flying through the air, letting the colorful skirt ripple around her. She found herself laughing. Away from all the humans she could
think,
could focus on why she had to do these things.

It was all to get home. Back to her sister Fates singing in the twilight air, back to flowers that wove themselves into crowns and butterflies the color of moonlight.

She landed in a patch of beach grass, which pushed up out of the sandy dirt like long, sun-bleached hair. She jogged a few more steps before stopping at the edge of the water. The air was still and silent, the ocean ink dark. Off in the distance was the Golden Gate Bridge, lit vividly against the darkness. From this distance, the cars were no more than tiny specks of light, blinking in and out.

Corinthe set her worn purple ballerina flats on the beach and stepped into the water, letting the cold liquid lap at her feet. The stinging ocean water bit into her toes, and she soon moved back a few feet, onto the shore.

She sank to the ground, pulled her knees to her chest, and dug her toes into the gritty sand. The air blowing off the bay smelled raw, a mix of salt and night.

She had lied to Luc earlier. She did have a favorite star. The North Star. The guiding star.

She wasn't prepared when he asked her that question. No one, she realized, ever really spoke to her besides Miranda. She had felt that answering him honestly would be too intimate. Yet she almost had. She wanted to share it with him. Desperately, in fact.

Which was what kept her silent.

She began to stitch from the sky, feeling her way up and out, but the energy thrown from stars was too great—it burned, closing her out. Before she could disconnect, a flash of light exploded behind her eyes and pain seared her body.

Corinthe jerked back with a cry and landed hard on her back, the connection severed. The air left her body and she gasped, struggling to breathe. Over her head, a shooting star streaked across the darkness, followed by three more in random succession.

Her breath came out in harsh bursts as she sat up. Too close. There was a dark, acidic taste in her mouth: The taste of chaos, randomness, bursts of energy. Comets that tore through space, headed toward ultimate destruction, untamed and unpredictable. Free Radicals.

Whenever there was an aberration in the universe's delicate scheme, whenever the balance was disrupted, Free Radicals were born, like spontaneous explosions. Set off into space to float forever, they were enemies of order, the sole aspects of the universe that the Unseen Ones could not control. Like stars tearing across the sky, they were instruments of chaos and destruction and refused to remain fixed.

Once a Free Radical attached itself to another being, it would alter and morph the predetermined path of its host—just like vines that snaked themselves around vast trees, piercing the bark, feeding off its strength, slowly rendering the tree hollow and, eventually, toppling it.

Just then, Miranda materialized from the dark, as though emerging straight from the foam of the bay. She folded herself neatly into the sand, next to Corinthe, tucked her long white dress around her legs, and idly drew lines in the dirt between them.

Corinthe watched her Guardian from the corner of her eye. She seemed tense, on edge. She wouldn't stop moving.

“Is everything okay?” Corinthe asked.

Miranda turned to look at her. Then Corinthe realized she was wrong. Miranda wasn't on edge. She was happy. More than happy. What was the word?
Exhilarated.

“Everything is exactly as it should be,” Miranda said with a slow smile. “Your task has been completed, I assume?”

“Of course.” It had been ten years since Corinthe's exile as an Executor, and not once had Corinthe failed to complete an assignment. “And
your
night? What were you up to this time … more trolley rides?”

Miranda's eyes flashed, but her smile did not fade. “My night went exceptionally well. And I have good news for you.” Like a magician pulling cards, she produced a marble with a flourish. “This is your last task, Corinthe. And then you can go home.”

“The
last
one?” Shock and joy swelled in her chest. Would she really be allowed to return to her home now? “Are you sure? How do you know?”

Miranda's smile became more playful. “I have my ways. You trust me, don't you?”

Corinthe nodded. Trust was another human concept, a concept she had never known or particularly needed before Humana. Miranda had
taught
her to trust.

The marble was cool in Corinthe's hand. She thought it felt even heavier than usual. She gazed at it in the soft moonlight, could see the shadows inside it shifting, resolving. The marble seemed particularly cloudy, which meant the fate had been more disturbed by chance than most. Whatever the job was, it would need her full focus.

Inside the marble's swirling dark colors, a hand became visible. Corinthe's hand—it had to be; because it held her knife. She squinted and held the marble closer. The figure in front of the knife was backlit by the rising sun, featureless.

Though she could not see a face, one thing was clear.