Fates (5 page)

“No. There are many of you,” she'd explained.

“Where are they? Why can't I see them?”

Miranda had smiled. “They're all around, but you can't see them because they blend in. That's what they're meant to do—to live among humans as one of them. And that's what you're meant to do from now on, too.”

Corinthe could still remember how those words had washed over her consciousness like an icy wave: exiled here, in this foreign, terrible world full of obscene noises and blasts of light.

Only the stars in the sky were the same. The stars remained constant in every alternate world, the same constellations dancing across the darkened sky. It had always fascinated Corinthe to watch them move. When she was a Fate, she could commune with the Unseen Ones simply by standing at the river of knowledge and asking a question with her heart. She had asked them once if the sky moved or if Pyralis did. The answer had come back to her in silent pulsing waves:

We exist nowhere and everywhere; therefore, we move with all and none.

The statement felt so profound that Corinthe had spent endless energy trying to make sense of it, trying to find the beginning and the end of the universe in her mind.

She knew such thoughts were pointless, though; there were infinite realms in the universe, all connected by one membrane: the Crossroad. She'd been through it once and it had nearly torn her apart.

She finished undressing and slid into a soft pink robe. Silently, she padded back out to the kitchen, where Miranda now worked over a pot of steaming water, humming. Miranda always hummed when she was lost in a task or deep in thought. Next to her, on the table, were several crumpled ticket stubs, which Corinthe recognized vaguely as belonging to the city's transportation systems. That meant Miranda had been riding again.

“Why do you ride the buses?” Corinthe asked suddenly. She had always wanted to know, but Miranda hardly ever answered a question directly.

Miranda didn't look up. “You never know where an opportunity will arise.”

“Opportunity for what?” Corinthe asked.

“For anything and everything,” Miranda said with a smile.

Corinthe shook her head. Miranda had strange habits. She'd been known to ride around on the city buses for hours, speaking with humans. Corinthe had tried this once, hoping she might come into contact with other Executors. But it had forced her to interact with humans—and talking to them had proved too confusing. Miranda, however, seemed invigorated after these outings. Corinthe had never understood why. Perhaps it was like Corinthe's interest in clothing—unexplainable, a fluke, a small bit of Humana that appealed to her.

Corinthe drew a bath, as hot as she could stand it. The water turned her skin pink, and she scrubbed her whole body carefully: between her toes, under her fingernails, behind her ears. Death had a way of clinging to skin, and Corinthe hated the way it felt—like her whole body was wrapped up in a cold, clammy grip.

Later, as Corinthe sat on her bed, towel drying her long hair, Miranda came in without a sound and set a steaming cup on the nightstand. She moved behind Corinthe on the bed and began to run a comb gently through her tangled waves. Miranda's fingers brushed over her scalp as she worked the sections into a neat braid.

Corinthe missed the way her hair would wind itself daily into a long, perfect braid in Pyralis. Somehow, she could never seem to tame the wild mane here in this world.

“It's getting harder to remember,” Corinthe admitted.

Miranda didn't ask what or why. She just squeezed Corinthe's shoulder tenderly, stood up, and left her alone with her thoughts.

Corinthe pulled on her favorite pajamas and lay back on the bed. This was the closest she came to actual sleep, something neither she nor Miranda actually needed—not like humans did, anyway. The bed was simply a place where she liked to sit and remember.

It was here that the memories of Pyralis resurfaced—mossy, dimly lit, sweet, like the gardens themselves.

The longing rose up, threatened to choke her.

Corinthe blinked her eyes open. The ceiling was strangely blurry.

“I'm ready to go home,” she whispered.

The room was silent.

Corinthe closed her eyes and tried again to picture Pyralis Terra. But this time, instead, she saw a pair of brown eyes gazing at her, and felt the single skating touch of a hand, like a butterfly's wing against her shoulder.

T
he party was in full swing by the time Luc arrived. He knew Karen would be pissed. He'd tried calling her, but she was obviously screening his calls.

After he got off his shift at the boatyard, he'd come home to change, only to find out his dad hadn't bothered shopping that afternoon. There was nothing in the fridge except some mustard and beer. And the old, cracked cookie jar where they kept extra money was almost empty.

Thankfully, Luc had been paid, and his shift money would cover something for dinner. Jas was already too skinny—and Dad, well, he'd just head down to the bar and forget he needed to eat. So Luc walked to a nearby convenience store and picked up some microwavable sandwiches and a couple of Twix.

Jas, of course, still refused to go to Karen's with him. She had said she was going to stay home, bum out on the couch, and eat the Twix he gave her. He'd reminded her: Absolutely no going out. No T.J. No parties.

Definitely no parties.

The Mission Creek Yacht Club had rules against boat parties, noise levels, and maximum capacity—but Karen's parents were founding members, and exceptions were made.

The brightly lit houseboat was moored at the end of a private pier, and it was bigger than most people's real houses. It had three decks and a hull of gleaming chrome. Even though he was late, Luc walked slowly, enjoying the feel of the ocean breeze on his skin, the view of the thousands of stars glittering in the night sky like shattered bits of ice.

Cassiopeia, Centaurus, Corona Borealis.

Voices and bursts of laughter punctuated the night air. A strong hip-hop beat vibrated through the wooden gangway, buzzing up through Luc's feet as he crossed onto the boat from the pier.

Heat lamps had been arranged all around the deck, and the air was artificially warm, despite the breeze coming off the bay.

“Ahoy, matey!” someone called out from the roof deck as Luc shouldered his way through the crowd.

He looked up and saw a very drunk guy in a captain's hat leaning way too far over the deck. Just when it looked like he might tumble over, several hands pulled him back and he disappeared into the crowd. Saul Tompson. Life of the party. Total dumbass.

“The Duke is in the house!” Tyler shouted, appearing out of nowhere. He gripped Luc's hand and bumped his shoulder. “You ready for our five a.m. weight-training session on Monday, Your Highness?”

After Luc led the soccer team to their first shutout victory last year, the guys had started calling him Luc the Duke. The nickname stuck, and when he made captain this year, Luc found he liked being held up on that royal pedestal. It kept his head in the game—helped him to focus. Most of the time, anyway.

“Hell no.” Luc took the beer Ty offered. He could use a bit of a buzz tonight. “This is why I hate losing.”

“Well, maybe if our
star forward
actually kicked the ball into the goal  … ,” Tyler said, grinning.

“And maybe if our
star goalie
actually stopped one once in a while  … ,” Luc fired back. The truth was, he had been distracted. He had missed an easy goal and his shot had gone way wide to the left, not even tempting the keeper to make a save. Everyone on the field had actually stopped and stared. Luc rarely missed—he couldn't
afford
to miss, not when there were always college scouts dropping by practice.

Not when he was already in the doghouse with Coach.

Two weeks ago, Luc had pushed a member of a rival soccer team. Coach wouldn't listen when Luc argued that the guy had gone straight for his
ankle,
not the ball, when Luc was about to take a shot. Coach had simply been pissed that Luc lost his cool and had benched him for the rest of the game.

No more fighting, no more screwups, or else Luc would get booted off the team for good.

He needed to play soccer.

A soccer scholarship was his best hope of actually getting into—and being able to pay for—college. Plus, it was the only part of school he was actually good at.

“Duke! Duke! Duke!” a chorus of voices yelled, and three more players from the team pushed their way over.

“Hey, man, Karen was looking around for you about a half hour ago,” Jake said. He was the closest thing to a best friend Luc had. “She didn't look too happy.”

Luc heaved a sigh. Great. Another night of fighting. Just when he was starting to relax.

“Guess I should go and face the music,” he said, tipping the bottle back and draining the last of the beer.

“You need a longer leash,” Tyler said.

“Whatever, Finnegan. Becky's on the warpath, so I wouldn't be talking too much trash,” Jake said to Tyler.

Tyler's girlfriend, Becky Waller, slid up behind Tyler just then and wrapped her arms around his waist. She was tiny, and blond, and together she and Tyler looked perfect: golden and all-American, like something out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

Becky was shorter than Karen and had bigger boobs, which, Luc couldn't help noticing, were barely harnessed by her stretchy pink top tonight. But Karen had confidence that Becky didn't have, and it made her sexier.

“Sorry, guys,” Becky said, giggling. She was already slurring her words a little. “I'm stealing your goalie for a while.”

She shrieked when Tyler leaned down and grabbed her around the waist, swinging her over his shoulder. He strode over to the railing.

“Who'll give me twenty bucks to toss her in?” he yelled.

“I'll give you fifty
not
to!” Becky shouted, kicking and giggling.

“A hundred!” someone shouted.

A small crowd gathered and the wager grew bigger by the second.

“Wait!” Becky shouted. She arched up and whispered something in Tyler's ear. He spun around and set her down, where she wobbled on her high heels. Ty grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling.

“Gentlemen, I've been made an offer I can't refuse,” he said, grinning widely.

Luc felt a sudden surge of envy. It was so easy with Ty and Becky—they even kind of
looked
the same.

What had Karen said about tonight? She might have a surprise for him. He knew he should feel excited—he
was
excited—but he also felt weirdly guilty, as though Karen had spent a lot of money on a present he didn't totally want.

Luc started for the stairs. Karen liked to be in the thick of it all, so she was probably waiting upstairs on the roof deck.

A huge group of people stood around, laughing and dancing to the beat thumping out of the surround-sound speakers. Paper lanterns were strung around the railing of the upper deck, bathing the roof in a soft yellow light.

Karen never threw just any party. The beer they were drinking was actually good, and cold, not just some Coors Light that had been shoved in someone's duffel bag. There was liquor, too, all top-shelf, and the lights were just dim enough. Karen would never do anything half-assed.

She was predictable, but that was exactly what he liked about her. She grounded him, kept him focused in the right direction.

Luc smiled and nodded at random people as he pushed his way through the crowd. And then, out of nowhere, he got cornered by Hillary Greer.

Shit.

“Hey, Luc,” she practically purred in his ear. She pushed her chest against his arm and leaned in as close as she could get.

Luc could smell cherries and vodka on her breath.

“Uh, hi, Hil. What's up?” Luc tried to edge his way past her, but she clamped a hand on his arm.

He'd made out with her last year at a party after the team had won states. In an uncharacteristic Luc moment, he'd gotten blind drunk on tequila shots. Turned out Hillary was one of those really pretty girls who was also really freaking crazy.

She texted him at all hours of the night, cornered him at school, and finally bought herself a dozen roses on Valentine's Day and told everyone they were from him.

The guys thought it was hilarious and showed up in the locker room with roses the next day, claiming Luc had sent them.

He'd had to put his foot down with Hillary after that, and he half expected to find a dead animal nailed to his door when he told her that there was nothing going on between them and she needed to stop.

She seemed to take it well enough, but he tried to avoid her at school just in case. Then he met Karen, and Hillary was forgotten. Except right now, she was hanging on his arm in a
very
low-cut shirt and it was hard to even remember his own name.

“So, cool party, huh?” Hillary asked.

“Karen knows how to throw a good one,” he said pointedly. At his girlfriend's name, Hillary made a face.

“You're still with her?” She ran a red-tipped nail up his arm and twirled her finger in the hair lying on the back of his neck. “Bummer.” The word washed across his ear, hot and breathy.

He took a step away from her, disengaging his arm. “Have fun.”

On his way across the deck, he grabbed another beer out of a huge cooler filled with ice and bottles. Hillary was psycho-killer crazy, but seeing her—feeling her near him—had made his body light up.

Why couldn't he just get his shit together? Be happy with Karen? She was funny and smart and into him. Her skin smelled like raspberries, she always matched her bra to her underwear, and she had a tiny, adorable freckle to the left of her belly button.

And she threw killer parties.

He'd chugged the beer, but it wasn't working. His mood was tanking quickly. He felt an elbow in his side, and someone knocked into him from behind. He turned around, unconsciously balling his hands into fists. Ricky Semola, the class president, grinding some girl Luc didn't recognize. She looked about five minutes away from puking, though. Her short dress seemed to have gotten caught in her thong, and Ricky pulled out his iPhone and snapped a picture.

“Nice, huh?” he said, showing Luc the screen.

Without thinking, Luc grabbed the phone and tossed it over the opposite railing before Ricky could react.

“What the hell, man?” Ricky yelled.

“Oops.” Luc shrugged. Ricky glared at him, and Luc stared back, raising his eyebrows. He knew he would crush Ricky in a fight—and Ricky knew it, too, because he backed off, muttering under his breath. A freshman girl had managed to disentangle her friend's dress, and was half propping her up. Luc was about to tell them both to go home when a couple tucked away in the corner caught his eye.

A girl with long blond hair braided nearly to her waist stood with her back to him. Something about her—her back, the messy braid—struck Luc as familiar, and he felt a small thrill go up his spine. She was talking to Mike Ditson, a junior basketball player and first-class asshole. Judging by the way Mike was frowning, something big was going down.

Maybe he was getting dumped.

That thought made Luc smile.

Mike nodded to her and said something else before turning and disappearing down the stairs. The girl stayed where she was, staring out over the bay, her shoulders rigid.

Wisps of her hair kept coming loose from her braid. She reached up to smooth them down. He could see her long, graceful fingers from where he stood, but there was no polish on her nails. All the girls he knew wore it, even Jas.

It was strangely compelling to see bare nails.

She moved closer to the railing and leaned out a little. The silk wraparound skirt she had on billowed around her legs. She smoothed it down over her hips and he forgot everything—what to think, what to say, how to breathe.

Everything about her was amazing. The way she tilted her head to the side, like she was listening for something. The curve of her neck right at the shoulder, a spot he wanted desperately to touch.

Someone jostled him from behind, breaking his train of thought. God, what the hell was he doing? What the hell was he
thinking
of doing?

Karen. He had to find Karen. He took a long drink of beer.

He was tired of being alone tonight.

He glanced back at the railing, but the girl was gone.

He headed downstairs to the hold. Hardwood floors gleamed in the light of a dozen candles, and softer music played against the background of the thumping bass from above.

Lily, one of Karen's best friends, was leaning against the gleaming chrome sink, talking animatedly to another girl with identically tan skin, blond hair, and the look of someone who spent most of her life on vacation.

“So the next time you go to the Vineyard, you
have
to check out this new art nouveau coffee shop that makes the most to-
die
-for cappuccino. You seriously can't get anything like it here.”

Luc barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Have you seen Karen?” he asked.

Lily swung around to face him, her high ponytail swinging around her head like a pendulum. Sparkly blue makeup covered her narrowed eyelids. “Why would she want to see you after you
ditched
her last night? That makes, what, twice in the last two weeks? Way to be a boyfriend, Luc.”