Fates (9 page)

W
ent to the Marina. Lost something.

Luc stared at the note he had found tossed carelessly on his pillow. He tried to keep himself from screaming, or hitting something. He'd forbidden Jasmine to go out. He'd made her swear. And she'd ignored him.

What the hell was so important at this hour?

The apartment had been dark when he let himself in. No surprise there. His dad was snoring on the couch. No surprise there, either. Luc couldn't remember the last time his dad had mobilized himself to make it to his bedroom instead of just passing out in front of the TV.

For a long time, Luc had hoped that one day he would snap out of it and start being a father again. Then, sophomore year, after Luc had put a fist through a locker—to be fair, he'd been swinging for Drew O'Connell's head; Drew had been spreading rumors that thirteen-year-old Jasmine had given him a striptease in the Taco Bell parking lot—he'd been forced to see a therapist for six months.

The guy was a total prick—once Luc had even caught him sleeping during a session, and his breath always made the office smell like tuna fish—but one thing Dr. Asswipe had taught him was this:
Give up the wish.

His dad would never snap out of it.
Give up the wish.
His mom wasn't coming back to life.
Give up the wish.

He would always feel alone.
Give up the wish.

Luc was on his own if he wanted to find Jas. Damn it. He punched her number into his phone and waited. When it rang and went to voice mail, he hit
call end.

There was no way he'd sleep without knowing if Jas was okay. He crumpled the paper in his fist and stormed back to his room. A dark blue varsity soccer sweatshirt hung over a chair, and he yanked it over his head. He jerked the laces of his boots tight and then stood up, pulling a Giants cap down around his shaggy black hair.

Why did she have to go to the Marina at three in the morning? The only people who hung out there at this hour were dealers and addicts.

She had probably gone to see T.J. If she got messed up tonight …

Luc was going to kill him. Luc was going to kill
her.

As if his night hadn't been messed up enough already.

Luc tried Jasmine's cell again and swore aloud when it went straight to voice mail. Of course. Why should tonight be any different? Jasmine was always full of excuses.

Just like their mother.

Training made it easy to run the four miles to the Marina; he cut through the Presidio and made it in record time. Shoving his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie, he headed up to the Marina. Every creeping, creaking noise set him on edge. He could take care of himself in a fight, but he'd be at a huge disadvantage in the dark, between unlit buildings.

Three more blocks down and the buildings thinned out. Across Marina Boulevard, Luc could see lights reflecting off the water. Traffic was nonexistent this time of morning, and he jogged to the entrance of the harbor.

A breeze blew off the ocean, and Luc gulped in a lungful of fresh salty air. The quiet was broken only by the occasional metallic clang of the moorings.

During the day, tourists crowded onto shiny sailboats for gourmet picnic lunches and expensive wine tours of the bay. People packed the boardwalk and the shops along the water's edge. Kids licked melting ice cream cones while joggers darted between families pushing strollers. Everything was loud and bright and full of excitement. Alive.

He remembered he had taken Jas here when they were kids; a passing carnival had set up camp at the Marina. They'd skateboarded together through the crowds, pissing everybody off, laughing like maniacs. At the shooting gallery, Jas had spun suddenly and aimed the water straight for his hat. It had nearly taken out his eye, but man, it was funny.

It was the first time she'd laughed since their mom left.

So much had changed since that day.

And now, just before dawn, the Marina had changed, too.

This wasn't the yacht club where Karen's parents moored. It was darker, more dangerous. His footsteps echoed loudly. Security lights twisted the shadows into spindly, inky fingers. Addicts huddled under the piers. The ones in the throes of a high weren't too bad. It was the ones coming down, aching for that next fix, who were dangerous. More animal than human. Every time a chain clanged against metal or a boat bumped the pier, Luc's shoulders tensed.

A thin fog hung over the Marina, curling around the deserted buildings. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt and ducked his head. The air was thick with salt. The Marina was huge. He had no idea how he would find Jas, but he refused to leave before he had.

He caught a glimpse of someone huddled in the doorway darkness near the water. A haggard face looked up at him. A woman. Luc felt his throat go dry. A frantic pulse beat in his temple. When the woman looked up and hissed at him, baring yellowed teeth, she looked almost like a wild animal.

His mother was long dead, but he couldn't stop imagining her like that.

God, this had been the suckiest night ever.

First Karen, then Jas.

He headed down toward the first slip, scanning the moored boats, all of them bobbing almost imperceptibly in the water. When he reached the end of the pier, the vast bay spread out before him, the stars reflected on its smooth, glassy surface. He looked up by habit, to the northeast sky, until he found Andromeda, partly obscured by low-hanging clouds.

Jas's favorite constellation gave him a small measure of comfort. He felt closer to her by just having it in his sights.

There were seven long slips, and it took almost two hours to walk up and down each, peering into darkened boats that bobbed on the water. His eyelids felt like sandpaper scratching across his eyeballs, but adrenaline kept his feet moving across the battered wood of the docks.

By the time he got to the last slip, the sky to the east was just starting to lighten at the horizon. At the edge of the last pier, Luc paused and stared into the dark where three sailboats bobbed gently on the surface. He thought he saw a shadow move across the largest boats.

“Jasmine,” he called.

No one answered. He stepped onto the deck of the first boat, the smallest. He grabbed the rail to keep his balance when it gently swayed from side to side because of his weight.

He took several small steps toward the cabin. Thank God the Marina was empty. The last thing he needed was to get busted by the cops for breaking and entering.

A groan pierced the silence, and Luc froze. All thoughts of sleep vanished in a rush of fear.

“Jas.” His voice was swallowed up by the silence. Even the waves seemed to have stopped moving.

A tremendous crack splintered the air. He barely had time to register the mast flying toward his head before he leapt out of the way. Over the railing. Ice-cold water closed over his head, and for a terrifying moment, Luc wasn't sure which way was up.

Struggling, he kicked his legs as hard as he could, twisting around, desperate to find the surface, choking on the salty water. His clothing turned leaden, sucking him under. His feet hit the rocky bottom, and he shoved hard, bursting to the surface and dragging in a deep breath of air.

Coughing up seawater, he swam toward the pier and used it to guide him toward shore until his feet touched bottom. When he was able to stand in the waist-deep water, he looked back at the boat. The sun peeked over the horizon and chased the mist away, revealing the snapped mast, which had crashed across the deck where he'd stood only moments before.

Christ, I could have been killed.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, clearing his head.

The water glittered like a million diamonds, sparkling in the first stray rays of new daylight. How could it look so peaceful when he'd come within inches of death just moments ago? He stood up, his waterlogged sweatshirt iron-heavy. He took it off and tied it around his waist.

Masts didn't just snap like that, like toothpicks. The back of his neck prickled. An accident. A stupid wrong-place, wrong-time near disaster. It had to be.

The icy water lapped around his shins and thighs, and he shivered. If he didn't get out of the water, he'd freeze.

Before he had a chance to turn around, someone slammed into his back, plunging him face-first back under the water. He fought hard, twisting free, using the ground to push himself up and out of the attacker's grasp.

The moment he broke the surface, he spun, fists up and ready. He blinked hard to clear the stinging seawater from his eyes, but when he did, he had to blink again.

Corinthe.

She'd changed her clothes. She wore faded jeans that hugged her hips, a simple black T-shirt, and a fitted cotton hoodie, unzipped and now soaked through. He couldn't keep his eyes from running up and over her body.

Light caught on the dangling crystal earrings she still wore from the party, and they drew his gaze to her neck. To that curve where it met her shoulder. He swallowed hard. She'd looked hot last tonight, but now, against the early morning sun, she was more than that. Otherworldly.

“You!” she gasped.
She'd
been the one attacking
him,
so why did she look so surprised?

“Christ,” he panted. He pushed his cap back off his face. “You almost—”

A knife flashed in her hand and she lunged at him. Before he could move, his back was pressed against an unyielding wooden pillar supporting the dock, and her knife pushed against his throat. She used her body to hold him there, and he didn't dare swallow for fear it would force the blade into his skin.

Heat radiated between their bodies, a startling contrast to the icy water swirling around them. He realized his hands were gripping her waist, holding on to her as if they were about to kiss. He watched the black of her eyes slowly eat up the pale irises. Her breathing came out in bursts of warm air that tickled his chin.

She moved a fraction of an inch closer. Her lips parted. All he had to do was move just a little bit and … God, he had to be crazy. She had a knife to his throat and all he could think about was how her lips would taste.

Insanity. It had to be.

But he wanted to kiss her more than anything right that second. Press his lips against the soft curve of her neck. He pulled her hips forward instinctively, molding them against his body.

Corinthe made a sound deep in her throat, and his pulse leapt. Fire raced through his veins.

She moved closer and the knife nicked his throat.

Luc grabbed her wrist.

“What the
hell
are you doing?” he asked, breathing hard. He tightened his grip and spun her arm around, pinning her with her back to his chest. She jammed her leg back and twisted her foot between his legs, hooking him on the ankle. When she twisted her body left and kicked out with her foot, Luc lost his balance.

Instead of letting her go, though, he took her down, under the water with him in a tangle of arms and legs. Corinthe kicked out and made contact with his shin, and even underwater, the jolt shot up his leg.

He fought to keep hold of her, and she fought harder to get away from him.

His lungs burned. The second his arms loosened, she was gone, and he surged above the water, gasping for air.

He wiped the water off his face and saw her a few feet away, poised to attack. Wet hair clung to her cheeks, and she was focused on his face. She held the knife casually, and it finally hit him: this was easy for her.

Self-preservation kicked in then, fierce and hot. She was trying to kill him. Clearly, she had lost her mind. Maybe the accident really
had
messed with her head. He lunged suddenly, grabbing the knife and driving his shoulder into her body. She stumbled backward, and he ran.

He sloshed through the shallows and scrambled over the rocks lining the shoreline. Once back on solid land, he tossed the knife as far as he could and sprinted across an empty parking lot. Water squelched in his boots, and his footsteps pounded loudly, echoing in the still dawn air.
Thud, thud, thud.

He could hear footsteps behind him, too, half as loud but twice as fast.

No way.

He looked over his shoulder. She followed him, too close for his comfort.

His wet clothes made it hard to move. There was no way he could keep running. Not fast enough, anyway. Already his breath was rasping in his chest; his heart felt as if it would explode.

Ten feet ahead of him was a line of run-down apartment buildings. He shoved the door of the closest one and was relieved that it swung open, practically popping off its hinges.

He took the rickety stairs two at a time, not sure where he was going. There must be a fire escape off the roof, or at least a room where he could lock the door. Corinthe must have lost her mind—or she was having some kind of a bad drug trip. The faster he got away from her, the better.

He ran without thinking. The stairs stopped and he burst through a door, onto the roof. His lungs burned as he gasped for air. The fire escape was on the far side of the roof, but the only part that remained was a small portion of the rail. The ladder, the steps—everything else had been dismantled or fallen away.