Destiny Strikes (3 page)

Travis had more respect for his elders than to laugh off their superstitious belief systems. They relied on their bones and gut for many answers.

“I’ll be on the lookout for trouble. Thanks for the heads-up.” Travis nodded once at the insecure smile the old man managed as he glanced over his shoulder, shuffling away.

Travis’s hand settled on the butt of his service pistol. A cold shiver slid down his spine. Weird dreams about a mystery woman and lightning. Could what the old man shared be a coincidence?

Fallon woke to a ferocious headache. The room spun and pitched sideways as she sat up. The last thing her fuzzy brain remembered was something about Rick. She leaned her head, too heavy to hold upright, back against the sofa, waiting for the effects of her bender to wear off.

What was so damned important about Rick? “
Can’t get the damn name out of my head.”

She brought a hand up to press shaky fingers into lids, which scraped against her desert-dry eyes. Good thing the room was dark. “
Wait a minute.”
The TV was on before . . .
Huh
? She straightened from her slouch, scooted forward, and bumped into the low table divider between the sofa and cedar-wood entertainment center. Sharp pain erupted in the area below both knee sockets. Gritting her teeth, she rubbed the injured area trying to think.

After speaking with Michael earlier, she’d come inside, made a beeline straight for the liquor cabinet, where she grabbed three bottles of Gin and . . . Fallon grimaced. There should be a bottle of tequila around here somewhere. Skimming labels on several empty containers thrown haphazardly, she spotted a slim long neck with a label outlined in a gold leaf and black emboss lettering. Yep. An upended and empty bottle of Jose Cuervo lay on its side.

Hoping to shed a little more light on the damage she’d done yesterday, she felt around her for the remote. The seconds for the television to wake tested how bad her case of the dry mouth was. Judging by the way her tongue stuck to its roof, she needed moisture pronto.

The screen came alive with gaunt bodies, hollow eyes, and stiff muscled progress of flesh-eating people.
The Walking Dead
Marathon. She’d gotten crazy sloshed to episodes of Rick struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Cool.

She groaned, covering her face. She also remembered yelling at the screen for Rick to snap out of it and cease picking up the damned phone. A brain swimming in alcohol tended to focus on the stupidest shit.

Ungraceful in an attempt to rise, she saluted the Walkers wandering aimlessly outside the prison then shut the tube off.

On her way into the kitchen to find something to wash away the bad taste in her mouth, a shrill ringing made her cringe.

Like a buzz saw cutting into her skull. She snatched the phone out of its cradle and read the display. Almost four in the morning. A terse mental ‘
WTF’
collided with her brother’s “Hello.”

“Hey, sis. I’m sorry Michael’s orders were for you to stay behind.”

Despite Wallace’s many faults, which included a desire to live the carefree beach bum, surfer-dude lifestyle, and chalk it up to the element of water, he and she were closer than any other sibling was.

“Thanks.”

Fallon stopped suddenly. “How did you know I’d be here?” Her usual fits took her anywhere in the world until her siblings begged for her return.

Fielding the question, he said, “That’s not important. Do you want to hear what happened or not?”

“Whatever.”

Ten minutes later, Fallon bent over a porcelain sink and half-listened to Wallace recite locating and preventing another senseless death by the Sortaneph’s dismemberment.

“You know, killing one is always harder when you’re not around.”

The morose comment alleviated soreness over her abandonment.

Mumbling an occasional “uh-huh” and ignoring the haggard appearance in the mirror, she splashed water on her face. Sparks bounced off porcelain as she spat a mouthful of backwash.

After a couple of rinses, the gunky buildup inside her mouth cleared. “So, what’s the real reason for this call?” Drying her hands and she brought her hand up to do a breath check. Better.

Youth and vitality were assets locked into place with immortality, but they didn’t extend to the ‘stay fresh’ essential of day-to-day hygiene.

A sudden ominous note tainted Wallace’s usual happy-go-lucky voice. “Between the two of us, you know things have never been kosher when it comes to this family.” His pause gave room for dread to surface. “Well. I think our lives are about to get a little tougher.”

The need for another drink besieged her. Switching the light off behind her, she used the pale glow of dawn to light her way to the kitchen.

She swept mussed hair off her face, pulling at the strands in frustration. After yesterday’s inebriated state, wasn’t it like family to drive her to start all over?

Her nose wrinkled. Near the fridge, the remnant stench of charred toast, ruined toaster, and melted plastic from yesterday’s debacle made her nauseous. Damn. She’d burn sage if needed, later.

“I can’t hear you, Fallon,” Wallace said. “Why aren’t you answering? You’re not curious to whom in this family I’m referring to.”

Opening the stainless steel door, chill air swept over her viewing almost-bare fridge shelves. A lone bottle of wine beckoned. Despite her dislike of the stuff, she yanked the sparkling white out, and popped the cork.

“Okay. How do you see anything about our screwed-up lives getting worse?” Her throat worked as she guzzled the sweet fruity taste in one long swallow. In what her brothers referred to as one of many unladylike manners, she ran the back of her hand roughly over her pinched lips.

“We can’t keep sweeping this issue under the rug.”

She listened, slightly lightheaded. They knew her secret. On the other hand, maybe not.

“Gabriel is not going to stand for Rafael’s bullshit much longer. Sooner or later, we’ll be sent after him.”

Her chest muscles squeezed. Air struggled to make its way past her windpipe. The barstools at the island in the middle of her kitchen never seemed so far away. She stumbled over taking a seat. Her slack fingers released their grip. The bottle’s
thunk
against a black inlaid silver granite top echoed.

“Think about it,” Wallace said. “At first, we didn’t know what was going on, so hopes for the best stayed in our grasp. Although in retrospect, we were aware of his involvement somehow with a few of the Sortaneph we’ve come across.”

“That awful invisible scrollwork of a tattoo our family can see. It’s a dead giveaway,” she cut in grimly.

His frustration palpable, he continued. “What are we missing? These recent mongrel’s crimes against humanity and against those of their own kind seems ludicrous. Why leave dead bodies for us to find like some kind of trail? Then have the audacity to remain with some of the victims as if to flaunt their handiwork. I don’t know about you, Fallon, but something reeks of a hidden agenda.”

She got up and tossed the unfinished wine in a trash bin.

“I’m with you. Something’s fishy. Staying to the shadows and away from notice is the norm.”

Fallon’s mind raced as she padded barefoot on the cold hardwood floors to the rear of her home. She came to a sudden stop before the sliding glass doors that led out into her garden. Instead of comfort, the sight of her plant oasis caused her to cringe. Morning rays unmasked utter destruction. Everything within the once-treasured sanctuary was blackened, singed, and crumbling. Looking at it now, she had to have been enraged, but she didn’t remember being quite that upset.

Her voice broke. “I know you’re right. We need to advance our search for Rafael. At the very least, give him the chance to explain before we’re given a kill order we can’t refuse. Until then, I can’t think about this right now. I’ve got other shit going on.”

“That’s another thing, Fallon.” She waited for him to finish. Each second that ticked by increased her anxiety.

“I had Avedon drop me off at your place. I wanted to check and see how you were doing after we returned. I saw you passed out and your home a disaster area.” He paused. “I heard Michael ask earlier, but now I’m asking. Is there anything you want to discuss?”

“I’ll repeat what I told our brother.” She struggled to sound believable. “No.”

“Whatever you say. I’m not going to pry,” Wallace assured her. And just when she felt like she could breathe again, he knocked the wind right back out of her.

“Without any sort of hospitality: no liquor, passed-out sister, and no food. I got bored. After shutting everything down I didn’t know what else to do.”

So,
he’d
been the one plunging her house into darkness after she’d passed out last night.

Wallace continued blithely. “I didn’t have my ride. Instead of waking anybody up to come and get me, I borrowed your ride, SAM. Man, you can’t imagine my fear you’d wake up after I revved the engine. Most of the trip down your driveway I was looking over my shoulder expecting you to come out bitchin.”

Other than, a few strategically positioned leather chairs and plastic plants, for the view outside, it was rather easy to reach two centimeters of thin copper wire as her skin started to prickle with negative charges.

The boy shorts and tank were smoking as stepped onto a large circular rubber mat. Her hand wrapped around the thin wire.
He touched my shit.
A full charge crackled and popped as it escaped in a flash of electricity, vanishing underneath the floorboards and into a Conductive Grid she had built in the ground around her home. She had the diffusion devices installed throughout the house. One thing she’d learned early on, soil, and rubber were effective ways to diffuse currents.

“Do you hear that?” Wallace asked. “It almost sounds like someone making popcorn or playing with a whip?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, brushing it off casually, while asking, “By the way, what’re you up to today?”

She ignored the fresh smell of smoke.

“Turns out when I decided to stop in on Avedon, he was still up. Not too long ago, we returned your bike. Even though I’ve never borrowed your bike before. We’re good, right?”

Poleaxed by Wallace’s dumb question, she couldn’t believe he didn’t realize there would be consequences for taking her motorcycle. Avedon knew better and probably laughed his ass off instead of warning Wallace of how much trouble he’d be in over this screw-up. They were both asses.

“Don’t worry about it for now. We’ll discuss it later.” She tried to sound convincing. “As long as we’re family, we can forgive each other, right.”

Hah. While the statement was true enough, there was nothing written in stone about teaching a person not to do it again.

Hanging up, she went upstairs to change.

In a haze of purpose, Fallon dressed in leather biker attire: black vest, pants, and high-heeled boots, then made her way outside. Once she checked SAM over, a cloud of white smoke trailed her down the drive. She knuckled back on the throttle as she hit open road.

The blurring scenery augmented the sun shadowing the eastern side of Seattle’s Cascade Mountains. Wind pressed against her skin-tight clothing and lashed her helmet, calming her in a way few understood. Her brothers would never grasp the gravity of the despair she’d undergone growing up under such tight constraints. Control or kill.

Freedom for her came the day she’d ridden her first Indian motorcycle in 1947. Harley really earned its pay, upgrading SAM’s frame. Underneath mounds of chrome, paint, and a few integrated modern conveniences the melding of the two was beautiful. The original kick-start ignition revealed SAM’s real age.

Where her brothers had formed countless relationships with other people, the only bond she’d made strong enough to stand the test of time was with her motorcycle.

Pathetic. But true.

Something happening to her baby made her feel ill.

When she arrived at the upscale condominium, her anger peaked again at the sight of Wallace’s car. None of the reason’s he’d taken SAM seemed true. The twerp lived to stir the pot. Knowing the best way to rile her was through her motorcycle.

After parking, she took the stairs slowly. Several deep breaths later, she knocked. Her hand poised to knock again. Avedon opened the door.

“What’s up?” Avedon’s grin was mischievous as it spread wide across his handsome face.

Hug rejected, she pushed past his open arms.

“Not today, buddy.”

Her search of the apartment found Wallace laid up in Avedon’s spacious entertainment room. He gripped a PS3 controller in his hands, engrossed in Infamous 2 gameplay.

Hands on her hips, she waited for him to acknowledge her presence.

Time up, and furious, she ignored the hunky animated character who wielded lighting as he saved Los Angeles from mutants. “
One day maybe you’ll be able to control your gift and do some of the cool shit this guy does,”
her brothers had often teased. She never let on how much it hurt she was inept at brandishing her power. Maybe it would always be so.

Resentment fragmented reasoning, she moved in front of the screen blocking Wallace’s line of sight.

“Move outta the way.”

“Why’d you do it, Wallace?”

His arms dropped between his legs dejectedly. Rolling his eyes, he complained, “This ain’t about SAM, is it? Come on. I said I’m sorry. Now move!”

His lack of remorse galled her. “That’s not good enough,” she enunciated between clenched teeth.

Fallon reached for the controller. He leaned back, giving her the advantage. Shoving both hands into his chest laid him flat on the couch, and her straddling his legs. On top now, with her knees’ digging into his stomach, he twisted trying to hide it in the space between the cushions. Breathing hard, she worked for possession of the device.

“When’ve I ever let anyone touch my motorcycle?” she asked, at a clear stalemate.