Prim and Proper Fate (Twisted Fate Series Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter 2

They’d done it again. Another stupid prank, which everyone would pass off as funny but Brandon knew had an entirely serious meaning.

Got you again, Traitor
.

That was what they really meant by all the asinine, borderline dangerous pranks they’d been pulling since Sydney demanded they accept him back into the fold, after he’d paid a pack of Rakshasa a large sum to kidnap Gavin because Brandon had intended to kill the cursed Rakshasa.

He killed my mother
, Brandon used to rage at them, when the pranks first started.
She was a Chala,
he always added.
Gavin used to be the most notorious and dangerous Rakshasa in the world
, he used to shout.

That was over two hundred years ago
, they’d retorted, which Brandon well knew. Two hundred and twenty-two years ago, to be exact. Brandon had been two when Gavin killed his mother and his father had as a result killed himself, leaving an orphaned infant behind. If Brandon had been born a Chala, he would have died, too.

In their eyes, Gavin had more than made up for his sins. Some of them could list every Rakshasa Gavin had killed since he’d been cursed. Most pointed out that their Chala loved him, so he couldn’t possibly be bad.

And he’d trained them, all of them. None of these Light Ones had been a part of any formal pack before making their way to this one. Few had any real fighting skills. Gavin had taken a band of misfits and turned them into a well-honed fighting machine. They respected him. They loved Sydney. They would lay their lives on the line for both of them, time and time again.

And because of that faith, for the first time in centuries, they actually stood a chance against the Rakshasa who were intent upon both killing the last remaining Chala and using humans as an unlimited buffet.

Brandon couldn’t win, no matter what argument he gave. So he stopped trying, forced himself to stop reacting every time they came up with another stupid prank. They were a bunch of pansy-ass children anyway. The only one who could beat him in hand-to-hand combat was Gavin, and Gavin never got involved in the pranks. Brandon had caught him snickering a time or two, but hell, if someone else were the recipient, Brandon would probably laugh, too.

This time, they’d loaded his bed with used condoms.
Disgusting fucking prank
. He wondered where the hell they found so damn many of them. It wasn’t like the vast majority of them were getting any on a regular basis. The nearest town was an hour away on foot (four feet, anyway) and Gavin didn’t give them much down time. He was too damn worried about the Rakshasa attacking his mate.

Gavin and Sydney. That’s where the condoms came from. Those two were like fucking rabbits, but they carefully protected themselves every time. Sydney was a Chala, Gavin was a cursed Rakshasa, and who the hell knew what would transpire if their genes mixed. The general consensus was it wouldn’t be good, so everyone agreed it was best not to find out.

Brandon wondered which unlucky bastard had been tasked with digging the condoms out of the garbage every day. He wouldn’t mind teasing that moron a little.

With one last disgusted look at his trashed bed, Brandon turned away and flung open the bedroom door. A gang of shifters surged away as he stepped out into the hall, scowling furiously.

“Fuck off,” he muttered as they snickered and laughed and slapped each other on the back like they’d just done some great deed. He stomped down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen, barely noticing that the bitchy Fate who owned the house they were currently residing in was back from wherever the hell he’d gone on vacation.

Not that it mattered. They were scheduled to leave the next day. Finally. Killian was difficult to live with on a good day, and they had yet to figure out just what constituted a good day for the grumpy-ass Fate.

The other Fate-in-residence, William, was in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Early on, when the pack was just forming and Sydney and Gavin were still dancing around the fact that they were in love, he had taken on the job of house manager. Usually, the position entailed cooking for and cleaning up after the dozens of Light Ones in residence.

“Nice shoes,” Brandon said while snagging a beer from the fridge.

William was as big as a linebacker and had a preference for wearing women’s clothing. And wigs. And high heels. And hot pink lipstick. Tonight he sported a yellow-and-white polka-dotted number, complete with canary yellow heels and his favorite curly blond wig. Oh yeah, and the lipstick. He looked as if he’d either just returned from or was about to venture out for a night on the town. And knowing William, he’d probably gotten all dolled up just to come downstairs to make dinner.

“Thank you,” William chirped, preening at Brandon’s compliment.

Killian stepped into view in the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining room. He grunted and William glanced over his shoulder, arching his painted-in brows. “Settling back in?”

“Getting there,” Killian muttered. He headed toward the wine chiller installed next to the sink. Brandon wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but William had been impressed by the variety of bottles Killian had in there.

“Looks like somebody enjoyed my wine while I was gone,” Killian said as he pulled a bottle out of the top rack. The label said pinot noir.

“That bottle of cab worked perfectly with the rub I put on the steaks the other night,” William replied.

“I’ll be so glad by the end of tomorrow.”

Brandon suspected—no, he knew—the Fate was referring to the fact that they would all be gone by tomorrow evening. He had not hidden his displeasure at having the crew residing in his house. Although Brandon was pretty damn certain that without the pack of Light Ones, the miserable Fate would find something else to complain about. He’d never met a more unhappy person in all of his 224 years.

“You don’t think you’ll be lonely when we’re gone?” William dried and put away the dishes from dinner as he talked, bustling around Killian’s kitchen as comfortably as if it were his own home.

“Not a chance.”

Killian struggled with the cork. William snagged the bottle from his grasp and easily removed the stopper. Then he filled two glasses with the burgundy-colored wine. Hefting the bottle, he silently offered some to Brandon, who lifted the beer in his hand and declined.

“We appreciate your hospitality, Killian.” William sniffed the wine, then swirled it in the glass and finally took a slug, which he then swished around in his mouth several times before swallowing.

“You are so repulsive,” Killian blurted.

William lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? Because I appreciate good wine? Or because I make you dinner every night? Or because I buy your groceries? Or because I instruct Sydney’s shifters to fix your shed and your bathroom and your front door and till your garden and rake your leaves? Which part of me is repulsive again?” William’s voice was cool, as was his gaze. At least, until he spoke again. “The wine is quite lovely, by the way.”

Brandon took a swig from his beer, lest he start laughing.

“Thank you,” Killian said stiffly, taking his own drink. “I don’t suppose the Chala found a real mate while I was away?”

Brandon quickly sobered. He hated when the Fate talked this way. As if Sydney would simply wake up one day and forsake her love for Gavin to do her duty as a Chala. What those two shared was too damn
real
. Besides, they had a plan. Gavin had been training them, mercilessly. They were ready to take on the Rakshasa. They were ready to defend their Chala. There was no reason they could not live out all of eternity, fighting the good fight, protecting Sydney, and allowing the two of them the happiness they found only in each other.

“If she had, do you think you’d be standing here talking to
me
?” William asked.

Traditionally, when a Chala found her mate, her Fate, who had been assigned to her when she reached puberty, was released from duty. Usually within a forty-eight-hour period, he was forced to pack up and say his–often tearful–goodbyes, and left the Chala to her new life with her new mate. Since Gavin was a Rakshasa, that particular tradition apparently didn’t apply.

“Fair point, I suppose. Too bad. I might have invited them to stay, if that had been the case.”

Brandon snorted. The other two men ignored him.

“Gavin is good for them, you know,” William said.

“No,” Killian said flatly. “I don’t know. He’s a Rakshasa. He’s killed more Chala than I’ve actually known in my Fate-life. He is good for no one.”

“You went to visit Prim, didn’t you?” William sighed.

“If you’re suggesting that’s the reason for my bad mood, you’re wrong.”

“Really? I’ve no doubt she turned you down. Again.”

Brandon’s interest in the conversation was suddenly piqued. Killian had the hots for some woman? He supposed the Fate was good looking in his own way, but it had never occurred to Brandon the guy might actually possess those sorts of emotions.

“Who’s Prim?” he asked.

“None of your damn business,” Killian retorted.

“The one who cursed Gavin in the first place. She was here, a few months ago. She’s actually the one who upset Sydney so much that she went running off alone, and you found her and ultimately saved her from being killed,” William explained. “But she left as quickly as she could, so it’s possible you might not have met her.”

“I didn’t save Sydney,” Brandon qualified. “I protected her until Gavin and the pack could get to us. He’s the one who saved her.”

William flapped his hand. “Semantics.”

Those
semantics
were pretty fucking important. If Gavin hadn’t brought the damn cavalry when he did, Brandon and Sydney both would have died out in those woods.

“I hate having a Rakshasa living in my house. It’s unnatural.” Killian apparently felt the need to explain his bad mood.

Brandon didn’t really care. They were leaving in a day and as far as he was concerned, Killian never had to see them again. Fates existed for the Chala, and there was only one Chala. William was plenty enough for Sydney, who, now that she had Gavin and an entire pack of Light Ones at her side, didn’t really need a Fate at all anymore.

William continued to argue with the other Fate. “What’s unnatural is your pent-up anger. You’re a Fate, for the love of, well, the Fates. How the hell did any of your charges not fall into a deep depression before their twenty-first birthdays?”

“If I was lucky, they were mated by that point and out of my hair.”

William shook his head and sipped at the wine. “What happened to you, Killian? You are the only Fate I know who carries around such negativity. You could not have always been like this. The First would never have chosen this path for you if that were the case.”

“What’s the First?” Brandon asked, jumping into the conversation again despite himself.

“Who, not what,” William corrected. “She is quite literally the very first Fate to ever exist.” He frowned as he struggled to explain. “She is our ruler, I suppose. When there were an abundance of Chala, she kept track of them and assigned us to our charges. Now, she does little more than settle arguments and give us permission to retire and live as humans.”

“Retire and live as humans?”

William nodded. There was sadness in his eyes. “Sydney is the only Chala left. We quite literally have no other purpose than to guide and protect the Chala. There is nothing left for any of us to do.”

“Unless she mates with a Light One and starts popping out her own Chala. You’re letting your charge bed down with that–that aberration, when you should be the one to stop it,” Killian said.

William arched his brows. “What do you expect me to do? Walk into that bedroom every time they start having sex and say, ‘Okay, Uncle William says stop.’ I don’t have that sort of control over Sydney. Nor do I want it.”

Killian pursed his lips and grabbed his wineglass. “I’m going to go relax in my living room.”

Brandon watched him stalk out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room, where a group of shifters were watching a hockey game on the television. He wondered who was playing. He was a diehard Dallas Stars fan, but he liked hockey enough to watch regardless of who was on the screen.

The small pack leaped to their feet, cheering and high-fiving each other. “I hate hockey,” he heard Killian mutter, and a moment later, he appeared in the kitchen doorway again, this time holding a small, thin book in one hand and his wineglass in the other. “I’m going to my bedroom,” he announced.

“What’s that?” Brandon asked, nodding at the book. The cover was made of cracked, brown leather and words were embossed on the spine with faded gold ink. It looked really old.

“None of your business,” the grumpy Fate snapped. As he lifted it to hug it to his chest, Brandon caught a glimpse of the title.

Tried and True Curses

“Whoa, what are you doing with that?” He reached for the book, but the Fate danced away from him.

“Nothing. I just want to read. Something wrong with that?”

“There is when you’re reading about curses, and there happens to be a cursed Rakshasa living under your roof.”

William jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. “What? What in the world are you up to now, Killian?” He moved closer to the other Fate, who backed away toward the stairs leading to the bedroom level.

“I told you. Nothing. I just want to read in bed until I fall asleep. And then tomorrow all you people will be gone and I can have my life back.”

“Reading about curses is not light bedtime reading,” William noted. “Where did you find that book anyway? It must be a thousand years old.”