The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) (32 page)
“
Man, are you sure we shouldn't try--”
“
No. Just wait,” Emerson said, cutting Theron off.
“
You're killing her! We have to breathe for her, Emerson. Look—look, her lips are starting to turn blue!
Emerson!”
Beelah struggled to get free, voice breaking over his name.
Tension made Emerson's shoulders as tight as steel. He wouldn't take his eyes off Farris, couldn't shake the fear that even though it was her birthday, and that she was slated to die this day, that something had gone terribly wrong. Tightening his arms around Beelah, he rested his mouth near the girl's temple and whispered.
“
She's coming back. You have to trust me.”
Theron reached out to lay two fingers against Farris' throat again, testing for a pulse. Finding nothing, he brought his hand up and rubbed it over his mouth, then glanced at Emerson.
“
She's dead, Emerson. How long are we leaving her that way?”
Beelah gasped and cried, ducking her head down with a final kick of her leg in anger.
“
It's not up to us. It's up to her.” Wasn't it? Wasn't this Farris' time to take control of her Destiny? He glanced out at the corn field, looking for Merwen. Where in the world was she?
A frightening thought struck: what if Merwen was supposed to bring Farris back? What if, just...
what if...
it wasn't Farris that brought herself back from the brink but another? He wished he would have asked Driscoll more questions. He wished he would have demanded someone fetch Merwen to come, to make sure this all worked out the way it was supposed to.
“
What are you talking about, Emerson? What do you mean? You're talking crazy--” Beelah paused when Farris twitched.
Emerson unwrapped his arms from Beelah and scrambled across the ground to Farris' side. Beelah, right behind him, crawled around Theron to kneel near Farris' head.
“
Farris, can you hear me? Farris, it's Emerson. Beelah's here, Theron's here. Farris, wake up.” He hovered over her, afraid to lay a hand on her just yet. This close, he could see the faint blue color of her lips. A blue streak painted the skin under both Farris' eyes.
With a sharp gasp, Farris opened her mouth and sucked in a deep breath. Her lids remained closed over her eyes, face slack.
Beelah reached out for one of Farris' hands. Emerson took the other.
“
Farris! Ohmygosh, Farris, you weren't breathing. Are you all right? How do you feel? Can you hear me?” Beelah spoke in a rush, her glasses slipping down her nose from the incessant stream of tears.
“
How are you, Farris? Feeling all right? We were getting worried.” Emerson hated how cold Farris' hand felt. He tried to rub heat and feeling into her skin.
Farris didn't respond. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
Theron laid two fingers against the pulse in her throat. “She's got a heartbeat,” he announced. “Man, Farris, you
died
and came back to life. How about that, huh? Wake up and tell us all about it.”
Emerson shot him a withering look.
Theron, unrepentant, shrugged his shoulders as if to say,
It's true, isn't it?
“
Can you hear us, Farris? You had a little accident. Don't be scared. All those things I said I couldn't tell you before? Wake up and I'll explain,” Emerson coaxed.
Farris breathed in, breathed out. Slow, measured. She didn't open her eyes.
Emerson gathered her gently in his arms, like a bridegroom. She felt as fragile as a newborn fawn. “Let's see if the farmhouse is in good enough shape to take her inside. We need to get her out of the elements, away from the threat of the dogs.”
“
What happened, Emerson?” Beelah asked, scrambling to her feet. “Why won't she wake up? Should we take her to the hospital?”
“
No, no hospital. She'll be all right, Beelah. Farris just needs time. She needs to come to terms with it all,” Emerson said, starting away for the farmhouse. He knew they had all just witnessed history.
Right before their eyes, a new Fate of Destiny had been born.
. . .
A note from the author:
Thank you for reading The Fate of Destiny! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are the lifeblood of a book, and very important to me. If you would like to leave one, whether good, bad or indifferent, know that I appreciate each and every one!
Also: Book #4 in the Fate Series should be available by late September.
All the best!
Danielle
The second book in the Fate series is available now:
The Fate of Chaos – Amazon US -
http://amzn.to/HTqRU9
The Fate of Chaos – Amazon UK -
http://amzn.to/IhNHmP
New release! Book #3 in the Fate series:
The Reign of Mayhem – Amazon US -
http://amzn.to/MxMkCx
Visit Danielle's website
for updates and information:
. . .
Other books by Danielle Bourdon:
AMAZON US:
Society of the Nines -
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Violin Song -
http://amzn.to/xylv1Z
Vengeance for the Dead -
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Sin and Sacrifice -
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Templar's Creed -
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The Seven Seals -
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Bound by Blood -
http://amzn.to/ubH9EG
Dréoteth -
http://amzn.to/uWGPqL
Cemetery Psalms -
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Scavenger Hunt -
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Hunted -
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Southside -
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. . .
Excerpt from Dréoteth:
(suitable for YA readers)
Chapter One
Fall
The Year of the Red Leaf
“
I am called Dréoteth.”
I enunciated each syllable slowly, unable to abide the pleasure of his death with the wrong name on his lips.
Dray-o-teth.
It was the first time I have uttered it in—I do not know how long. Decades. Centuries. Mister Mathan, a prominent member of society, now knows exactly who and what has been picking off the citizens of Malmsbury.
I worry not for my safety. The dead tell no tales.
If the villagers knew what an atrocity walks among them, as one of them, they would look upon me with horror rather than intrigue and curiosity. But they do not.
The people have no idea that the scribe in their midst is the one responsible for their nightmares, for the dark whispers in the corners of the inns and taverns.
I have been here for six months and have chosen my prey wisely. I have not attacked them in groups even though I have been tempted. Sometimes I want to change right before their eyes and watch them flee en masse, terror thick on the air, their screams layered one over the other.
In this subtle way, taking one victim at a time, I can stretch out the duration of my stay and study them. The townsfolk have concocted many stories about the unexpected disappearances; one rumor insists that one of their own has gone insane. Another is that a curse has been placed upon the village by a troupe of gypsies that passed through not long before I arrived here.
A random stroke of luck, that, since it throws any suspicion off me. As a newer member of their small society, any ill news or bad omens and strange deaths might be blamed upon the man they know the least about.
In an attempt to blend in better, I gave them a false name when I arrived. Here in the village of Malmsbury, they know me as Nehemiah Trimble. I amuse myself with these trivial little details. Centuries past, I never bothered to try and integrate or get to know them. There is danger in doing this, which I suppose is part of the lure. In a fit of brash honesty, I admit that humans have always been nothing more than food in my mind, not worthy of my time or commitment. They are prey, and I am a predator. I found their trials and tribulations tedious. Humans fret and worry over nonsensical things.
However, the longer I spend amongst them, the more I find myself annoyingly intrigued. There are several men in this town with intellects almost as big as their egos and on more than one occasion we have engaged in interesting conversation. I find myself seeking their company out, shockingly, and could swear that they seek mine out also. I wish that did not fill me with a sense of satisfaction. They are only men, after all, vastly inferior and I know in time they will prove that their true worth is in how well they fill my belly.
In another contradiction, I find myself loathe to target those with artistic skill; painters, architects, musicians. I am secretly fascinated by their abilities, as much as I wish I was not.
A woman who serves here at the inn, Eugenia Bailey, bears watching. It is almost as if she can peel open the layers of a person and take a look inside. I know, because I caught her doing it to me and it was most unsettling.
For a rare moment, I thought she knew my secret.
I have not lived this long to be disabled by a glance, no matter how incisive, and dismissed the notion immediately. I will see her, in fact I will see them all again on the morrow. There is a great festival planned and while they revel, I will do my best not to be incited by their energy.
For now the candle burns low and the hour grows late.
Dréoteth.
The distorted image that stared back at him in the looking glass resembled a gentleman. His coat, black wool with matching trim, fit loose from his shoulders to his thighs. Layered underneath, a black vest and white shirt added contrast but he cast a critical eye on the snug breeches that tapered down into knee high boots.
They were gray, the color of ashes, and he considered changing them to match his coat.
When Dréoteth realized that he was dawdling over his appearance like some
normal
human, he snorted.
Humans and their wardrobes, in his grandiose opinion, were too bright, too frilly, too overdone. If he weren’t careful, he would next be shuffling through wigs and ruffles and lace kerchiefs that had absolutely no business anywhere in the vicinity of a man. The thought was laughable if he’d been the type given to fits of amused whimsy.
He was not.
Austere. Over-confident. Aggressive.
Those
were words that better suited him.
Weak fingers of light, the last hurrah of a dying dusk, painted the spartan room more orange than ochre. It turned his olive skin a jaundiced hue and streaked his jet-black hair with bronze.
He stalked to a small desk under the open window and collected his journal from the surface. The covering, brown leather worn soft from so many handlings sported no name, no marking, no initials. He took it to the armoire and crouched down in front of it. Setting the book on the floor, he gave it a shove and watched it disappear into the space beneath. He wasn’t
too
concerned with someone stealing it. Any unfortunate soul daring to invade his room would meet with an unpleasant,
permanent
end.
A moment later he stepped into the gloomy hallway, closing the door behind him. Mellow candlelight flickered from sconces on the walls, too far spaced to chase the shadows away. He would not have been hindered had the corridor been totally black.
He encountered no one as he descended three floors to the main room.
The Rose and Lion Inn was said to be the best in Malmsbury, a fact he found ironic considering there were only two. After observing both for several days prior to his official arrival, Dréoteth found that this one served his purposes better than its smaller rival,
Cantley’s.
The Rose and Lion backed up to a sweeping forest, giving him some sort of cover if he suddenly needed it.
Cantley’s
sat in the middle of the village, providing less protection if he found himself on the wrong end of a hunt.
“
Good evening, Mister Trimble.”
The intrusion of his name into his thoughts ended them abruptly. He glanced through the empty room to the diminutive woman behind the bar.
