The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) (7 page)

“
Jump for crying out loud!” he shouted, losing his patience.

Beelah, in ridiculous, full length pajamas, slid over the edge of the balcony and squealed when she jumped.

Emerson caught her with no trouble. Even if she'd weighed twice what she did, he could have handled her without effort.

He set her on the ground and turned back up to the balcony, rain streaming down his face. Farris was already there, climbing over.

The flames fought the rain, like Emerson knew they would. He'd given them the fuel of Chaos, and though the storm was Chaos conjured as well, the fire had the garage to cling to. It still had dry wood under the surface to seep into and burn.

Farris didn't need more encouraging; she let go, falling straight down. Emerson caught her against him and swiveled her around away from the flames.

“
We have to get more water on the fire!” Farris insisted. She wriggled out of his arms to the ground.

“
It'll go out in a few minutes. The rain will take care--”

“
No! Get the hose, it's right there! Get more water on it!” She didn't wait for Emerson or Beelah to act. Running through the rain, she rounded the far side of the garage where the flames hadn't reached and came back with a regular garden hose in her hands. The end spouted water in an arc.

Emerson wasn't about to argue with her. He confiscated the hose from her hands. “You girls get back. Get back away from the fire.”

Aiming the hose at the loft, he added more water. He had to stick his thumb over the end to spray the stream, which did precious little to help put the fire out. But the rain...the rain was doing a great job. Already there was more smoke than flame, leaving black scorch marks and burnt wood where the fire had been.

“
Don't let it get inside, Emerson!” Farris said. She sounded wildly upset.

“
It won't. It didn't. Don't worry.” Thunder cracked overhead and more lightning zipped through the storm clouds. Slowly but surely, the fire retreated until the rain doused the last flame.

Farris darted around the end of the garage again to turn the hose off, and ran back. “I think it's out. We should check and make sure the inside didn't have any damage.”

“
You're not going inside there until someone else secures it, like a fire marshal.” Who would probably discover where and how the fire had been set.

Emerson tossed the hose to the ground and scraped wet strands of hair off his face. Farris looked traumatized, and again, a strange sensation pooled in his stomach. He recognized it as regret. Regret, and perhaps a little fear. She and Bee could have died tonight.

The regret switched to fury so fast it made his head spin. Devon had a lot to answer for. He knew she had something to do with the close call the girls suffered.

“
But my stories--”

“
You're not going in there,” Emerson insisted when Farris started to protest. He twisted his head around until he met her eyes.

They locked gazes.

She looked panicked—and stubborn. The pretty green-brown hue of her eyes sparkled in the flash of lightning that split the sky overhead.

Without any warning, she marched forward, fists at her sides, and headed for the staircase. Emerson snared an arm around her waist, preventing her from going near the stairs.

“
Farris! You can't go in there! What are you thinking? The whole staircase might collapse. Look how the fire burned through the wood at the bottom.” Beelah, who had tried to swipe for Farris and missed, glanced between Farris and Emerson. The auburn strands of her wet hair stuck to her face, giving her the appearance of a bedraggled puppy. Her glasses, which she'd fallen asleep in, kept slipping down the slope of her nose.

“
She's not going in there,” he said.

Farris swatted his bicep over the coat. “You...and what are
you
doing out here, anyway, Emerson?”

Beelah gasped. “Farris! He saved us.”

“
I know. What I want to know is what he's doing out here.”

Emerson didn't release Farris right away. He stared down into her fiery eyes. The rain poured down in torrents and sheets, slicking up the skin of her cheeks. She parted her lips and exhaled a huffy breath.

What answer was he going to give the minx? She'd called him out. This place was so far out of the city limits that
I thought I'd take a stroll before bed
just wasn't going to work.

Farris wriggled out of the protective curl of his arm. “Well?”

“
Farris...”

“
Hush Bee.”

Emerson might have laughed at any other time. He knew better, though, and resisted. “I wanted to come check on you and see if you were all right.”

“
It's a little late, isn't it?” Farris demanded.

“
Yes.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

His bland answer seemed to take a little wind from her sails.

She glanced down the long driveway. “Where's your car?”

Emerson cursed under his breath. “I walked.”

“
You
walked?”
both girls said in unison.

“
Yeah. What's wrong with walking? I prefer it to driving.” That was a lie. Emerson tried to gauge each girl's reaction.

Bee looked puzzled and bemused.

Farris was frowning. She seemed slightly wary.

“
I'm just worried about my stuff, that's all. I didn't mean to get defensive,” Farris finally said. The tight set of her shoulders slumped as if all the rain was so heavy it drug them down.

“
Don't worry about it. I'm just glad I got here when I did. You can't sleep here tonight—where are you going to stay?” he asked. He wasn't letting either girl in the loft.

“
I'm not leaving my sto—I can't leave,” Farris said with a nervous look at the garage.

Emerson's eyes narrowed. There was more here she wasn't saying. “You have to.”

“
We can stay at my house, of course, Farris. Emerson, don't worry. She'll come to her senses in a minute.” Bee nudged Farris' arm.

“
I'm not leaving.” Farris stepped past Emerson for the garage and punched a number into a keypad on the outside.

The garage door rolled up.

Farris disappeared inside and came out a second later with a spare key to her truck. “Here. Emerson, you drive Bee home--”

“
I don't think so,” Emerson said, refusing to take the key.

“
Farris, you can't stay here!” Beelah spoke at the same time as Emerson.

“
Look. Old man Henson said I could stay in the farmhouse if there was an emergency. He's got like five extra bedrooms in that thing.” She gestured at the farmhouse.

Emerson eyed it skeptically. He didn't know this old man Henson, and he couldn't be sure Devon wouldn't send someone out to do the same thing to the farmhouse that he'd done to Farris' garage. Farris was the target, but the target of
what?
With the Fates, one could never tell. Everything that happened to a person had the potential to change the direction of their life. Good, bad or indifferent, that was the way the cards fell. He shouldn't be dabbling in the preordained, shouldn't be changing the course of Farris's life.

He knew it, and here he stood, trying to figure out a way to get her off the property.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

“
We were
so
lucky,” Beelah whispered, glancing at the sky.

“
Take Bee home, Emerson, and leave the truck in town somewhere. I can have Bee's Mom come pick me up tomorrow to get it.” She held the key out with a stubborn expression.

Emerson snatched the key out of her fingers. “Suit yourself. Come on, Beelah.”

Bee glanced between them, then hugged Farris tight. “Promise you won't try to get into the loft.”

“
I promise,” Farris replied, wrapping her arms around Bee for a quick hug.

Emerson snorted. He knew a lie when he heard one. Exchanging a knowing, long look with Farris, Emerson headed into the garage.

Beelah ran after him.

A moment later, with Bee in the seat beside him, Emerson backed out of the garage. Farris was standing there where they left her. He knew the second they were gone, she was going right up those stairs into the loft.

What the devil was so important? Clothes and furniture could be replaced. Pictures—no. But they weren't worth risking your life over, either.

Disgruntled, he sped off the property, Beelah chattering a hundred miles an hour in his ear.

. . .

Farris watched the truck drive off the property. The red flash of the tail lights blinked once, then disappeared as Emerson picked up speed on the main road. She didn't look away until they were out of sight.

Glancing up, she stared at the angry sky. Clouds rolled over themselves, rumbling here or there like a disgruntled God. The scent of lightning and rain was still in the air, threatening another assault on the terrain.

She shivered and looked away to the damaged garage. Farris hadn't wanted Emerson to know just how bad the fire shook her up. She didn't understand, either, why the thought of losing all her stories made her feel nauseated. It wasn't subtle but so strong she had to keep swallowing bile down in the back of her throat.

Losing all that work was one of the reasons for her upset, but there was something deeper here. Something even more disturbing she couldn't put her finger on.

With her feet sinking into the muck on the ground, she approached the steps. The entire corner of the garage and a handful of support beams of the stairs had been scorched. She couldn't tell how far the burn had gone through the wood and didn't want to touch it to find out.

Grabbing hold of the staircase banister, she gave it a tug.

The banister held.

Although she'd promised Emerson she wouldn't, Farris put her foot on the lowest step. It wasn't charred—half the steps weren't black at all—but she was wary the supporting beams might give way.

Still.

Those were her stories up there.

She fretted the ones tucked into the corner nearest the fire would be ruined.

Climbing another three steps, she paused when the wood creaked. It held, and she continued.

One of the support beams beneath the steps snapped. Yelping, she grabbed onto the banister closest to the loft instead of the scorched one on the left. When it stabilized, she ascended all the way to the landing, which was only black at the very corner.

She opened the door after sliding an extra key off the ledge above. Thick, cloying smoke billowed out. Coughing, she waved her hand in front of her face and headed through the little living room for the corner she was concerned with.

Right away she saw the fire hadn't burned all the way through the facade to the interior, and she sent up a quick whisper of gratitude.

Leaning against the table with a large stack of papers, she pulled them away from the wall and checked the edges of the pages.

Yellowed and wrinkled with age, they were intact. She checked five more stacks closest to those, too, just to be on the safe side.

All were unharmed.

Little by little, her angst began to ease. At least a little bit. What would she have done if they'd gone up in flame?

It would have been bad, an inner voice insisted. Very bad.

The idea that she could lose all these stories brought to mind what she could do to better protect them. It wasn't the first time the question had come up.

Rewriting each one—which consisted of seven to ten pages—would take years. There were thousands of stories. Putting them all onto a flash drive that she could take with her anywhere for safety purposes made sense, but it didn't answer the driving need she had to write it all down on paper first.

Maybe she could scan them instead of type them.

That meant she needed a computer and a scanner and she didn't have the money for either. Farris was very aware that within a few months, she was going to run out of room to store all this. She added a half a stack a week and there was only so much room in the loft.

What was she going to do?

If only her old house, the one she'd grown up in, still belonged to her mother. The bank had run them out months ago, however, and Farris didn't make near enough money to buy it back. Her childhood home was lost.

Unsettled, she flopped onto the couch and slouched down. Crossing her arms over her rain drenched clothes, she stared at the tiny loft and wondered, for the hundredth time, what she was going to do.

The options were few.

Tomorrow she would have old man Henson check the garage and the loft. If it was unlivable, she was going to have to scramble and find somewhere else to stay for the time being.

Bothered by all the events of the day, exhausted from escaping tornadoes and fire, Farris slipped into sleep.

Chapter Six

A fist pounding on her door startled Farris out of a nightmare. Sitting straight up, she looked left and right through the loft. Confused over the smell of smoke, not sure what day or time it was, she blinked and rubbed her eyes.