The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) (9 page)

Devon jumped through and landed with a satisfied thump on both feet.

A moment later, the mirror rippled again, warping from the middle to the edges, and solidified once more. It had taken her weeks and weeks to learn that trick.

Soon, she would be able to travel long distances without the aid of a physical object.

Her bedroom embodied everything Devon was at heart and then some; slightly hectic, dark, intriguing and bold. The canopy bed was king sized with carvings of ravens in the posts and across the headboard. Ivy twined throughout, a whimsical touch echoed around the edges of her desk, the chair and a divan situated catty corner near the window.

Several shades of gray made a monochrome color scheme. It soothed and excited her at the same time.

Ever since she could remember, she had a passion for black. Clothes, shoes, hats, coats. Even jewelry.

It was the bedroom she'd always wanted but never had as a child.

Pulling back her hair, she secured it into a ponytail and exited the bedroom. A long hallway filled with antiques, paintings, vases and intricate runners on the floor led to a broad, sweeping staircase that wound down to the first floor.

Riding the banister down, she hopped off before she crashed into the post at the end and jogged through the foyer into the kitchen.

The spacious pantry set into the wall had a door hidden behind a movable shelf, and after pulling it out a few feet, she reached for the light switch.

Light illuminated a set of stairs leading down.

Stepping onto the landing, Devon pulled the shelf closed behind her and trotted down to the basement.

The basement was the
best
part about Chaos Manor.

What made it awesome were the miles of underground catacombs spreading out from a main room like octopus tentacles. Hundreds upon thousands of Destinies were stacked atop each other in arch shaped recesses.

The main room, enormous by her standards, boasted tables against every wall. More Destinies sat on each one, piles and piles of them, all neatly arranged. Sometimes the neatness of the stacks jarred her inner Chaos, and she struggled with the desire not to make a mess of it all. The papers were precious, however, and she always succeeded in keeping order in this sacred place.

In the middle of the basement stood a pedestal. Eight stone carved ravens in flight balanced a stone bowl on their beaks. Circling the base, drawn into the stone floor, were depictions of black runes.

Tonight, no Destinies burned in the bowl. It was used only for specific ceremonies and rituals, none of which she was comfortable performing.

Not yet.

Across from the pedestal sat her desk. Made of wood, it had a distressed surface the color of ashes. The legs had been carved into the shape of skinny ravens, like the pedestal, and engraved runes ran the perimeter. A small, glowing turquoise ball of glass had been embedded between each rune, casting off a minor glow. The desk top, where her current Destinies in progress sat, boasted a stunning painting of a world beset by Chaos: distant mountains erupting with lava, tornadoes ravaging flatlands, violent storms with bolts of lightning streaking toward earth. A coat of lacquer protected it all.

Devon
adored
the old world artwork.

Shucking her brocade coat, she hung it off the back of a chair and spun the seat around by the leg. Straddling it backwards, she leaned against it while rifling through a shorter stack on her desk.

There it was. The Destiny she needed.

Farris Landry.

It drove Devon crazy that she couldn't do anything with Farris' Destiny other than stare at it. Nothing she wrote or added would change the course of Farris' life.

She could read it, however. Read any and all changes after they occurred. Flipping to the back page, she scanned the stylish, slanting handwriting (not her own) and looked for the passage she wanted.

There should be a paragraph about Farris' death along with the destruction of the garage.

Fire strikes the garage. Burns outer southern perimeter. Advances toward the roof where a deluge of rain douses the flames. Farris and Beelah Bosley escape injury or harm. Loft is saved. Artifacts are spared.

Devon read it again.

And again.

She couldn't believe her eyes. Farris and Beelah had escaped. Devon sat straighter in the chair and narrowed her eyes. In her mind, she went over her conversation step by step with Emerson.

He was not lacking in skill or talent with his control of Chaos, therefore, he should have succeeded burning down the loft. What had gone wrong?

Emerson hadn't seemed all that anxious to perform for her—not that it was his duty—and she decided he must have had a change of heart at the end.

Seething with fury, she tossed down Farris' Destiny and shuffled through those of the people closest to her. Devon couldn't fiddle with Farris' life directly, but she could fiddle with belongings, vehicles and the people in Farris' inner circle.

Larissa Miller.

Devon remembered reading that little Miss Larissa Miller had snatched Farris' old boyfriend right out from under her nose. A sudden grin stretched Devon's lips.

Perfect.

She would teach Emerson a lesson about messing with the Fate of Chaos.

Snagging an ink pen, she found the spot in Larissa's life she needed and drew the pad of her index finger over the ink. Like magic, it faded, leaving her a clean line to write on. She wrote in a newer Destiny. The amount of Chaos Devon was adding to Larissa's life was minor, all told, but it would be more than enough to drive Emerson up a wall.

Larissa Miller falls in love with Emerson,
Devon wrote.

If only she could make Emerson fall for someone, too, it would create a beautiful wreck of emotion and havoc. Emerson, after experiencing all that torment and pain, would come around to her way of thinking.

Alas. The Weavers of Chaos' Destinies were not hers to touch. Emerson and his brethren were off limits, just as Farris was.

Still. She could get to him through all the people he became involved with.

Humming a gleeful tune, she finished off Larissa's new addition to her Destiny and set the page aside to dry.

By tomorrow at the latest, Larissa Miller would start to have uncontrollable feelings for Emerson. Maybe if Emerson fell for Larissa, and got his heart broke after Devon changed Larissa's fate back, he would be more amenable to helping her in the future.

It was
great
to be the new Fate of Chaos.

. . .

A series of bangs woke Farris up out of a dead sleep. Sitting up on the bed, she suffered a few moments of disorientation when she realized she wasn't in the loft.

The tornado, the fire, the farmhouse.

Oh yes.

Another bang drew her off the mattress to her feet. She'd slept fully clothed, without bothering to take off her shoes or even peel the comforter back. Pushing wild strands of her hair from her face, she blinked the fuzziness out of her gaze and hurried down the stairs to the front door.

Farris couldn't imagine who would be here at this hour.

“
Who is it?” she called at the last second, when self preservation kicked in.

“
Sheriff Tooley, Farris.”

She'd known the Sheriff her whole life. Unlocking the door, she swung it open and stared at Tooley through the screen. His kind, angular face wore a pained expression. Built on the stocky side, Tooley had a grandfatherly air that put most people at ease. Farris had seen just how skilled Tooley was at his job, which made his looks a little deceiving.

“
Hi, Sheriff. Sorry, I just woke up.” The shine of the sun was brighter than she expected, leading her to believe it was a bit later than she first thought. She squinted against the glare.

“
Can I come in for a second, darlin'?” he asked. Tooley reached up to sweep the hat off his head.

For one reason or another, alarm bells started going off in Farris' head. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling Tooley wasn't here to just 'check in on her'.

“
Of course, Sheriff. What's going on?” Was it her grandmother? Her Mom? Holding the screen open, she waited until he'd stepped in to close it. She left the door open and followed Tooley into the formal living room to the right.

Old man Henson's wife had decorated the entire farmhouse and all her touches were still present: sturdy furniture with a feminine flair, decorative wall hangings, and lamps with pretty, patterned lampshades. Farris chose a wingback chair to sit on the edge of.

Tooley sat on the edge of the couch, confirming with his obvious unease that something was wrong.

“
I have some bad news, Farris,” he said. “Old man Henson died in the tornado last night.”

Whatever Farris had expected to hear, it hadn't been that. Her relief that it wasn't her grandmother or her mother was short lived. Henson had been a kind and helpful man. “Oh no! That's awful. What happened? I wondered where he was last night.”

“
He was right in the path. Couldn't get out fast enough. Trying to help the young widow Harper and her three kids to safety, it cost him his life.” Tooley turned the hat around in his hands by the brim. “That's not all.”

Farris' mind was running a hundred miles an hour. If Henson was dead, then he would have left the farmhouse to someone in his will, which meant she was probably going to have to find somewhere else to live.

Soon. Very soon.

“
What else?” She braced herself.

“
The bank is auctioning off your house today. They're over there clearing out what you guys couldn't move before you had to leave.” Tooley looked displeased to have to deliver that particular bit of news.

Hearing about Henson had been bad enough—
this
news devastated her. She'd lived in that two story house since birth. Farris hadn't known what was going on when the bank came to take the keys all those months ago. Her grandmother had tried valiantly to keep up the payments, but her income was inadequate, and so the bank gave them twenty-four hours to get what they could out of the home before they took it over.

It hadn't been nearly enough time to get everything out.

“
You all right, Farris girl?” Tooley asked.

She blinked back to the present and rubbed her palms on her thighs. “Uh...yeah, Sheriff. I'm...I mean, you know? It's just hard.”

“
I know it is. Anything the department can do to help?”

“
You said they're taking out the stuff we didn't have time to remove—what are they doing with it?” she asked.

Tooley exhaled and slapped the hat back on his head. “They're sellin' it.”

“
Like, in the front yard, or--”

“
In the front yard. Then they're havin' the auction for the house.”

Farris lurched up off the couch. “When does it start? I don't even know what time it is.”

Tooley stood up. “It's nine-forty-five. Sale starts in fifteen minutes. Auction starts straight up noon.”

Farris went over to hug Tooley, who had been like an uncle to her since the foreclosure of the house. “Thanks, Mister Tooley. I'm going to go over there.”

“
You need a ride?” He grabbed her up in a bear hug and then set her down.

“
I have the truck. Plus I have to change quick. Thanks though.” She smiled, more for his benefit than her own.

“
I'll be stoppin' by to check on things. Be careful.” Tooley patted her arm and saw himself out.

Farris wasted no time. She darted out the back door of the farmhouse and ran to the small barn. Old man Henson had two; one larger barn where he used to keep horses, and a smaller one for maintenance.

From the small barn she carried a tall ladder. It wobbled in her arms and twice she stumbled, barely regaining her balance before going down. At the garage, she propped it near the 'good' edge of the balcony, made sure it was stable, and climbed up.

In broad daylight, she had a great view of just how much damage had been done to the loft. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, or as bad as she'd thought last night. The charred stripe on the far corner had stretched along the outer edge of the balcony, but besides the destroyed staircase, the loft was otherwise intact.

Flinging a leg over the banister, she stepped to the door and went inside. The scent of smoke still hung in the air. Her stories were safe, as were her belongings and her clothes. She could still live here until someone took the farm over—if she could get the stairs outside fixed.

Rushing through a three-minute shower, she changed into a pair of black skinny jeans, a burgundy ribbed sweater and snagged a cream colored knit scarf to twirl around her throat. Dragging on a pair of lace up boots, she stuffed her feet in and wound the laces through the hooks. Although her hair was wet, she grabbed her cell phone, keys and went back to the balcony.

A moment later she was running across the ground toward the truck near the farmhouse. Hopping in, she turned the engine over and sped off the property toward town.