Fated (Fate of Love Book 1)

  FATED

  AJ Brooks

  COPYRIGHT

  London, England

  1789

  The sheer white cotton fabric of her undergarment slipped from her shoulder as she hunched into her hands and cried. It took all his strength not to reach out and touch her soft skin, push her hair from her face and wipe away the sadness as he had once been able to. He did not have permission to do such things anymore. It would be improper for a new lady of status. Technically, the young immortal was not supposed to be in her chamber at all as she prepared to marry a man that was completely wrong for her. A man that wasn’t him.

  Her back stiffened and she sat up, suddenly alert. He smiled at her ability to sense him even though he couldn’t be seen. When he'd first met her, that sense for him was nothing but an irritant and a hindrance.

  Her slim neck craned and she looked toward her watcher with unfocused eyes. The pale blue irises that circled deep black pupils absorbed her surroundings more thoroughly than any mortal he’d ever known before her. But those eyes were already losing their luster as her situation weighed on her, the tears on her lashes dragging her down.

  She had the power to bring a god, such as himself, to his knees with those eyes and every time she looked in his direction he wanted to confess. Confess all the wrong he’d done, all the mistakes he’d made, including her.

  Her eyebrows pulled together and her gaze flicked once to her chambermaid, who prepared the basin with hot water in the opposite corner of the large and elaborate room. There were three in the room, but only two that belonged there.

  She stood gracefully, like her lady-in-waiting had taught her, and stared down at the long floor planks as she moved to the back of the room. He followed her to a tall wooden wardrobe, his heart thudding loudly in his chest as he watched the shadows of her legs move beneath the soft material of her gown.

  Once at the wardrobe, she pulled open the door to shield herself from her maid. He released himself from the protection that kept him invisible to mortals and her eyes snapped into focus. He felt the familiar heaviness in his body that happened every time a mortal looked into a god’s eyes. His body turning a milky white marble stone until the girl diverted her gaze to the linens that hung in the closet.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, running her fingers over an ornate gown. He reached out to touch the long thick plait that hung over her shoulder. She swatted his hand away defiantly but her face stayed tilted away from him, glaring into the darkness of the wardrobe. It was a familiar glare, and powerful even if she couldn’t aim it directly at him.

  “I had to see you again. Once more.” He ducked his head to look into her eyes, if only for a second. He’d never forget those eyes.

  She crushed her lids closed causing him to sigh.

  “My Lena… my love…” He reached for her and she turned away. “I’ll go to my mother…” He knew it was a desperate plea and so did she.

  “Your mother has already given us options. You made your choice, Cassius. And I made mine. I am not your Lena anymore. Lena is gone. I am a Duchess now. And not that you have ever proved to be one, but gentlemen do not visit brides that don’t belong to them in their private chambers. I must ask you to leave.” Her voice was tight and he knew then he had really lost her. That the damage was irreparable. “You said so yourself. Our fate has been sealed. We were never meant to be. Let it go. Let us go.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered to the wooden planks on the floor.

  Her hand rested on his forearm, her fingers trembling.

  “You have to.”

  PART I

  Through lover’s eyes,

  weaknesses become strengths

  Olympus, Modern Day

  I

  Cassius

  One thousand souls to double. That was what my mother had told me five hundred years ago when she handed me a quiver of arrows infused with the power of love. As the son of the goddess of love, I was supposed to know love. To understand it. To live love purely. Honestly.

  According to my mother I have done none of those things. To her, I am a failure and a coward driven by lust and insecurity. After years of scoffing at love she did what any good mother would do… she cursed me.

  I was relegated to this small cottage at the base of Mount Olympus as nothing more than a demi. Placed into servitude to the Moirai, the sisters of Fate, with a simple task: Fate one thousand mortal souls with their perfect match. That part of the curse has been easy. The tricky part is that in order to restore my full status I need to convince mother that I understand what true love looks like.

  My feet slide off the small wooden table piled high with small leather bound journals and my chair rights itself with a thump. I slap an old weathered notebook closed and toss it on top of the rest. An action I’ve completed nine hundred and ninety-nine useless times so far. The last assignment burns through my mind. The boy. Adam. Broken, beaten down, unable to surface through the oppression of his father. He was easy to find a match for. He was already in love with the right kind of person, but he needed a little encouragement to cut ties with his past. To cut the ties to the girl he was protecting. The one that I promised to help if he left. The one who reminded me of my Lena.

  I called the girl Venia because she didn’t want me to know her name, and visited night after night for months, replaying my darkest memories for her. Telling her my story of star-crossed lovers simply because she asked me to.

  My weakness for broken women getting in the way of my work yet again.

  I run my hand through my tangled hair and begin to stack the journals neatly along the shelf where they belong. All but one. The last blank journal ready for my final pairing.

  A hard knock at the thick wooden door makes my heart stumble. Merda, I curse under my breath. It’s them. It’s the Moirai with my last assignment and I’m not ready. I’ve thought about this day for so long, but it always seemed so far away. Almost as if it would never happen. That I’d continue to match mortals together under the watchful–and creepy–eye of the sisters of Fate for all of eternity. Freedom is so far in my past that I forget what it even feels like to be a full-status god anymore.

  My shoulders tense up as a thought I’ve never had before passes through my mind.

  What if I fail?

  < - - - >

  Any lack of confidence I felt increases ten-fold as I sit in front of the Moirai. The three sisters look back at me with eyeless faces from across the table. They’re waiting for my response to the identity of my last assignment but whatever that response is, I can’t get a hold of it.

  “This?” I ask gesturing to a tall staff held by the meanest of the three sisters, Morta, the sister responsible for ending life. Encased in the staff, in a knot of wood, is a single eyeball that makes my stomach roll even after 200 years. In the pupil of the eye there’s a reflection of a boy who might be on the edge of becoming a man, judging by his shoulder width and the dusting of facial hair. But mostly he is skinny and a little pathetic. He doesn’t look broken, abused, or any of the traits I’m used to my assignments having. He looks completely comfortable slouched in a chair with some strange device clutched in his hand.

  “This is the mortal? This has to be some sort of trick?”

  I look expectantly between the Moirai, whose eyeless faces all settle into glares that don’t need eyes to be terrifying.

  “It is no such thing, Cassius,” Morta says, deepening her scowl. “We do not play in trickery.” She sounds much more offended than she needs to, and I lean back in my chair to hide my frustration.

  “Okay,” I shoot back with the attitude of a mortal teenager. “What’s wrong with him then?”

  All my assignments are
damaged. Lost, tormented souls unable to swim in the waters of their own existence. Broken people who deserve true love but can't quite attain it on their own. This guy is a goofball with his fluffy hair and oversized hat and undersized pants clinging to thin spindly legs.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him dear,” Nona–the crazy one in charge of creation of life–lifts her head as she twirls a thread between her fingers. She points upward, and I make the mistake of looking up to the ceiling of their workshop. Hanging like worms from tree branches are all the threads that belong to every mortal that is alive in the world at this exact moment. “Nothing’s wrong with any of them. Fate has a plan for everyone, and she has selected you to help this young man.”

  “Fate’s plan?” I don’t know why I still argue this with them. Maybe because I’ve seen way too many horrible things in my time as Mortal Matchmaker to be able to trust Fate’s plan. My thoughts instantly go to Lena. The girl I thought would break my curse. But Fate had other plans for her and none of them included me. Or love.

  “Sometimes togetherness is the worst kind of loneliness...” Decima–the maternal one in charge of quality of life–mumbles and I raise my hand.

  “No. No riddles today. I need his background. Please, sisters. It’s my last assignment…” I plead with them, knowing that even though they act uncaring they’ve grown used to me hanging around. Ever since Mother thought I was doing a terrible job of managing my curse on my own and placed me in their care.

  They’ll miss me when I’m gone. Maybe I might miss them a little too.

  Nona reaches forward and grips my hand with spindly fingers. Her skin is soft and warm despite the fact that she’s as old as time. “My dearest, sweetest Cassius.” Her voice is urgent with a hint of warning laced into the sing-song melody of her natural tone. It’s rather unnerving. “You’re correct. This is your last task under the guidance of Fate. Do not think because it’s your last that it will be your easiest. I plead you to always face forward to your freedom and stay your course. Looking over your shoulder at this time is unwise, dear boy, because confusing the past with the present will have dire consequences for your future.”

  With that she drops my hand and shoves away from the table. She stumbles her way to her spinning wheel and sits with her back to me as I ponder her riddle. Both of the other sisters have returned to their tasks as servants of Fate, as if this entire meeting had never happened, as if I’m no longer even in the room.

  It’s not often that the sisters defy Fate by dropping hints about what she has in store but this was definitely a hint. A strong one.

  It makes my gut turn to granite because unlike most of their riddles this one is simple to decipher. They know better than to tell me not to do something and expect I’ll listen.

  The Moirai want me to do something while I work on my last assignment. Something I shouldn’t do.

  And it involves a huge piece of my past.

  I immediately think of her… and the cracks in my skin deepen.

  Seattle, Washington, Modern Day

  II

  Zarah

  His face is broken. Not like how you’d think of a broken person, where you can see the sadness seeping from every expression, but actually broken. Spidery cracks of black splinter his forehead, neck and arms. I’ve drawn this person more than I’d ever admit. Closed my eyes and conjured a man who didn’t exist to feel safe while locked in a closet.

  He called me Venia because even though he didn’t exist I still didn’t want him to know my real name. I called him Monet because he was a blurry imitation of a person--even when he sat next to me. I let him tell me stories through the haze I used to live in. When my mind stopped summoning him, I’d sketched him more times than I could possibly count until I moved in with Crystal (my birth mother) and discovered paint. Now his image often sits at the end of my brush.

  His olive features are etched in my brain as if I’d stared at him for hours when in reality, I’ve never actually seen him clearly. He would tell me if I looked him directly in the eye he’d turn to stone, but when he wasn’t looking, or his eyes were closed I would squint into the darkness and study his face.

  I swirl my paintbrush in the carefully mixed olive-beige before touching the canvas, smoothing the harsh line of his jaw.

  I drop the beige for the yellowish green I mixed to do the small flecks of highlights in his irises but pause before my brush touches the canvas. This person is not real. I should know what his eyes look like. But I don't. I always pause at his eyes.

  As I paint him, it’s like he’s here with me again, which would be creepy to someone else, but all my paintings watch me. Make me feel. Throw my soul into the moment I’m trying to capture.

  “Very interesting subject, Zarah. Very detailed. Do you know this man?” Mr. Tanner pauses behind me, pronouncing my name Zuh-ruh like I haven’t told him a thousand times my name rhymes with Sarah. He’s completely full of shit anyway. Wouldn’t know real art if he was in it. And always uses words like ‘interesting’ or ‘unique’ or ‘different’. Community college in south Seattle doesn’t exactly attract geniuses for art teachers.

  “Thanks.” I purposefully avoid his question, smile too wide and bat my eyes at him. He takes a step back and tries to make like he’s not staring.

  Maybe I’ll tone down the eyeliner tomorrow. Maybe. Or maybe it’s the cat-eye contacts. I’m not the type to try and get myself noticed, but it’s completely worth it to make Tanner step back. I need the credits, and art is easy, but I can’t imagine I’ll learn anything here that I haven’t learned on my own.

  I pull my thick dark hair around my shoulder and braid it to keep it from getting painted. The braid is nearly as thick as my wrist.

  By the time I finish cleaning my brushes, the art room is dark and quiet. The man’s face on my canvas remains unfinished but no less haunting. I should probably try to vary from the inexplicably sad expression that’s been pushing its way in but any other doesn’t feel right.

  < - - - >

  “Hey, B!” I yell to my best friend Taylor across the parking lot. She’s the only thing that followed me from my last and only year of high school in Seattle. “Can you still give me a ride?”

  “No can do!” she hollers back, waving a lanky arm. Her pink hair is starting to fade and looks terrible. I’ll have her over this weekend and fix it. Try something new and more original than pink. “I get to live in the heaven of McDonald’s stink tonight ‘til ten!” Her narrow face splits into a ridiculous grimace that I can see from ten car lengths.

  I flip her off as I laugh. “Fine then! Coffee tomorrow before History!”

  She blows me an exaggerated kiss and ducks into her rusted out Aveo. Almost every morning we meet at the same little coffee joint near my place where they make this amazing triple espresso macchiato loaded with all kinds of sugar. It’s not great for sitting in classes all day but it does wonders for the residual damage caused by my addictive–and borderline obsessive–tendencies. Caffeine is my new drug and my therapist says at least it’s not coke. So I roll with it.

  Taylor honks as she flies by and yells “I’m buying” out the window, making me laugh again. Hardcore punk rock outside, fluffy marshmallow inside. It’s why I adore her. She feels guiltier about leaving me behind than she does about being late for her job.

  I don’t mind walking anyway. Even in the rain. The crap neighborhood means that I usually get a few propositions on my way home, and a few offers for a high, which is easier to turn down some days than others.

  The rain pelts down over me, the spring showers warmer than even a month ago. I tilt my face to the sky as the cars fly past me and then close my eyes so I can tune out their sound. I swipe under my eyes and smudge my fingers black, catching a still figure on the corner making me stop. The moment I blink, he’s gone. It was him. The guy I painted for the hundredth time today. Seeing stuff that doesn’t exist seems to be a specialty of mine but I’ve never seen him sober. I’ve never seen him outside of my
closet and definitely not since I moved to Seattle. I must have been way more into art class today than I needed to be. At least a little crazy helps my art--this is Crystal’s logic and maybe the only thing she understands about me. To be fair, I’ve only known her for two years.

  Laughing to myself, I wipe my hands on my purposefully torn jeans and shuffle toward home. One sighting on a grey day after painting him. I’m not calling my therapist over that.

  I open my eyes again as I start walking, my boots shuffling on the sidewalk littered with so many colors of grey and brown that they blend together in a watery mess. I jump into a puddle with both feet like I did when I was five, and watch the water roll off my boots. The mid-calf Docs were a present from Crystal after a big sale of one of her art pieces, and they’re perfect for rainy days like today. I hope she’s painting because we’re close to rent time and I don’t know if there’s enough to cover it.

  When I turn the corner to the alleyway where we live, I pause at the rickety metal stairs bolted into the thick brick. The two old buildings sit far enough apart for two rows of cars and one lane of traffic. My building is the taller one, an old mill turned to shops that open on the opposite side of the building, and a few random spaces that are rented above.

  Movement catches my eye, and I squint through both the downpour and the steam rising from the street, my heart beating hard enough to drown out the noise of the rain. This edgy feeling is probably nothing. A cat behind one of the cars parked to the right. An old Escort, a new Mercedes, a broken-down seventies muscle car… There’s a whole row to choose from. Even as I try and force myself to believe nothing’s here, I feel something’s not right.

  The heart-pounding warning isn’t the feeling I get from a cat in a wheel well. This is the gut twisting I get when faced with a ghost from my past. One small possible figment of my imagination is okay, but my body reacting? Not so much.