Fated (Fate of Love Book 1) Page 6

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” I say. “How much?” I have to have this painting and if she gives it up willingly, me taking the painting will go much smoother. I feel Max’s curiosity stir within me as I panic. I struggle to keep everything together. Between her and Max and now this. I need to get out of here. She needs to answer me.

  She leans back and folds her arms, maybe wondering how much I’d pay. What she doesn’t realize is that I’m willing to dry Max’s wallet to leave with this canvas. “Hundred bucks.”

  “Done.” I reach into my pocket and pull out cash. Her jaw joins her eyes by widening.

  “Thank you, Zarah, for mending me. But I have to leave. I have, uh, something I need to do.”

  I turn and burn through the door and down those rickety old steps before Zarah has a chance to respond.

  < - - - >

  It’s two in the morning. I’m hanging out at a little all night place, drinking copious amounts of coffee because Mortal sleep is strange, and I can’t handle the dreaming part. I’m almost done my forty-eight hours as Max, but this painting is making me crazy. Time is moving slower than when Zarah touches me, but it’s not even close to as calming.

  My leg bounces under the table and I read the same news story for the sixth time, stealing glances over at the painting. A blast of cold air hits me and the door jingles as someone comes in. The air changes in the room but my mortal brain is tired, and I can’t pinpoint it. There’s a flash out the window that distracts me in my jumpy state, and I turn to stare into a pair of dead white eyes for less than a second before they’re gone.

  A hand hits my shoulder and I convulse, spilling my coffee. My heart pumps. What the hell was that? Those eyes. I shake my head deciding it was a sleep-deprived hallucination just as Curo slides into the booth across from me.

  “Mortal again, Cy?” He chuckles. “I heard you got shit-kicked by a girl too. I had to see for myself.”

  My heart is still hammering from the thing I saw in the window, so I don’t have time to be snarky.

  “You’re only happy about my current state because now you aren’t the weakest of the gods.” Maybe I do have time.

  He opens his mouth but the waitress interrupts him.

  “Can I get you anything?” The girl is young, Max’s age, with super short white blond hair and a hoop through her nose. Tattoos snake down her arm and Curo’s eyes gleam with desire. This is where the mortal legends come from.

  “Well, I don’t want to say what I want from you in front of my friend here. But a coffee will do for now.” He winks at her and a frown settles across her face. She probably gets hit on a lot because this looks like a practiced reaction. I read faces as part of my job. The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement and she turns away from us.

  “She’s totally into me.” Curo leans back in the booth and laces his fingers behind his neck.

  “Not as into you as you are though.” I scoff at him as he shrugs his broad shoulders.

  “Well, yeah. That’s a given.” Curo grins wider but the way he’s scanning my face, or Max’s face I should say, I can’t tell if he’s amused by her or me. “You look smarter. You change your hair or something?”

  I glare at him. “Is there a point to this?”

  “Nope. The Moirai said you were out playing Mortal again, so I thought I’d pop in. Plus I have to deliver your freedom.” He sets a vile of liquid on the table between us.

  Thank, Zeus, I never thought I’d be so happy to be a demi-god.

  The waitress brings Curo a coffee and fills mine up. Curo catches her hand as she leaves.

  “Does the coffee come with a name?” His voice is smooth and makes me gag. I swipe the vile off the table so she doesn’t see it when she rolls her eyes.

  The waitress smiles and pulls her hand away. “Coastal Roasters, coarse grind.”

  “I think I love her.” Curo leans across the table as she walks away.

  “I have no idea how you do it,” I say gesturing to the waitress who is clearly flirting. Girls and their hard to get routine, it’s formulaic. Curo gestures to his face.

  “This is how I do it, dude.”

  “Yeah well, the rest of you is deplorable.”

  “Yeah. That. That’s easy. I never stick around long enough to let them figure out that part.”

  “You’re here to take me back, right?” I ignore his asinine statement to get to the reason why he’s here. He shakes his head and drains his coffee.

  “Nice chattin’ with you too, big guy. But, yes.” I’m glad I only have one friend, because Curo is enough of a hassle. “But I have to do something first.”

  He leans over the table, his yellow curls hanging in his clear blue eyes and slaps my face. I glare harder. Part of it is because he is stronger than me now and he wants me to know it. He’s a total dick, as the modern mortals would say. And he knows that, too.

  I clench my jaw and yank the top off the vile. I have no idea what’s in this magical potion the Fates brew up, but after a couple hundred years I stopped questioning.

  “Are you gunna sip it like a princess, or can we get moving?” Curo stands and glances over at the waitress.

  I down the whole bottle in one go and a burning sensation tears through me. I hear a thunk and look over at Max’s head on the diner table. I glance down at my own body.

  My own body.

  Curo suddenly grabs me and I snatch the painting before we both disappear.

  < - - - >

  Still clutching the canvas of Nona, Curo and I appear in my cottage at the base of Olympus, and I’m bathed in elated relief. Home. No more bleeding. No more sleep and hunger and getting punched in the face by women from my past and all those other things that plague mortals.

  Curo slumps back into my desk chair as I sink into the cushions of a long seating bench that stretches the whole length of the small house.

  “Why are you carrying around a painting of Nona?” Curo nods to the painting but he’s already leafing through my notes about Max.

  I toss the image on my desk and shake my head. “No reason.”

  Curo’s eyebrow rises suspiciously, but he doesn’t push.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Today’s Spring Equinox. You know what that means.” Curo smirks and my heart sinks.

  “Merda! You’ve already been sent for her?” I ask, trying to hide my sudden desperation. “Could you not show up?”

  With everything that’s happened in the last couple weeks, I can’t handle one more thing. But as the Moirai say, Fate must have a plan. I really hate Fate sometimes.

  “Uh, yeah. Not show up to escort the Queen of the Underworld from her imprisonment by her psychopath husband for the measly three months a year she’s allowed to travel freely between the worlds. I really want to be responsible for that. Podex. Maybe stay out of her way for once. And don’t let her in your pants again. No one likes a home-wrecker.”

  “You need to leave now, Curo.” My voice is tight. He laughs.

  “Good luck finding a girl for your assignment.” He laughs even harder tapping my journal. “And I’m serious, dude. Lay low. Finish your assignment. Stay out of Serissa’s way. She’s scheming. Asking questions.” He throws a glare my way that says he’s serious, tosses my journal back onto the table, and disappears before the pages stop fluttering.

  My heart and my gut turn to stone dread as I think about Serissa. The goddess with a scorned heart and a vengeful spirit.

  Too many of my problems revolve around women. And the idiots that love them. Myself included.

  < - - - >

  I slam the painting on the creaky wooden table and glare down at Nona, who has the Eye of the Moirai pointed at Zarah’s painting. It feels so good to be back in my own body that I feel every muscle and every limb as I lean over Nona and tap the painting with my finger.

  “How lovely. What’s this?” Nona sings, and I pinch my nose like she does to me when she’s annoyed.

  “Really? Really, Nona? You damn we
ll know what this is. Would you like to maybe explain why a mortal girl has painted a portrait of you spinning a life thread made of silver?”

  Nona turns her face to me, like she’s looking at me, even though she has no eyes. A little knowing smile forms on her thin lips and my gut drops out. Every ounce of confidence I felt three seconds ago is gone with one look. I’m going to get nothing and I should have known that.

  “Dear boy, I have no idea who you’re talking about. Never mind what it means,” she says, lifting the canvas and waving the Eye over it. “This is simply stunning. So much talent. I must hang it at once.”

  Her voice trails off and she acts like I am no longer even in the room. Brushing past me she begins to hum a soft tune as she shuffles away.

  I slump down into the chair.

  “What do you want from me?” I mumble, this time not to the air but to Fate. Venia. Serissa. Two from my past. Now both back in my present.

  Is this what the Nona meant by her riddle… mixing my past with my present will have dire consequences for my future?

  My head falls into my hands.

  I have no idea how long I sit like that.

  An eternity, maybe.

  VIII

  Zarah

  I have no idea where to start in all the weirdness of my life. But days after the Tai Chi and the painting, and I’m finally settled on how I want to celebrate my first ever sale of a painting. However strange the circumstances may have been, the sale seems like a pretty huge deal that should be commemorated by spending the cash foolishly.

  “A tattoo?” Taylor whispers as we step inside. “Are you sure? There are needles, Zarah.”

  “Of course I’m sure.” I’ve wanted one forever, but I was also smart enough to know that I needed to be sober. The place smells like ink, disinfectant soap, and cigarette smoke. I breathe in deeply, soaking in the atmosphere and the nervous and artistic energy bouncing around. “Your parents own the tattoo parlor. How can this be freaking you out?”

  “Because I watch people wince in pain, and then come back two years later for us to try and cover up what they don’t like anymore.” Taylor’s brows rise halfway up her forehead. “And…just really?”

  I flick the two piercings in one brow and point at the one in the other. “And these?”

  “Uh... If I want those to go away, I leave my rings out. Dork.” She widens her eyes, making her crazy hair almost like a blue halo around her narrow face.

  “Your cousin’s hooking me up, right?” I shrug as I scan the walls. “You’re the one who said it’d be better for him to do it than your mom.”

  “Yeah. But forever, Zarah. Forever.” She grasps my arm and I flinch as I almost always do when I don’t expect to be touched.

  “This coming from a girl who can’t keep the same color in her hair for more than two weeks,” I tease. “You’re not exactly the high standard for commitment.”

  She snorts.

  “Isn’t that like, against McDonald’s policy? I mean, how can you expect your career with them to go anywhere when you’re not even willing to follow simple dress code?” I tug her hair.

  “Bitch.” Taylor laughs as she slugs my shoulder.

  “Hey, Tay.” A tall, lanky blond guy steps out from the back, leaning a nicely muscled arm against the wall, stopping my heart a little. I’m sure he’s another guy that would leave me feeling emptied out, and who I may freak out if he tried to touch me. Well, aside from the tattoo. But… Damn. Wiry and strong and tattoos up his neck, down his arms, and disappearing under the black T-shirt I’d sorta like to see off. To check out his tattoos, of course. From a safe distance.

  “Zarah?” Taylor elbows me.

  “Hey.” I reach out my hand to shake, and he feels abrasive, like sandpaper through my insides scratching off any attraction I had to him.

  Being attracted to someone would definitely complicate my life along with the fact that I have no idea how to handle a boyfriend. The sandpapery feel is a blessing.

  “You ready?” he asks. “And Taylor said your mom’s cool so I won’t be getting in trouble for this, right?”

  “I’m eighteen. I don’t need her permission. She won’t even notice anyway. She might not notice it if I got one on my forehead.” I smirk.

  He slides his fingers across my forehead, but I flinch away. “Not on this pretty face.”

  Taylor makes a gagging noise while sticking her finger in her mouth. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are, Brett. For freaking seriously, can we get started already?”

  He tilts his head toward the back and I follow.

  “That’s it?” he asks scanning the paper. “Isn’t this a philosophy thing? Or a Gandhi thing?”

  “It’s an everything, thing.” And it’s the right tattoo. For me anyway.

  “Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong,” he reads. “And you want this lettering exactly? And the swirly design behind it?”

  “Yep.” I strip my long-sleeved shirt off so I’m down to my tank. “And right here.” I point to my left shoulder blade. Over my heart.

  “Lie down here. It hurts like a bitch, so tell me if you need me to stop.” He smooths his fingers over where I asked for the tat, and I push out a breath to stop from squirming right off the table.

  “I can handle it,” I say. “But keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Feisty. I like.” He laughs followed swiftly by a, “What the hell Taylor!”

  “Stop hitting on my friend and do your job,” she growls. “Or I keep pulling arm hairs.”

  I love Taylor a little.

  < - - - >

  When I get home, I need to paint. There was way too much touching from Brett while getting my ink done, and something about painting makes me feel cleaner than taking a shower. I snatch a canvas from the pile that Crystal and I stretched and primed last weekend and rest it on an easel. Two minutes into my project, my hand is moving without conscious thought, lightly sketching what I’ll paint. Half a face that runs chills up my spine, but I can’t stop, quickly pulling out paints and starting the mixing on the small table next to me. In my mind, my body is reflected in the eye, and I start there because I’m wearing black and it feels simple to paint.

  As I move past the eye, the skin of the person is grey and purple. Veiny, and distorted. An unease settles in further as I realize I probably don’t want to see what I’m painting. I work for a few more minutes because my hands aren’t ready to stop. When I step back I hold my breath. Whatever the thing is, it looks like death watching me.

  I grab the painting and nearly toss it in a corner, but curiosity won’t let me. I have to know what it’ll look like when I’m finished, but maybe not right now.

  < - - - >

  I slump lower in the McDonald’s both. A day later, and my shoulder’s still sensitive from the tattoo, and I haven’t heard from Max. After he tore from my place, I think I figured that would be the last of him. Still… I did sell my first painting, so there’s that. I also haven’t been able to bring myself to look at the painting I started. Crystal frowned as her gaze traveled over the canvas. I’m sure because she wants me to paint the couple for her to sell.

  The French fries I snagged from Taylor are like lead in my stomach, and I’m wishing I’d have skipped out on seeing her during her shift.

  “Hey,” I call her as she mops the floor next to me in her adorable little blue visor hat she has to wear. “You missed a spot.”

  Without missing a beat, Taylor swipes the mop over the top of my boot leaving gross grease water streaked across the leather. I pull my feet up, kicking the mop away and swearing as she laughs. I’m about to flip her off when something out the window catches my eye. A blur of purplish grey with hollow white eyes.

  “What was that?” I gasp and Taylor looks up.

  “What was what?” she asks leaning forward to the window. I crush my eyes shut and see the half finished painting in my apartment. It's not real.

  “Nothing. Never mind. I'm tired.”
>
  “You’ve been really jumpy lately, Z. It’s starting to trip me out.” She’s stopped asking if I’m okay, but these statement make it obvious that she wants to know what’s up.

  “I’ve been feeling weird. It’ll pass. But speaking of jumpy. I saw that guy you ran into a few weeks ago at the coffee shop.”

  Taylor flops down into the booth across from me. “You mean the guy who ran into me.” She corrects me and I smile, shoving another handful of fries into my mouth.

  “Yeah, that guy. I told him he owes you a coffee.”

  Taylor smiles the rueful smile that looks totally out of place on her. “I’ve seen him a couple times since then. Is he like mute or something? At first I thought he was sort of cute in a bumbly way, but now he seems weird.”

  “I think he’s a loner.” I shrug, unsure why I don't want to tell her that we hung out the other day. “Be your natural lovable self and demand he take you for coffee. He’s cute. You would be a mismatch made in... Wherever mismatches are made.”

  Taylor laughs but my thoughts immediately go to Golden Eyes. He told me once he was in charge of love. Pairing people.

  I push it from my mind. That’s ridiculous. Gods... Don't exist.

  Suddenly I stand and Taylor sighs in a way that says You’re doing that jumpy weird thing again.

  “I should go. Cafe? Monday.”

  Taylor stands grabbing her mop and slopping it into the bucket. “Yeah, of course. Monday. See ya, Z. Don’t let the creepy night monsters get you.” She nods toward the window, and I assume she means the thing I saw outside.

  I peer out into the darkness and a shiver crawls up my spine.

  Thanks, Tay. Because I'm not already on edge.

  < - - - >

  The darkness is almost damp tonight—one of the hazards of spring. I swear it’s blacker out when it’s wet. As I turn off the main road on to the first street with apartments, golden eyes snag mine in the darkness. I freeze, holding my breath and stare between the two white buildings—the ones built for people who think they’re arty, but don’t want to live in the crap-hole style apartments that Crystal and I do. The eyes aren’t there. No person is there. Nothing but the roadway behind the buildings is there. It’s much more comforting to think it’s him out there than those creepy things I was painting...