Fates

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2013 by Paper Lantern Lit, LLC
Jacket art copyright © 2013 Iness Rychlik (girl on rock) and Harry Pettis (background) for Trevillion Images

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bross, Lanie.
Fates / Lanie Bross. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Corinthe, a former Fate and now Executor, responsible for carrying out unfulfilled destinies on Earth, finds herself falling for Lucas, a human boy whose death she is supposed to enact as her last act before returning to Pyralis.
ISBN 978-0-385-74282-5 (hc : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-375-99079-3 (glb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-307-97735-9 (ebook)
[1. Fate and fatalism—Fiction. 2. Love—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction. 4. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B7995178Fat 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012035297

Book design by Vikki Sheatsley

Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

To Todd.
I couldn't do this without you.

Cover

eBook Information

Title page

Copyright page

Dedication

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

P
rincipal Sylvia Patterson pulled her office door shut, checked the lock, then hitched a stack of folders slightly higher in her left arm as she made her way down the empty halls of Mission High.

The school was silent except for the sound of her own breathing and the click of her heels on the polished gray linoleum. She passed darkened classrooms behind closed doors: the desks, tables, and chairs within were just vague, silhouetted forms beyond smudged glass panes. In each window she walked by, her reflection appeared distorted.

Even after nearly two decades in these halls, she always felt scared when the school was empty.

As she rounded a corner, Sylvia stopped. A trill of alarm passed through her: a figure stood just inside the double doors at the exit, partially hidden by shadows.

No one was allowed on school grounds after hours.

Sylvia dipped her right hand into her purse, closing her fingers around the can of Mace she always kept close by. “School's closed now,” she chirped, hoping the intruder wouldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

“Sorry.” The girl turned, her face now illuminated by the weak light flowing in from the parking lot outside.

Sylvia exhaled. “Oh, Corinthe. You startled me.” She withdrew her hand from her purse. Silly to be so jumpy. It was only the new transfer student.

Corinthe stared at her silently. She had a careless, disheveled look, despite the fact that Sylvia had been careful to emphasize the importance of one's appearance when they'd met for the first time yesterday to fill out her transfer paperwork. Corinthe might have been a very pretty girl, with her classic, well-spaced features and her pale gray eyes. Even her clothing was neat and well put-together—at least she cared about
that
part of her looks. It was the hair—the wild, tangled mess of blond that hung down her back—that told a different story.

Sylvia had been a principal for ten years and had a good eye for possibility. She sensed, after knowing Corinthe barely two days, that the girl could be a real standout if she applied herself. Unfortunately, experience had taught her that the kids in her school rarely lived up to their potential. Corinthe would probably end up just another lost child who fell through the cracks. During Sylvia's “Welcome to Mission High, Keep Your Nose Clean” speech, Corinthe had simply gazed at her, almost without breathing, her gray eyes completely flat, detached.

When children had no choices left, they all looked the same.

Corinthe shifted slightly in the doorway. “My foster mom was supposed to pick me up, but she never showed. Do you think  … ?” Her voice trailed off and she raised her eyes expectantly.

Those eyes.

Sylvia shuffled her stack of folders from her left arm to her right so she could check her watch. It would take exactly twenty-six minutes to get home and change before Steve rang her doorbell. She couldn't be late for dinner, not after she'd practically begged him for another chance.

“Where do you live?”

Corinthe tilted her head slightly, like a curious bird. “It won't be a long drive.” Corinthe spoke in a measured tone, almost like an actor reciting lines. It was a slightly strange response, Sylvia thought, but dismissed it—Corinthe was likely desperate.

“Come on, then,” Sylvia said. If they didn't hit traffic, she would be okay.

They left through the main doors and Sylvia walked quickly down the sidewalk. She was tired. Too tired to make small talk. Already her mind was on Steve—what she would wear, what she would say, whether she had remembered to get her favorite blouse back from the dry cleaner's.

She turned left at the end of the block and continued toward the staff lot, Corinthe's footsteps echoing lightly behind her.

Should she wear the green blouse? Or the blue one? The green one highlighted her eyes nicely … but the blue one was more low-cut. …

“Here we are,” Sylvia said cheerfully. After ten years as a teacher and ten as an administrator, she knew how to keep up appearances, even when her thoughts were a thousand miles away. She stopped next to a small black sedan parked under a flickering streetlamp. She pulled out her keys and pressed the unlock button. A quick mechanical chirp echoed in the thick spring air. She threw her things into the back and slid into the driver's seat, slightly startled by how quickly Corinthe appeared beside her.

The car growled to life and Sylvia maneuvered it onto the street. “So. Which way?” she asked.

Corinthe pointed. Sylvia eyed the girl, then turned, zigzagging the car right onto Church, left onto Dubcoe, right onto Castro Street, each time in response to a silent gesture from Corinthe. The pendant hanging from her rearview mirror swayed back and forth with each turn. Corinthe, Sylvia noticed, kept looking at it with a slightly troubled expression.

“It's St. Jude,” Sylvia explained. “The patron saint of lost causes. Kind of a sad saint, when you think about it.” She half laughed. “Still, everyone could use a miracle, don't you think?”

“Sure, I guess,” Corinthe said neutrally, the first words she had spoken since she'd gotten into the car. After another minute, Corinthe raised her hand as Castro merged with Divisadero. “Keep straight here, all the way toward the water.”

“You live near the Marina?” Sylvia wasn't surprised. “How do you like it?”

“It's okay for now.” Her voice cracked just a little as the car smoothly rounded the slight curve.

Some emotion seemed to pass over Corinthe's face: Anxiety? Guilt? The expression was gone too quickly for Sylvia to decipher.

Suddenly, Sylvia wanted to reach out to Corinthe, to reassure her that things could be different if she only believed—if she
tried.
Sylvia knew that behind every student there was a story. That was why she kept doing this job day after day. There were moments—flashes, briefly held, like the light of a firefly—when she understood that this was the job she was
meant
for. If she could convince just one girl that her life was worth living, that she wasn't a lost cause … that there was someone who hadn't forgotten, who really
saw
her. …

“So, Corinthe,” she began. “Where did you—?”

Corinthe braced her hand on the dashboard and closed her eyes. She'd already seen it happen, knew what the outcome would be, but sitting there, waiting for the car to swerve, a tiny shiver of fear had gone up her spine.

There will be no miracles today.

The car dipped into a rut and the steering wheel jerked from Sylvia's hands, spinning them into oncoming traffic. Horns blared, tires screeched, and for a split second everything froze.

Sylvia never even had a chance to finish her question.

Bright headlights illuminated the inside of the car and reflected off Sylvia's terrified face; then an enormous SUV slammed into the driver's side of the sedan. There was a loud, long howl, followed by a boom of crumpling metal. The impact sent the car spiraling wildly out of control across traffic. Corinthe threw her hands up as she was thrown forward violently. The windshield flew toward her face before her seat belt locked and she jerked back. Red-hot pain flashed through her chest.

The car glanced off a white compact that had swerved too late and finally came to rest in the opposite lane.

Then there was nothing but silence.

White powder filled the small cabin and Corinthe coughed, fighting to catch a breath. Smoke billowed from the front of the car, and the pungent aroma of burnt rubber permeated the air.

Corinthe felt a brief moment of dizziness.

Sylvia's head was resting against the steering wheel, twisted unnaturally far to the right. A tiny trickle of blood ran down her cheek from a gash in her temple and soaked into the deflated air bag. Her eyes were open so that she stared at Corinthe, unseeing.

Corinthe felt a sudden swelling in her throat. Where had she been going? Who would mourn for her? Corinthe shook her head as though to clear away the questions. Recently, she'd been overwhelmed by doubts, by questions that swirled like heavy winds whenever she closed her eyes.

But curiosity was the reason she was here, exiled to this world, in the first place. It was not her place to ask questions.

Still, she couldn't help reaching over to gently ease Sylvia's eyelids closed.

Outside the car, people had begun to shout. Cars were blaring to life again, and already, Corinthe could hear the distant wail of a siren.

Inside, Corinthe waited. Then—a tiny flicker. A firefly pushed its way free of Sylvia's hand, exactly as Corinthe had known it would. It was a Messenger. Once released, it would return to Pyralis, signifying that fate had been appeased, that order had been restored to the universe.

Corinthe gently scooped the small insect into her hand and closed her fingers around it. Relief, profound and gut-wrenching, made her limbs weak. She felt the tiny wings beat frantically against her palm, even though the firefly itself was weightless. It was like holding a tiny feather. Corinthe always worried that she would somehow harm the delicate Messenger until she could set it free near a Crossroad.

Voices rose; outside, there was an angry hiss of steam.

A blond woman in a matched jogging suit stepped out of the black SUV.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said, her voice muffled by the glass. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” The woman pressed her manicured fingers against her mouth. For a brief second, her eyes passed to Corinthe. A man ran up to the woman from the sidewalk and took her elbow when she swayed. Someone screamed and several people shouted into cell phones.

Corinthe reached to unbuckle her seat belt. A stray lock of hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it away with her free hand, only to realize that blood now coated her fingers. She froze, stared at it, unblinking.

This was not possible. She didn't bleed.

She wasn't like
them.

Suddenly, the car door was wrenched open.

“Holy shit, are you okay?”

Huge brown eyes stared at her. She nodded, tried to move, found she was still tightly secured by the seat belt. A dark-haired boy, around her age, she guessed, ducked into the car and leaned across her chest, pushed the release, then carefully untangled her arm. Even with all the smoke and the smell of burnt rubber still choking her, Corinthe was startled by the scent of the boy: spice and citrus and something irreplaceably human. He wore jeans and a Bay Sun Breakers soccer shirt underneath an army jacket. There was something familiar about him, but if Corinthe had met him before, she couldn't place where. He had full lips, an angular chin, and dark brown eyes that were wide with shock.

Too skinny, but cute.

Corinthe shook her head. She must have hit it during the accident: he was human, and she could hardly ever tell the difference between humans. But something about this boy seemed different. …

He started to reach behind her, to lift her out. The fog in her head cleared immediately.

“Don't touch me,” she said.

“I'm just trying to help.” His voice was low. For a second, his tan hand skated along her shoulder, sending a chill through her. It felt like the touch of the firefly's wings against her palm, uncomfortable but welcome at the same time. “Look—you're bleeding. You were in an accident. Do you remember anything?”

The accident. The firefly. Corinthe slid out from the car and pushed the boy out of her way with her elbow.

“Hey!” He tried to stop her, but Corinthe shoved her way through the thick crowd of people. She clenched her fist tighter around the tiny spirit, which fluttered in her palm in protest. The wail of sirens grew louder, getting closer by the second.

She had to get away.

She ran as fast as she could. She ignored the shouts, growing fainter behind her, tried to push the feel of the boy's touch out of her mind.

Her steps pounded on the concrete, taking her farther away from the disorder behind her. Her lungs burned, but she couldn't stop. Not yet.

The firefly pulsed inside her closed fist.

There was still one more thing she had to do.