Fated (24 page)

She floated for a moment in the warmth, the cold having completely dissipated suddenly - her body felt warmer, the mud beneath her toes soft as cotton. She glanced upwards, saw the shadow of something - probably Victor - just above the water line. If she could just kick once and slip from the bind of the weed, she'd break the surface and be able to curse him out about trying to kill her yet again, but the weed had a good grip of her now, was winding up her thigh and was pulling her downwards. She kicked. She couldn't break free.

25

Lucas had been watching from the trees. He'd heard Victor's little speech about desire and endurance and seen the glint of metal as he tossed Evie's mother's ring into the deepest part of the water, and he'd taken a step forwards, wanting suddenly to confront Victor there and then. He was getting really tired of watching these daily attempts to kill Evie. And these were the very people who were supposed to be protecting her! Did they not see the irony? And here he was, oath-bound to kill her himself yet hell-bent on protecting her from every last psychopath out there. Victor included.

His eyes settled on Victor and he felt the anger peel back the wounds, almost relished it. Then came the flashes through his mind. Victor's face through the windscreen. The car flipping and spinning, much like the ring Victor had just tossed, through the darkness, landing wheels upwards. His mother's fractured face. The blood dripping onto him from the tree branches overhead.

Victor was standing just a metre away from him right now. It would be so easy to come up from behind and kill him. To end all this.

And he should do it. This second, while he had the chance, while Victor's attention was on Evie.

He took another step. This is what his father would have wanted him to do. But suddenly Evie was tearing off her sweater and kicking off her jeans and all thoughts of revenge were temporarily suspended.

He watched her pull her T-shirt off over her head and toss it to the ground and he stood motionless, unbreathing, as she waded into the pond.

Then she was gone, under the water, and the immediate bolt of panic he felt when he could no longer see her grew with every second she stayed under. He was on the point of diving in after her, had kicked off his shoes, when she resurfaced gasping, glowing in the thin moonlight, her hair slick, her lips almost blue and her teeth chattering so hard he thought they might shatter. He wanted to wade straight in and haul her out but Victor was telling her to go back down and keep looking for the damned ring.

By the time she'd dived again, Lucas had his shirt off and was standing barefoot and bare-chested in his jeans. He slid into the water unseen, melting into the cold darkness, leaving not a trace of a ripple across the surface.

It was coffin dark, deathly cold, silence pressing in on him. He felt the cold only as an afterthought. He swam blind, pushing downwards, his fingers sinking into the mud on the bottom in just a few strokes. He turned, trying to peer through the murk - there, something white gleaming. He kicked and swam towards it.

Evie's eyes were shut, her hair streaming out behind her in black ribbons. Her skin so pale it was translucent, glowing like something unnatural under the water. She was floating suspended in the black water, lulled with the current. Then he saw the weed wrapping its tendrils around her legs, holding her in place. As he swam towards her, an eruption of bubbles burst from her mouth and her lips stayed parted, water rushing in to take the place of the air. He grabbed her wrist and pulled against the weed.

Lucas burst through the surface with her in his arms and heard her gasp, choke and cry out. Her arms flailed at the surface, at him, in bewilderment. He was invisible but still solid. He let her go and dived back down, letting the weight of the water press him to the bottom. He swam fifteen metres to the far side of the pond and quietly broke the surface. Evie was still standing in the water, thigh deep, bent over, gulping down air. She whipped her hair back off her face and stumbled forwards, falling to her knees on the bank.

Damn it. Why wasn't Victor helping her? Lucas glanced over at him.

And found Victor staring right back at him. Not through him or behind him or in his general direction, but straight at him. And he was smiling.

26

Lucas was out of the water before Victor could take a single step towards him. His jeans were plastered freezing against his legs. He was barefoot and the night air whipped his skin as he ran. He wove in and out of the trees, listening for Victor bearing down on him, alert to the whisper of an arrow or the sigh of a blade through the still air. He had no weapons, had left his shirt and his father's knife in the grass by the side of the pond. He ran as though he had the devil on his heels, tearing through undergrowth, his feet ripping on stones. He tried to keep invisible, stick to the darker parts of the wood - those stripped of all moonlight - but he knew Victor could see him now anyway.

He had to get back to the Mission. To the others. But he was heading in the direction of the house. He needed the car. It would be quicker. But how could he leave Evie?

What choice did he have? He swore at himself. He could hardly hang out, put the kettle on and sit back with his feet up waiting for her to return from her night-time swim.

He couldn't protect Evie if he was dead. And once Victor told her who he was - then what? She was hardly going to throw herself into his arms, or look at him the way she'd looked at him in the orchard. No, she was going to plant a bullet between his eyes. Which was what he wanted her to do, wasn't it? To kill him?

Damn it. He swore again. How could he win this thing? He didn't even know the rules any more. Or what team he was on.

No, he thought. He'd never been on any team. He'd always been playing the game alone.

So Victor knew about him. It would only be a matter of time before the Hunters came looking for him. His mind flew frantically through the possibilities, thoughts crowding in on him even as he jumped over fallen branches and skidded over rocks. Did they know he was staying at the Tremain house? Had Jocelyn told Victor about him? Or had he given himself away just now, slipping into the water? Why had Victor smiled at him? Why hadn't he been tearing his throat out? Why hadn't he shot at him? He'd had the chance but he hadn't taken the shot. It was as if he'd wanted Lucas to see him.

Lucas stole through the orchard, his heart rate one rapid single beat, water dripping off his hair and running down his chest and back in rivulets. His jeans were sodden and heavy, squelching with every step. His feet were encased in blood-streaked mud. He circled the house, keeping to the darkest shadows, trying to feel whether anyone besides Mrs Tremain was inside - if he would be walking into a trap.

He paused suddenly, put his head to one side and concentrated. Where was Lobo? Where was the damn dog? He was always on the back porch - a canine sentinel. But he wasn't there now. Lucas listened harder and caught a low whining noise coming from the other side of the house. He slipped around the corner, following the noise, his senses straining, certain he was walking into something.

Lucas rounded the corner and the whining became louder. It was coming from the basement. He jumped down the few steps to the recessed door and turned the handle gently. It opened and he peered in. Inside he could make out the shape of the dog curled up in the corner of the room, whimpering. Lobo barely lifted his head to look at him before sinking his head between his paws.

Lucas stepped quickly into the room, scanning the space. It was a workshop, probably Evie's dad's old space; a workbench ran around two sides of the room, with tools suspended from hooks on the walls. A hunting rifle hung over the door.

The dog nudged him with his nose when he crouched beside him.

'What happened, boy?' Lucas asked, feeling along the dog's legs and shank with his hands, checking for breaks or open wounds.

The dog howled when Lucas's hands closed on his neck. Lucas bent closer. The skin around the collar was burnt, the hair singed off. He could smell the acid burn.

He swore under his breath, patting the dog on the back. 'It's going to be OK, boy.'

He stood up. He could feel her now all right. All the time his senses had been alert for a Hunter and the real danger was right here in the house - and it wasn't even human. It was Shula.

Her presence was palpable - more than the smell, wafting in acid notes off Lobo's coat. Now he could really feel her and it was making the hairs on his arms stand on end, sending rivers of revulsion up and down his spine.

'I'll be right back,' he told Lobo, bending low to whisper in his ear.

He retraced his steps out of the basement, jogging up the veranda steps and pushing open the back door, which was only on the latch. He took the stairs two at a time, listening for any signs that Mrs Tremain had woken up, but he could hear the rhythmic sound of her breathing coming from the other end of the hallway.

The door to Evie's room was slightly ajar, the light off.

He pushed open the door. Shula was lazing back against the pillows on Evie's bed, one fishnet-clad leg crossed over the other, hands clasped behind her head. She beamed at him when he appeared in the doorway, though he was sure he also detected a vague disappointment in the tightening of her mouth. Probably, she'd been hoping that Evie would arrive back before him.

'What the hell are you doing here?' he shouted in a whisper.

Shula pouted. 'My, my, Lucas, what a charming welcome.' She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, swaying on three-inch heels. 'I was waiting for you,' she whispered, walking towards him, her eyelids glinting metallic.

Her finger danced a centimetre above his chest. He stood his ground. If Shula touched him, she'd be regretting it for a long time.

She dropped her gaze, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and took in his sopping jeans. Then she looked back up at him questioningly. 'Been swimming?' she asked.

He ignored her. 'Why are you in Evie's room if you're waiting for me?'

'Oooh,
Evie
's room,' she said mockingly, turning her back. She marched to the window and yanked the curtain back.

Lucas glanced around the room to see if anything was out of place. It looked untouched - but it was such a mess, he couldn't really tell. He looked back at Shula, huffing by the window. What was she doing here? He needed to get her out of the house before Victor and Evie got back. He needed to get
himself
out of the house. They couldn't find either of them here.

Shula suddenly whipped around to face him. Her nostrils were flaring, her teeth bared in a snarl. 'I just don't get it. I don't get what it is about her.'

He felt his heart start to pump again, as furiously as when he'd been running. He wiped his hand across his face, trying to buy time.

Shula's shoulders fell and she turned half away, not holding his gaze. 'I don't understand why she gets to be the one,' she said in a half-broken voice.

Lucas frowned at her, not understanding. 'She's the child of two Hunters, Shula,' he said quietly. 'She's strong. She's--' He stopped. He wasn't going to tell Shula about the prophecy.

Shula looked up at him, shook her head slowly, 'No, Lucas, I meant for you - why is she the one?'

Lucas stared at her. 'I . . .' he finally ventured, faltered.

Shula waited. Then, when it became clear Lucas wasn't going to say anything else, she straightened her back, tossed her hair over one shoulder, thrust her chest out and spoke. 'You can't choose her, Lucas. You can't betray the Brotherhood. You'd be breaking your oath,' she said, her voice regaining its normal level of venom. 'We'd kill you.'

Lucas studied her hard, not knowing how to respond. 'I know,' he said slowly, his eyes holding hers.

She grimaced at his answer. 'Do we mean nothing to you?'

His hand went to his neck. He felt the weight of the cord holding the amulet. A sacred oath. But his oath to the Brotherhood meant nothing at this moment, compared to the one he'd made to himself to protect Evie. He let the amulet drop and looked back at Shula.

'If I break my oath, you can kill me yourself, Shula,' he said.

She narrowed her eyes and frowned at him, unsure of what he was saying - what he meant. 'Tristan wants to speak to you,' she said. 'Now.'

Lucas started. 'Tristan? He's back?'

Shula nodded.

'What does he want?' Lucas asked.

Shula turned abruptly away, avoiding his eye. 'I don't know,' she mumbled.

27

Evie tiptoed up the steps. She was shivering still, despite the sweater she'd pulled on which was sticking clammily to her arms and chest. Her legs were heavy, as though the weed still had a hold on her. Every step took maximum effort.

She'd tramped back from the pond alone, stamping through the crushing dark, angry at Victor for his stupid games, for throwing the ring in the water and for thinking that she was capable of retrieving it - as if she was a human metal detector - and in sub-zero temperatures too. She was more than angry - she was
furious
with Victor for his deluded belief that she was the one. When tonight had yet again demonstrated that she wasn't - in fact, couldn't possibly be. Even Risper got that. How many more times did she have to drown or lose a piece of flesh before Victor got that through his thick skull?

For a moment down there in the peace and quiet beneath the world, floating among the weeds, she'd wanted to let go, or she thought she had. And she
had
let go - hadn't she? And for a single moment there had been nothingness, just sheer blissful emptiness, a beautiful void opening around her and inside her into which she'd fallen before Lucas had reached into the darkness and pulled her out. She had felt his arms around her, his body hard and supple against hers - then she broke the surface and her eyes had flown open and the cold had struck her, hard as the flat of a knife, and the air had exploded into her lungs and she'd been gasping and floundering and kicking and there was no Lucas. There was nobody. He hadn't rescued her, hadn't dragged her to the surface. He was no more than a figment of her dying imagination. The last thing her brain could conjure, just as she'd conjured him in the cornfield.