Lanie Bross: Fates

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.

Lucas watched as the girl disappeared into the crowd, her shock of tangled blond hair obscured by the smoke.

For a second, he was torn. He had an instinctive desire to follow her. She had the craziest eyes he’d ever seen. … Gray, but tinged almost with purple, like the bay reflecting the sunset.

And that streak of blood across her forehead—it looked like she’d been hurt pretty bad. Poor girl. The woman in the car … he hoped it wasn’t her mom. Christ. She was probably in shock, running blind.

But she was already gone, lost in the throng of people that was swelling by the minute. Two police cars with flashing lights screeched to a stop at the intersection. Several people, Luc noticed, were filming the action on their phones. Sick.

Maybe he should have tried harder to stop the girl. She might have a serious head injury. She might need help.

Luc glanced back at the wreck again, really seeing it this time. The car still hissed like an angry snake and a figure was slumped over the steering wheel. Luc’s stomach lurched. He took several deep breaths, then moved out of the way as a pair of EMTs came running past him. He wanted to walk away, but for some reason he was rooted to the spot, both terrified and transfixed.

Cop cars, sirens, accidents—they always did that to him.

In under a minute, more emergency vehicles converged, their red revolving lights casting a dim, blood-colored glow over everything. A hush fell over the crowd and Luc watched a paramedic wheel a gurney away from the car. The figure on it was covered with a white sheet.

The lights, the people in white jackets all brought back sickening memories. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. When he was six, he’d found his mom passed out in the kitchen and had to call 911. And just last week, it was Jasmine who’d been loaded in the back of an ambulance. She’d taken Ecstasy at a party and passed out. Thankfully, one of her friends had at least called 911. Luc didn’t even remember getting the phone call, or making the drive to the hospital, half blind with fear. It wasn’t until he’d reached the parking lot that he realized he’d left the house without any shoes.

Jasmine had recovered. Thank God. But Luc was still furious with her—for doing drugs, for going off her antidepressants without telling anyone.

Again.

Luc turned away from the accident. Blood pounded in his ears, making everything sound distorted. He worked his way out of the mass of people crowded around the wrecked car and the ambulances. The air drifting off the bay felt cool against his skin. He drove his hands deeper into the pockets of his army jacket to keep them warm.

The street was crowded with cars, backed up by the accident, and the blast of horns punctuated the evening.

Luc sent a quick text to his girlfriend, letting her know he was running late. Karen hated it when he was late. And she was still pissed at him for missing dinner with her parents last week. He was going to have to be extra nice tonight.

He walked toward Market and caught a bus going south, toward the Mission, and descended when it stopped at Twenty-Second Street. Bright lights illuminated window displays full of bold-colored clothing and artwork. People were crammed together at the tiny tables outside various cafes, laughing and clinking glasses. The lit windows of the high-rises in the distance looked like rows and rows of teeth, grinning down at him.