Goddess of Fate

“Safe? What the hell...?”

A wave of pain cut him off. Right. He’d been shot. Shot bad. In fact, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead.

“You need to rest,” the woman at the wheel said, reproving. “Try to sleep.”

Try to sleep? Is she joking?

“Not till you tell me...”

He stopped, because he didn’t know where to start. Who was she, how could she possibly have gotten him off the dock and into a car, where were they going, what was she doing there in the first place?

If he could just stop the car from spinning, he was going to get some answers.

“Who are you?” he said again, more faintly.

She said something that sounded like...

“Bodyguard?” he repeated in disbelief, and stared at her with all the skepticism of a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound male looking at a one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound woman. Bodyguard? Her body was—well, there was not a thing wrong with it. Those long, lithe legs, those curves... It was perfect, in fact, for a dancer maybe, but a bodyguard?

“Whose...bodyguard?”

“Yours,” she said softly, just before he passed out again.

* * *

Aurora breathed easier once Luke was out again. Talking would only cause him anxiety, when what he needed was absolute rest. Well, not absolute rest in the sense of “final rest.” Just rest.

She stared out at the dark road in front of her, and clenched her hands on the wheel.

She’d known Val was up to something.

Aurora could tell, could always tell. They were sisters, and Aurora knew every trick in Val’s encyclopedia-length book. Normally she wouldn’t worry about what her sister was planning; after all, the future was only ever that. It was the present where everything significant ever happened, and the present determined the future, and the present was Aurora’s business. But it was the way Val had looked at her this morning—as if whatever was in that beautiful dark scheming head had something intimately to do with Aurora—that had made the alarm bells go off.

Val had made noises about a hot date, but Aurora was sure that she’d seen her sister slip a pair of scissors into her belt. Not just scissors, but gold scissors, which meant that Val was planning to cut some mortal’s thread.

And the gnawing in the pit of Aurora’s stomach made her think it was not just any mortal, but the one mortal that she...

“Cared about” was not the right phrase. She cared about all mortals, the way a doting owner would care for beloved pets. Even the worst ones had been innocent children once; it was never anyone’s intention to go wrong.

But in the five thousand years since she’d been looking after them, she’d never felt this way about anyone but one.

She remembered the first time she’d seen him—as a baby, of course. It was her job to stand with her two sisters at the cribs of their assigned list of mortals, and determine the weave—past, present and future—of each mortal’s fate.

From the first second she’d seen the infant Luke Mars, she’d known the shape of his whole life and everything about him. At that moment she knew with absolute conviction that he was the only man she would ever love—love as she was never supposed to love a mortal.

And as all these confusing sensations and convictions swept over her, while Aurora stood dumbstruck, staring down into his baby-blue eyes...

Her sister Val had claimed him as her own.

Claimed him for herself and for Odin, Odin Allfather, Almighty Warrior King of the Gods.

Which might sound like an honor, but really what it meant was early, glorious death.

Aurora had never understood what about death could possibly be glorious.

It was a scam, was all, a bunch of PR hype. Odin needed warriors and the Valkyries, women warriors like her sister, went out making it happen...

A head popped up from the backseat, startling Aurora so that she swerved and nearly ran off the road.

“Never let a Norn drive,” the intruder tsked.

“Loki!” Aurora was both limp with relief and pissed beyond belief. The man—although not a man exactly—in the backseat was irritatingly handsome, young and dark-haired and dark-eyed. That is, when he wasn’t red-haired or golden-haired or Asian or African or Latin. Or female, for that matter. You never could tell with a shape-shifter. He was Loki: trickster, shifter and magician, the bane of the whole pantheon of the gods in Asgard.

“You’ve really torn it this time, lovely.” He smirked at her in the rearview mirror. “Crossing destiny, abducting a mortal. And for what?” He leaned forward in the seat, looked over Luke’s unconscious body.

“Oh, my. Not bad actually...”

“He’s mine,” she said with such fiery conviction that she surprised herself.

“That’s not what I hear,” he said, and she faltered again. She couldn’t argue the point.

Of all the gods, why was it Loki who was always there when she least wanted him there?

“Because we’re the same,” he said, as if he’d read her mind, which probably he had. “The other Aesir don’t care about mortals. They’re content to dwell godlike in their godly realm, doing their godly things. But you and I, and your oh-so-fetching sisters—we understand the fascination of these puzzling beings, don’t we?”

Truth wasn’t normally a word she associated with Loki—in any way—but Aurora was struck by the truth of this.

“Some more fascinating than others, eh, lovely?” He winked at her lewdly, spoiling the moment.

She summoned all the dignity she could muster. “I am bound by duty to protect this one.”

“Which is why he’s in a speeding car, bleeding to death.”

“He’s not bleeding to death. I’m going to take care of him.”

“Aurora, sweet,” Loki said in that silky voice that for eons had seduced goddesses and mortals alike. “You can’t play by the rules any more than I can. Ditch the mortal and come with me. Together we’d be unstoppable—we could crack the whole world open.”

“You’re married,” she reminded him. “Three wives. Or is it four?”

“And none of them hold a candle to you,” he said breezily. “My dear, these mixed relationships never work out well. Gods should be with gods, and men should be with men. Or women. Or women with women. Or...”

“You are so very helpful,” she said through her teeth, concentrating on the road. “Can you get the hell out of the car now?”

“You can’t talk that way to a god.”

“Demigod,” she corrected. Loki always exaggerated, especially when it came to himself.

“You need me. How many times have I saved that lovely...”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Skin of yours?” he finished.

Aurora was about to point out that for every “favor” Loki granted, twelve times more trouble seemed to come of it. Instead, she just said, “Please. Leave.”

“As you wish. You’ll be calling for me soon enough. Just you wait and see,” he said maddeningly, and promptly disappeared.

Aurora bit her lip...then looked at Luke beside her in the seat, and her heart melted. She tightened her hands on the wheel, and drove.

* * *

When Luke came to again, everything had changed. He was in the car alone; it was stopped, with the windows down.

He reached instantly for his weapon and found it was there in his holster, heavy and real. He wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, but he relaxed slightly at the feel of it. He was way out of the city. It wasn’t just by the lack of light that he could tell. The whole air was different, live and breathing, with towering presences...

A forest?

The air was full of a spicy scent—not pine, more like cedar, but not quite. And he felt...better. He was still in enormous pain, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped... At least he hadn’t bled out. There was something comforting about the oxygen-rich air.

He stared out the window into the surrounding dark and saw that the car was parked in a lot surrounded by a split-rail fence and immense trees, bigger than he’d ever seen in his life—unreal, actually. It gave him an uneasy feeling...timeless, eternal...

Where the hell am I?

He stared into the towering shadows and saw there was some kind of building up ahead; the trees had shielded it from his view at first.

He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know how he’d gotten there, and the woman—well, who the hell knew where or who the woman was?

If there ever had been a woman.

He felt again for the reassuring weight of his weapon. It was there...but the hulking blond man had disarmed him right before he’d shot him. Hadn’t he? Which meant that someone—that she—had put it back in its holster.

What the hell?

Wherever he was, whatever was happening, he had to get out.

He made a move for the door and found himself in blinding pain. A veil of gray passed over his eyes and he gasped. Not good.

Suddenly the car door was opening beside him, and the woman was there. A shock, because he hadn’t heard her approach at all. Normally his hearing was keen as a bat’s.

She looked startled, then pleased. “You’re awake.”

With a supreme effort, he pulled the Glock and lunged out of the car, supporting himself by leaning on the roof while he used the other hand to train the gun on her.

She stood still, looking down at the Glock and then back up at him expectantly, not seeming afraid or surprised at all.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Not exactly the words of someone who was trying to kill him.

“Where are we?” he demanded.

“The Sequoias.”

He felt a rush of relief. It made perfect sense; he should have known right away by the immensity of the trees around him. A real place, not some ancient universe or other world or whatever he’d been thinking it was.

I must still be pretty out of it, he thought, and then realized he also must have been out for at least three hours—the distance from the city to the national forest.

“You’ve been driving for three hours?” he asked, unnerved.

She looked evasive. “Not exactly.”

“How many hours exactly?”

“Well, hours,” she said vaguely, “are not all that relevant actually. It’s about time, you see. Time can do strange things.”

Maybe it was because he was dizzy from bleeding so heavily, but he wasn’t following her at all. He shook his head to clear it. “Let’s start from the beginning. Who are you? What happened back there? What am I doing here?”

“Someone was trying to kill you,” she said.

“That part I remember,” he said coldly.

I was lying on the dock, bleeding... I was thinking I was dead...

He remembered the dark tunnel that had opened up to him...

And then what? What happened? The next thing I can remember is being with her. No memory of how, or when, or why...

“We’ll go to the room,” she said suddenly. “You need to lie down.”

“The room?”

“This is a hotel. A lodge, I think you call it.”

Luke raised his eyebrows. She’d gotten a room? That was an interesting development—if it was in any way true. They could be anywhere. She could be taking him anywhere. Anyone at all could be waiting in “the room.”

“You can rest, and I can...” She stopped, looking worried, almost as if she didn’t know how to complete the sentence. Not his problem. He had things to do, people to see.

“I need to call my team,” he told her.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said quickly.

He refrained, barely, from asking her just what the hell she had to do with it, and simply reached for his phone. But when he speed-dialed his partner he got nothing, no connection. And nothing when he tried Lieutenant Duncan. He lifted the phone and squinted down on the screen. There were no bars, his phone was completely dead.

“I’ll need to borrow your phone,” he said stiffly.

She looked distressed. “I’m sorry. I don’t have one.”

Right, lady, who doesn’t have a phone?

He was about to insist, search her if he had to—but then he stopped, thinking.

My CI phones about a shipment and I show up and none of the rest of the team is there and I’m shot, nearly killed.

She was looking at him as if she understood the direction his thoughts were heading.

“I got set up,” he said slowly. The realization was like a shot to the gut.

She lifted her hands slightly in...sympathy? Apology? Agreement?

“How do you know all this?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“We’ll go to the room and I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Luke briefly debated getting back into the car and getting the hell away. There was no reason to trust her or think that she wasn’t involved in whatever craziness was going on. But he knew realistically that even if he wrestled her for the keys, he was too injured to get far. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but he was the one with the gun, which meant as long as he could stay conscious, he was in no particular danger.

“All right,” he said roughly, with a firm grip on the Glock. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 3

The hotel was a lodge, par for the course in a national forest, and the room was really a suite—rustic but elegant. Luke kept the Glock trained on the redhead as he looked around: a big bed, lots of polished wood, burl tables, a cozy conversation area of couch and armchairs in front of a fireplace that was already blazing, and big gleaming windows that afforded a breathtaking view of the moon on the cove.

Very nice. If he’d been kidnapped, at least he couldn’t complain about the accommodations. And only one bed...what a shame. They’d have to share.

Oh, no, you don’t, he ordered himself. Where did that even come from? Focus. You need to figure out what’s going on here.

He looked first to the phone on the bed table. As he limped toward it he got a look at the clock above the fireplace: it said 12:16. That couldn’t be right, though; he’d gotten the call at his flat just after eleven, and it was obviously many hours later.

He picked up the phone...but it didn’t seem to be working, either.

Maybe best not to talk to anyone until I figure more out.

He lowered himself to the bed and willed himself not to bleed out. The redhead was watching him anxiously.

“We’re going to start with you,” he said, “and what you have to do with all of this.” He was beginning to think there was something odd about her. For one thing, she must have been the one who had given him back his gun. Why?

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Aurora.”

Pretty. “Aurora what?”

She hesitated. “Aurora.”

Right. Well, they’d get back to that. “Okay, Aurora, what are we doing here? Why did you bring me here?”

“Those people were trying to kill you,” she said.

“So you put me in my car and drove me to the Sequoias? How did you even get me out of there?”

She wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying at all, it seemed; instead, she was staring at his legs. Or his crotch. Which may have been flattering under different circumstances, but not at the moment.

“I need to take a look at those wounds,” she said.

And somehow she was at his side, gently helping him stand and leading him into the bathroom.

She pushed him gently back against the sink and put her hands on the bottom of his T-shirt to lift it over his head and her fingers touched the flat, hard plane of his stomach. Despite his condition, Luke felt a surge of desire that knocked his breath out of him. She froze and stood with her hands on his skin and he could feel her shaking. In the light she was stunningly beautiful—that creamy skin and sky-blue eyes and a mouth as full and kissable as any man could ever want. And she was completely...soft was the only word he could think of. There was nothing hard or cynical or worldly or guileful about her; she was as fresh and sweet as a rose.

She was looking into his face, and there were spots of color flaming in her cheeks; she was clearly and beautifully as turned on as he was.

Finally she said breathlessly, “I have to...make sure you’re all right.” And she pulled his shirt off.

His sudden nakedness made the heat between them even more intense.

Who is this woman? Luke thought...and then he caught sight of his biceps in the mirror.

There was a large and expert gauze bandage taped to his arm. Blood had oozed through the gauze, but nothing anywhere near lethal.

What the...?

She was suddenly focused on the wound, too, and gently loosened the gauze to look. He was stunned to see that the ripped flesh had been neatly sewn together, with tiny, precise stitches, as expertly as a combat medic would have done.

“You did that?” he said, unnerved.

“I’m good with thread,” she said modestly.

“That’s great, but the bullet’s going to have to come out,” he said, dreading the thought.

“Oh, it’s out,” she assured him, and proceeded to douse the wound with hydrogen peroxide. Which shut him up, but only for a minute.

When he’d stopped cursing, he stared at her through stinging eyes. “You took out the bullet.”

She dipped her head, concentrating on daubing the edges of the wound. “I stopped along the way and fixed you up a little.”

“A little,” he repeated. “You took a bullet out of me?”

“Well, I had to,” she said, as if she did it every day.

Now she glanced down at his thigh. The second bullet had ripped his jeans, and he could see there was more bandage work under the blood-soaked denim.

“Can you...?” she started, and blushed crimson.

He knew what she was asking, but wasn’t about to just go along. “Can I what?” he asked, his voice suddenly rough.

“You need to take off...” She couldn’t even finish.

“Why don’t you?” he said, holding her eyes.

She bit those full lips...and then put her hands on his waistband and unbuttoned the button. He could feel himself thick and hard just under her fingers as she unzipped his jeans, and she was holding her breath... He could smell her, that incredible honey scent.

Her hands skimmed his muscular thighs as she eased his pants down, and he was looking at the pale curve of her throat, just inches away. He was breathing raggedly... In two seconds he was going to be having her against the wall.

Get hold of yourself, he ordered himself. You don’t even know who she is.

With a supreme effort he quelled his raging hormones and felt his hard-on start to subside.

She swallowed and concentrated on the bandage, again gently loosening the gauze to inspect the wound and pouring more peroxide carefully into the trough between the perfectly stitched sutures.

She knows what she’s doing, that’s for sure.

But now that he was thinking with his brain again instead of...other parts of his anatomy, nothing was adding up.

“How did you get me into the car to begin with?” he demanded. Come to think of it, he didn’t think that was even possible without one or even two other people—surely she hadn’t lifted him herself. So someone must have helped her, and that meant there were forces at work he didn’t know about. Luke Mars didn’t like having people know things he didn’t.

“I...” She looked to the left—clear evidence she was about to make up a story. Luke had had all the training: she looked up and to the left, meaning she was accessing her right, creative brain when she spoke. Witnesses who were telling the truth looked to the right, using their left brain to access memory.

“You’re not going to tell me you carried me,” he said curtly.

“No...”

“Not all by yourself, anyway.”

“I didn’t carry you. You walked. Well, ran, really.”

Luke looked down at the gash in his leg. “I ran,” he said. “Like this.”

She faltered under his gaze.

He took her arms and felt her tense with either fear or...something else. “All right, who’s working with you?” he demanded.

“No one,” she protested.

“I know you didn’t get me into that car all by yourself.”

“I only helped you, that’s all.”

He was about to say that with his wounds he couldn’t have walked anywhere, but that brought up a whole slew of uncomfortable questions, like: What was he still doing alive?

He remembered the tunnel of light...and there was another woman in his memory, that vision of the dark woman on the horse.

“She’s not important,” the woman said, as if she’d read his mind.

He stared hard into her face. “Maybe you can tell me why I’m not dead.”

Her eyes locked on his, and she trembled, but lifted her chin. “Because I’m not going to let you die.”

He felt his chest tighten as she said it, as if...almost as if his heart hurt. He couldn’t understand the reaction he was having to this strange, lovely, possibly crazy woman.

Stay focused.

He had to look away from her to get a grip, and as he did he noticed again the stopped clock.

“All right, then, let’s try something simple, like, what time is it?”

“It’s Now.”

Now. He stared at her. Was that her idea of a joke?

“That’s why you’re still here,” she explained. “Alive, I mean. If it weren’t Now, you’d be dead.” He was struck by the earnest seriousness of her face, but he had no idea what she was talking about.

“None of this makes any sense,” he muttered.

“We’re in the Now, and you’re not dead. But only because you’re in the Now.”

He could only stare at her. “Right. Well, I’m getting out, now.”

He stood up from the sink and walked stiff-legged out the bathroom door...but was hit by a wave of dizziness. He stumbled and she caught him, barely. She held him up through a few stumbling steps and then lowered him to the couch, where he sat with his head spinning, nausea welling up. As if she knew, she took his head in her hands and held him gently, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’ll take care of you.” He rested his forehead against her waist and smelled that honey scent...

From the dream...

He jerked his head up.

“Wait a minute. I dreamed...”

“It wasn’t a dream, Luke,” she said.

“And that, there. How do you know my name?”

“I’ve known you forever,” she said, and her eyes were luminous with feeling; he felt his breath catch at the longing in them.

“Who are you?” he said again.

“I’m your Norn,” she said softly.

Of all the weirdness that had happened so far, this was by far the strangest. He was rejecting the thought even as the sense of unreality washed over him. She really is crazy.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know the word; it was that he did. A Norn wasn’t a real thing at all; it was a fairy tale, a story from the Old Country, something his grandmother used to talk about.

Three goddesses assigned to you from the cradle, they were—well, it was hard to say exactly—a combination of fairy godmother, guardian angel...

Bodyguard, she’d said.

And Norns were something harder to define, something to do with fate, the path of a person’s life.

You have a bad Norn, his grandmother used to say.

But whatever Norns were, they weren’t real.

She was watching him, and she looked distressed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I’m one of them, anyway. Oh, it’s so hard to explain...”

“I’ve heard of them,” he cut her off. “I didn’t know Norns were in the kidnapping business now.”

She looked shocked. “I haven’t kidnapped you.”

“Then I’m free to go,” he said, and stood—or tried to. He would have collapsed on the floor if she hadn’t lunged forward and caught him.