Page 24 of Sight of Fate

With a chuckle, I leave their place and head to mine. Before I get there, I remember I’m out of coffee. Pivoting on my heel, I brave the cold and drive over to the little coffee shop, teeth chattering the whole way. Heat finally blasts from the vents right as I pull into the parking lot.

Packed as usual, I get in line and slowly make my way to the counter to order. Someone behind me starts whispering, and I turn to find two girls with familiar ice-blond hair. Clan Larsson. How many of them are there? One girl jabs her elbow into the other when she sees me looking. The whispering stops. The angry looks don’t.

My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t get to finish my dinner last night.

The girl at the register gives me a bored stare as I order, and it feels so normal, the tension in my shoulders eases a bit. After getting my coffee and an egg sandwich, I head back to my car and hurry home.

The second I’m in the door, I drop into a chair, pull my sketchbook out of my backpack, and start with Leif’s past, knowing he’s going to want some assurance my vision was real. As I contemplate the best way to capture the raw anguish on both the wolf’s and man’s faces, I munch on my egg sandwich. When I have an idea, I pick up the pencil and carefully approach the painful scene with light strokes until I’m sure it’s capturing the depth of grief the vision showed me.

Finishing the past, I stare at the images of the wolves standing on the hill, then a grief-stricken Leif on his knees, roaring his anguish to the world. I compare it to the man I met last night. He’s younger in this version, his body leaner, and he lacks the commanding presence of the man he is today. I wonder how long ago this happened. He’s clearly aged. Is that because wolf shifters aren’t immortal?

My mind turns to Teague’s statement. The one I’ve been ignoring since he said it. If they’re immortal, do they not age? I mean, they look like they’re in their thirties, but they’ve never really said how old they were. A few hundred? A thousand? They must see my lifespan as nothing, inconsequential, a grain of sand in the hourglass of their lives. Disturbed by the difference between us, I shove those thoughts aside and return to my sketch.

If I’m to believe Raine, our visions come from the Fates. A chance to right something that went wrong. I don’t know about the Fates and their plans for us, but I do know my visions have only ever helped the people in them. Not once have they led me wrong, so I have to believe this vision will help them both.

She was standing in an old school diner. Vinyl booths. Black-and-white checkered floor. Mint condition, though. Remodeled? Or new but made to look old? There’s no sign in my vision to tell Leif where to find her. That’s why it’s imperative I add every detail, no matter how minute, to the background.

Once that’s done, I start on the woman. Gold eyes the same color as Leif’s, ice-blond hair shorn close to her nape in a pixie cut. Her face is guarded as if the world has taught her some hard lessons. I pencil in her strong jaw and careful smile. She appears to be around Brita’s age, but how do you tell with a supernatural? Still, my gut says it’s true. My hand cramps, and I scrutinize the image while I flex the tight muscles.

It’s missing a few more things, like the metal signs and reproduction prints gracing the walls, and some finishing touches on the diner’s barstools. I stop. Bingo.

Excited, I tear out the pages and grab my keys. On my way out, I almost run straight into Andros, who’s walking by.

“Sorry,” I say breathlessly, excited by my find.

His eyes flick to me, and an elegant eyebrow rises. “Your sweater is twisted.” He steps into the elevator and presses the button.

Sliding in with him, I fix my sweater and comb my fingers through my hair. Silver doors close, leaving only the reflection of the two of us standing side-by-side, and I wince at the stark difference. I’m a hot mess, hair tangled and sticking out, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and he’s an arrogant prick, albeit a perfectly put-together prick in his sport coat, dark pants, and button-down shirt. The doors open, and I stride out without saying goodbye. I don’t know what his problem is, but he can stuff it.

Minutes later, I pull into the Wolf’s Den and sit there in the car, staring at the restaurant in front of me. All my earlier excitement is gone. Images of white wolves sweep through my head, bringing a healthy dose of fear. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. Maybe I should have asked Teague or Macklin to come with me. I glance around at the parking lot and realize the restaurant is probably half full of supernaturals.

My sketches lay in the front passenger seat, their message clear, and I know I can’t let fear or the possibility of an audience deter me. Leif needs to see these. It’s important. Bolstering my resolve, I force myself out of my safe space and walk into the restaurant.

Brita’s smile slips from her perfectly pouty lips, and her bright turquoise gaze begins to glow with animosity. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

My eyes widen at her glowing eyes, but I don’t bother arguing. “I’d like to see Leif, please.”

She huffs but disappears into the back. Seconds later, she returns. “He’s in a booth. Opposite of the one you sat in last night.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, swallowing hard. “Also, do you happen to have my coat?”

Her lips twist. “Macklin grabbed it when he came back.” She pastes a smile on her face to greet the couple who just walked through the door, clearly dismissing me. “Party of two?”

Macklin came back. I frown. Was that last night or today? Maybe he realized I forgot my coat.

Slipping through the tables, I spot Alex standing by a booth on the far right, and the second his golden eyes meet mine, his face twists in anger. Why are they angry at me? All I did was shake Leif’s hand. As I get closer, Leif slides out of the booth, and I gasp at the large bruise on his face. Shit.

He folds his arms across his chest as he waits for me to reach him.

“Did Macklin hit you?” I ask, my voice low, hoping nobody hears me.

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “It will be gone by tomorrow. Why are you here?”

“To give you these,” I say, holding up the sketches. “It’s my vision. Well, technically, your vision.” His arms drop, and he warily eyes the papers in my hand. “You need to see it, but there’s an order to them, and the first few are going to be…um…painful.”

His lips peel back as if he’s snarling at me.

Dodging his scary gaze, I hurriedly hand him the first one with the wolves running across the prairie.