Just my luck.
The sadness and betrayal welled up in me, and I let myself cry, not caring that the taxi driver could hear my sobs.
How had I not considered it before now? Every time I’d been attacked he’d just left my presence. In retrospect it now seemed obviously coordinated.
Pulling myself together, I leaned my head against the window, letting my breath fog up the glass. I had to face the possibility that I had fallen for and stayed with my father’s killer and the person behind my own attacks.
But why would he try to kill me? What threat could I possibly be? He’d already introduced me to the coven. More importantly, why hadn’t he already killed me if that was his plan? It didn’t add up.
My body shook as I watched the scenery fly by. Last night came back to me, and I began crying all over again. I couldn’t erase my feelings for him. I could’ve sworn the look in his eyes last night was genuine. I could’ve sworn his concern was genuine. But he’d had so many years to perfect the art of lying.
My phone rang for the fifth time. I didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who was calling.
I turned off my phone and wiped my cheeks. How would I protect myself from him? Andre was everywhere and nearly all-powerful.
I watched my tears dampen the armrest. Maybe everything was a lie, and Andre was innocent. But for the time being, I had to take Cecilia’s warning seriously until the attacks stopped. I was going to have to stop seeing Andre.
***
Throughout the plane ride I analyzed my talk with Cecilia over and over again, trying to understand whether Andre really could be pretending to like me while trying to kill me.
My thoughts felt clinically detached. I’d folded my heart up and stowed it away since it’d only gotten me into trouble. I would approach this logically from here on out.
Grabbing my textbook from my bag, I flipped to the page on the fates.
Known in Greek mythology as Moirai and in Roman mythology as Parcae, the fates were three sisters who were the incarnation of destiny. Clotho spun the thread of life; Lachesis measured the length of the thread of life; and Atropos cut the thread of life, choosing the time and manner of each person’s death.
I read through the passage until I came to the final useful piece of information.
Few people have ever encountered the fates, so very little is known about them. What is known is that they will only reveal themselves to those deemed worthy.
Now I understood why my father trusted Cecilia and why I should too. If you had destiny working for you, your odds were pretty favorable.
I bid goodbye to my budding relationship and breathed in and out. I was strong; I’d get through this as I had all other calamities.
As I put the book away, one thought lingered: what was a fate doing as my nanny?
***
When I arrived on the Isle of Man early the following morning, it was drizzling; the heavens reflected my mood. I shivered as I walked outside the small airport in nothing but yesterday’s T-shirt and jeans. Because I hadn’t gone back to Andre’s villa after Cecilia’s warning, I had nothing with me except for my book bag. Luckily it contained my wallet and cellphone, but I’d left behind my suitcase.
I hailed down a taxi and came back to Peel defeated. I’d lost Andre and was still no closer to understanding who was after me, or why. The only good the trip had done was remind me that I could trust no one, not even the one man who I’d actually let in.
I opened the door to my dorm, and once I was inside, collapsed against it. Then I let it all out. The tears of frustration, betrayal, and dashed hopes. Couldn’t I just be a normal girl for once?
“Bitch please.”
My head snapped up. Oliver was lounging on my bed, eating more chocolates and flipping through a magazine.
“Don’t even go there,” he said without looking.
I felt my cheeks heat. I gave him a look that could curdle milk, but he didn’t even have the decency to glance up. “What would you know about my life that I don’t?”
He guffawed. “You’re crying because you’re having man troubles—obviously. And you need a reality check.”
“For your information, I already received one. Considering that my man troubles might also be responsible for the attacks on my life.”
Oliver closed the magazine and walked over to me. “Do you know this for certain?”
“No.”
“So you’re worried that Andre’s behind your attacks. Pardon me for saying so, but those aren’t angry, pissed off tears running down your cheeks,” Oliver said, pointing to my cheeks. I put a hand to my face. “Those are the tears of an angst-y teenage girl depressed over a broken relationship.
“Someone’s trying to kill you—Andre or not—and this is what you’re worried about? Please, you have worse problems.”