Dark Fates

MINOR GODS A.M. Yates

Chapter 1

January 27th

Josie stood on the porch, shivering and dripping wet. The numbers above the mailbox blurred and came back into focus and blurred again, 7325. Were those the right numbers? Was this the right street? Was it the right city?

The drizzle and craftsman-style houses suggested Portland, but she'd been zombie-walking through airports for the last twenty-four hours. This could've been Maine for all she knew. Right name, wrong coast.

She forced her eyelids to blink. They resisted. Once they were closed, they stubbornly refused to open again. She rested her forehead against the door jamb.

This had to be her dad's house. The stained glass panel in the front door, porch swing the color of raspberries, meticulous zen-scaping in the front yard—it was all the same. Of course, it had been four years since she'd been back. He could've moved. He hadn't mentioned it the last time they'd talked, but that had been two months ago.

She lifted her head, peeling back her eyelids. "You're a terrible daughter, Josie Day." She flipped open the mailbox and took out a letter. "Maybe that's why the Tripartite blew you off."

The name on the envelope: Marc Day.

If she'd been able to cry, she would've. But she couldn't. Somewhere between Brunei and here, she'd forgotten how. At least she'd made it to her dad's. Too bad he wasn't home.

She stuffed the envelope back into the hammered-copper letterbox and turned, giving the swing a considering look. She hadn't slept on any of the three planes—probably because she was in shock. Daisuke had put her on the first plane, somehow. If not for him, she'd still be in Brunei, either murdered by Earth Mama or crushed under the rubble of the tribe's assembly hall.

When she'd left the bus to walk to her dad's house, the driver had given her a look like he might refuse to let her off. Now she understood why. Shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops were perfect for the tropical humidity of Brunei but not so much the frigid mists of a Portland winter.

"Josie?"

She tensed.

On the sidewalk was a young man straddling a bright-orange bicycle. He pushed back his hood, tattoos on the backs of his hands, a ring on every finger—like most summoners. So he was part of the tribe. Dark hair sheared short, spacers in his ears, eyebrow pierced, good-looking in a punk-kid-next-door way. Then she remembered. He did live next door.

She came down the steps. "Beech, right?"

He smiled a crooked smile—cute. "You remembered."

Yes, she remembered. She'd been trained to remember. People didn't expect the Triune to remember them usually, unless they were a member of a tribe's Eye or a matriarch. But Mom had been strict about it. If Josie hadn't remembered an important name, it had meant days of catching crabs and giving them names and then reciting those names when Mom had pulled the slimy clackers out of a tank weeks later.

Beech was easy to remember. Not many people were named Beech, and his algae-green eyes not only reminded her of the beach but were pretty much dazzling.

"Do you know where my father is?" she asked.

"Yeah..." Beech looked her up and down as she strode towards him. "Aren't you cold? You know it's freakin' raining out here, right?"

"Where is he?"

Her mom hadn't taught Josie tact. How could she when she didn't have any herself? A Triune only needed so much diplomacy. Managing the tribes was what the Eyes were for. The Triune's primary job, besides ceremonial duties, was to administer justice. Josie wanted to bring that earth bitch to justice so badly that the mere thought of doing so warmed her frozen body.