The Rise of Fortune and Fury (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 5)

“I guess they don’t mess around when they decide to do something.” Zora laughed. Yes, she still held much of her humanity because the gods didn’t tease like that.

But then it hit Carrick.

Very hard.

“Then that means… Finley’s death last night wasn’t part of Rune’s curse.” The implications made him dizzy. Rune’s curse had surely died when he became mortal two weeks ago.

The unfairness of it made Carrick’s stomach roll.

Sadly, Zora shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. She died of a plain old aneurysm that couldn’t have been prevented. It had nothing to do with the curse.”

Carrick gazed out over the sea. The sun was starting to set on the horizon, making the water ripple with oranges, yellows, and reds.

So fucking unfair.

“We were going to get married today,” he said. Why—he wasn’t sure. It was an intimate detail, one he had not shared with anyone. It just made Finley’s death seem all the more tragic and painful.

“I know,” she replied softly.

Carrick jerked, turning to her. “You know?”

Zora’s cheeks flushed, which was another sign of her still-held humanity since gods didn’t get embarrassed. But she shyly admitted. “I have been periodically checking on my sister.”

Carrick couldn’t help but chuckle. For everything Zora had been through and the life she gave up—of course, not knowing she’d become a god as gratitude and respect for her sacrifice—she deserved to keep tabs on her twin.

“Her death was fortuitous,” Zora murmured, which caused Carrick to stop dead in his tracks.

“Fortuitous?” he exclaimed, his tone not merely surprised, but also angry. “How can you say that?”

“Because as her sister, the god of Life, I had a say in what happened to her soul.”

Carrick’s legs went weak at her inference. His voice was choked when he asked, “And what exactly did you have to say about it?”

Zora smiled. “I learned a thing or two from my own creation,” she drawled. “It was fascinating to snag a soul before it left the body. Plus, wow… the things you can do to it once you have it in hand.”

Now Carrick was lightheaded. His heart was pounding so hard that he was positive it would explode from his chest.

Could that kill a demi-god?

He wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he needed Zora to put him out of his misery.

“Zora,” he croaked. “Is she…?”

He couldn’t bring himself to ask it.

But Zora didn’t make him suffer. She merely turned her body slightly before nodding down the beach in the opposite direction they had come from.

And there she was… walking toward him.

Red hair spilling over her shoulders in a crazy mass of curls. She wore a yellow sundress and a big floppy hat, although it wasn’t needed with the sun starting to set. Barefoot, she strolled toward them with her feet in the water.

Carrick felt Zora’s hand at his back. She gave him a little push. “Go to her.”

He took a step, needing no more encouragement, but he hesitated.

Glancing back at Zora, he said, “Thank you.” It wasn’t enough to convey his gratitude, but he figured she understood.

She inclined her head before disappearing.

When Carrick looked the other way, Finley was only ten yards from him. She stopped, laced her hands before her, and swirled one foot in the water with a coy smile.

He merely stared at her, feeling like he could do just that for hours and still be content.

She held her hands out to the side, waved them, and cheekily said, “Surprise.”

Surprise, indeed.

One hell of a surprise.

EPILOGUE

Finley

Seven years later…

“Naomi,” I yell for the second time as I cut up a cucumber for a salad.

Still no answer.

“N-a-o-m-i…” I practically scream, knowing damn well my voice carries up the stairs and into her playroom.

Steady footsteps come toward the kitchen, much heavier than a six-year-old’s. I look up as Carrick walks in. He’s in khaki shorts, a ratty-looking tee, and flip-flops. He’s adapted well to the southern California lifestyle.

“You sound like a banshee when you yell like that,” he teases, leaning against the counter.

“She deliberately ignores me,” I reply, but not in a complaining way. More to acknowledge that she’s very much like her own mother.

“She’s six years old,” he counters. “She’s pushing boundaries.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “God, I love that kid, but she’ll be the death of me yet. Just last week, she was climbing on the deck railing.”

Which was incredibly dangerous given we live cliffside on the Pacific Coast Highway just outside of Malibu.

I reach for another cucumber, ruminating on our daughter’s antics at the same time. But I don’t pay attention and the knife slips, cutting into the side of my index finger just below my second knuckle.

“Ouch,” I exclaim, dropping the knife and moving to the sink. “Shit, shit, shit.”

As blood pours from the wound, I turn the water on to hold my finger under it. Carrick doesn’t move, completely unconcerned that I’ve almost lopped my finger off.