Hands of Fate

Fate is resourceful.

At least, that’s what everyone had told him. Even now, as he stared at the shopfront, the phrase echoed in Isaac’s ears. The shop had the same colonial brick architectural style as the rest of the nearby buildings, but it was painted a dark plum in comparison to the pastel and neutral tones of the others. Stained glass windows sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, their multitude of colors washing over the shop’s interior as he stepped inside. His eyes caught a dust particle dancing through the air, following it deeper into the shop until it landed on the polished wooden counter in the center of everything.

Fate waited for him there. She didn’t look much older than his twenty-three years, but looks could be deceiving. That was another thing people whispered when he asked around, if they bothered to answer him at all.

She regarded him quietly, blue eyes pensive and curious as she crossed her arms. “Hello, there. What brings you to the Hands of Fate today?”

He felt, suddenly, like a bug under a microscope, and swallowed. “Is… Is that a pun?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not by my own choice. My parents’ idea. Now, what do you need? Books? Crystals? Overpriced bottles of oil or incense?”

Isaac cleared his throat and scurried to the counter, his backpack heavy on his shoulders. “Uh, right. You— Can you—” He looked her over, taking in the long black waves falling over her shoulders, the pale skin, and cozy black cardigan bundled at her elbows. If ever there was a stereotypical girl in their town to label a witch, it was definitely her.

She waited for him to speak properly with the patience of a parent encouraging their toddler. “Yes?”

“…Fate is resourceful,” he finally whispered, his wide amber eyes pleading with her to understand what he was saying. He hoped she would take pity and humor him, or at least kick him out instead of laughing in his face. What else could he have done, though?

He was desperate.

Something shifted, not just in the air but in her body language, tension slipping from her stance. Fate snapped her fingers and the door behind him locked, the sign on it flipping over to read “Closed.”

“That I am,” she agreed, gesturing for him to follow her behind the counter. “Come on.”

She led him up a spiral staircase, into a cozy den on the second floor that was lined with bookshelves, lit by a small fireplace, and decorated with plush velvet furniture. He’d expected to feel his heart beating out of his chest as he stepped inside, but warmth enrobed him instead. It was a calm, safe sensation, almost nostalgic as he made himself comfortable in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

He couldn’t believe he’d ever been scared to come here.

A teacup and saucer floated over to him, the scent of coffee filling the air as he looked into it.

“Cream? Sugar?” Fate asked from the side table, stirring her own cup.

“Sure.” He watched the cream pitcher and the sugar jar float over to him like the cup had, carefully depositing a quick pour of cream and a sugar cube into his drink before floating back. The spoon inside the cup began stirring as Fate sat down across from him.

“I should tell you my name,” he realized as a moment of silence ticked by. He considered holding out his hand, but she didn’t look like the type of person who cared for handshakes. “It’s—”

“Isaac Hanson,” she finished, taking a sip of her drink.

He blinked a few times before running a hand through his blonde hair. It’s not like the action would ruin it; his lack of sleep had done that already. “Is that part of the witchy thing? Did you read my mind?” He tried to smile sheepishly, but it just twisted into a grimace.

She raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Oh, yes, absolutely. Had nothing to do with me keeping up with local news. Definitely not.”

Oh, right. Of course. He should’ve figured she’d heard about that. “Yeah,” he mumbled, glancing at his coffee. “Then, you already know why I’m here, right?”

The mirth melted from her face, and she frowned, carefully setting her cup down. The warmth in the room got stronger, as if someone were giving him the most comforting hug from inside his ribs. He wanted to hold onto it, but this was more important.

“I won’t bring them back,” Fate said, firm but gentle. “Memento mori. Remember you will die. Even if I have siblings who play with That Side, I don’t touch it. You’ll have to find one of them if that’s why you’re here.”

Isaac found himself momentarily stunned by the news that she had siblings. From the whispers, he’d honestly thought she might’ve just…happened one day. Walked into existence. Despite what he’d been told by his parents, he never considered her own family much before this.

Well, you know what they say about assumptions…

“It’s not,” he clarified, taking a quick drink of his coffee for courage. “I didn’t really think that was an option.” He took a breath and caught her eyes, squaring his shoulders. “I’m here because I want to break the curse.”

The warm hug in his ribs turned into an icy cinch. He gasped and pitched forward, the cup shattering on the floor. He barely managed to throw his arms out in time to grab the chair, clinging to it as he stared at the embroidered rug on the floor. Pins and needles pricked along his skin, traveling up his spine and over his neck in a spider-like fashion that made his stomach twist. He white-knuckled the chair for a few more seconds before the sensation faded and he could finally move, groaning as he pushed himself back into his seat.

Fate took a long sip of her coffee while he gathered himself. Then she sighed and crossed one leg over the other, her hands folded. “I’m open to helping you—”

“Oh, God, thank you,” Isaac breathed, smiling as he rose to his feet.

“—but I need proof.”

He stumbled a bit in place, looking at her like she’d grown a second head. “Proof? What do you— Are my dead family, empty bank account, and burned down house not proof?!”

She scowled and he quickly sat back down. “They’re proof that the curse is still working. Not that you deserve to have it removed.”

Isaac buried his face in his hands, biting his lip til it bled to keep from screaming, or crying, or both. Hadn’t his family suffered enough in three hundred years? Weren’t the nightmares that plagued him with choking smoke, searing heat, and familiar screams adequate?!

“Your ancestors cursed an entire bloodline over the death of one person,” he snapped, glowering at her. “And now my whole family is dead, and you don’t think my grief is a good deal? Not high enough of a price tag?”

As his voice raised, Fate stayed the same. Her eyes cool, her posture straight, and mouth pursed slightly in thought. Her non-reaction only made him want to scream louder, maybe throw something. Who cared if he ended up unleashing some kind of ancient demon by breaking an orb if he was already yelling at one?

He twitched to stand again, to start making more of a scene, but he couldn’t. He was stuck, frozen, unable to move anything but his eyes and mouth. Even struggling against the invisible bonds was impossible; it was as if he weren’t attached to his body, but trapped inside it.

Fate smiled, a lovely, poisonous smile that made his pulse race like a rabbit. “You think Alice’s death was the only fault? Actions have consequences, Isaac Hanson. Parents mourn, siblings seek vengeance.” She leaned forward, lips parting slightly, and he heard a vicious whisper.

Except it was in his head, not from her mouth.

Did you know Alice’s mother hanged herself in the woods? And her father drank himself to death within a year?

The past flashed before his eyes, visions that dried his tongue and tightened his chest. A woman in 17th century clothes dangling from a tree branch, an older man sobbing into a metal pint of beer. Two other men stalked a house with a heavy tome and knives, screams echoing as the images vanished.

Fate tilted her head.

Lots of sacrifices had to be made to curse your family. Blood, innocence, the blood of innocents. So, what do you plan to provide as proof that you “deserve” to be free?

Isaac shuddered, finally able to move his neck, and looked into the fireplace. He could see them in there, his parents and sisters, twisted agonized in the flames. The memory of pungent burning flesh wafting to his nose made him dry heave, jerking forward in his seat again.

Fate waited for his answer in silence.

Isaac wanted to cry again. He didn’t have anything to give her. Everything was gone—money, property, dreams, memories. Everything was replaced by that fire, burning constantly in his mind. Fate wouldn’t kill him right here and now. That’d be too easy, too kind at this point. A Hanson had to survive to keep the curse going; why else would the flames refuse to burn him so adamantly when it happened? He’d all but tried to throw himself into a wall of fire at one point, and nothing. The heat rested on his skin and the smoke filled his lungs, yet it would not kill him.

He tried.

He could leave. He could walk right out, she’d let him. But what would he do then? Move on? Have kids? Hell, he’d been pretty stupid the first few years of college, maybe he already had a kid somewhere! Regardless, he couldn’t live like this, or allow anyone else to.

He would offer the only thing he had left. “Me.”

She cringed away from him, teeth bared. “Gross. No, thank you. I don’t accept carnal payments.”

“No! Me, as in—” He scrambled through his mind for the word. “A familiar! Like, a servant. A slave, even.”

At that, she perked up, another horrible smirk spreading over her face. Her eyes almost seemed to glow. Maybe they were glowing. He couldn’t tell, things were blurring in his vision.

“Familiars are a witch’s business partner. It’s an equal relationship of protection and support.” She looked him over and waved her hand dismissively. “You’re far from that. Servant is definitely more accurate.”

“Are you going to take the offer or not?” Isaac demanded, heart pounding in his ears.

She sighed dramatically, examining her nails and twisting her hair in mock thought. “Oh, all right. If you insist on being so generous, Mr. Hanson.”

It felt wrong to be called that when his dad wasn’t even buried yet. “Just Isaac.”

“Whatever.” She snapped her fingers and…something happened.

It took him a minute to tell.

That warm hug from earlier returned, growing hotter, reaching past his chest. Like it traveled with his heartbeat, it melted into his stomach, down his legs and arms, crawled up his back and neck until it buzzed atop his head. It almost felt like it was searching for something before it concentrated back into his chest, just over his heart, and stayed there.

Later, after she showed him a guest room to sleep in (circumstances be damned, it was better than his broke down car), he collapsed on the small twin bed and sighed. He understood what everyone had meant now. Fate is resourceful.

He just didn’t expect to be a resource.