Destiny Fulfilled Read online

  Destiny Fulfilled

  Copyright © 2018 Laire McKinney

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Windswept

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2017964656

  Ebook ISBN:

  978-1-947727-22-9

  Visit the publisher:

  www.bhcpress.com

  Also available in

  hardcover (ISBN: 978-1-947727-63-2)

  softcover (ISBN: 978-1-947727-22-9)

  Edited by S.M. Ray

  To the small yet mighty group of Panera writers.

  Rock on, ladies.

  I am eternally grateful to BHC Press for their hard work and enthusiasm; to my husband and children for cheering me on and thinking I’m more famous than I am; and to my mom who says, “Don’t you dare give up,” anytime I have a bad writing day. I am also grateful to my author friends who get why I just can’t stop writing, no matter how rocky the road.

  “It is never too late to be who you might have been.”

  ~ George Eliot ~

  Wren O’Hara slammed the door to her truck and crossed the parking lot. Through the glass door of HELP, a nonprofit agency where she worked, she could see the young receptionist, Tiffany, filing her nails.

  Wren pulled open the door. “Hey, Tif. Like the hair.”

  “Why, Wren O’Hara,” Tiffany cooed, fingering a strand of her neon pink hair. “Just the case manager I, or rather he, was expecting.” Tiffany slid her heavily charcoaled eyes toward the man snoring in the waiting room chair, his long legs thrust midway out into the floor, hands dangling by his sides. His mouth hung open wide as evidence of his slumber reverberated through the otherwise quiet reception area.

  “He’s been here since seven thirty.” Tiffany leaned forward behind the desk, pinching her nose. “And he needs a bath in a bad way.”

  Wren gathered her resolve, digging deep into her shallow reserves. “I’ll talk to him about it. Just don’t wake him yet. I need coffee like the desert needs rain.”

  She hurried down the hall but stumbled to a stop when a booming voice shook the walls around her. “Is she here yet? Ain’t Ms. O’Hara here yet? I been waitin’ all day.”

  Jerry Smith, dressed in paint-stained jeans and layers of flannel, clomped over to her with surprising speed considering the heavy, too-small-for-his-feet boots. “Ms. O’Hara.” He said her name like a punctuation. “They won’t let me in the food bank if I don’t get new clothes.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing his pants to dip so low he could be arrested for indecent exposure. “And I’m tired of living by that creek. Them bears is gonna eat me up one day.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes as she continued shaping her orange nails. Wren scowled at her before turning back to Jerry.

  “Mr. Smith, please, not so loud. There’s no need to yell.” She took his elbow and led him back to his seat, ignoring the scent of unwashed body and bad breath. “I’m glad you came in today, though. I have clothes, soap, and shampoo for you. We’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll be good to go.”

  “But Ms. O’Hara. They won’t let me EAT.” Jerry yelled into Wren’s face, displaying evidence of another rotten tooth that would need to be pulled. She’d have to make him a dental appointment when she got to her office.

  Jerry jiggled his collection of random keys as his eyes darted around the room.

  “Mr. Smith, when is the last time you took your medication?” Jerry, a paranoid schizophrenic Vietnam veteran, was often told by the voices in his head that he didn’t need medication and would stop taking it. She suspected now was one of those times.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you take your medication today? The ones you got the last time you were in the hospital?”

  “No. Someone stole my bag.”

  “Someone stole your bag? When?”

  “They’s another man who sleeps under the bridge. The Upton Bridge. I bet he stole it.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  Ignoring her question, he studied his key ring like the answers to his problems rested along the metal wire. “Had my meds in it.”

  “When was your bag stolen?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Okay. You need to shower and change your clothes.”

  The keys stopped jingling, and she continued. “Mr. Smith, please sit down. I need to go into my office and get some things together before we meet.” She waved at the chair he had vacated.

  He said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her. How many voices was she competing with today?

  “Mr. Smith?”

  No response.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  He turned his head toward her though she didn’t think he recognized her face. Was he having visual hallucinations, too? He suffered auditory hallucinations even while heavily medicated but hadn’t had visions since he thought the president was hiding inside a port-a-potty at the local park. That was last year.

  She tilted her head back to study him and being only five four to his six two, the stretch made her muscles ache. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, and the day already seemed interminable.

  With a pfft, he shuffled back to his chair. “Well, the president told me he was gonna visit today.”

  Wren leaned over Tiffany’s desk. “Is that new doctor coming in today?”

  Tiffany smirked then looked down at the paper calendar on her desk. Spilled nail polish and soda stains covered most of the appointment listings. “Yeah, he’s coming in at ten. He’s scheduled to come in several times this month. Wonder why that is? We go from no psychiatrist to one we can’t get to leave.”

  “Who knows? I’ll catch him when he gets here.” As Wren headed down the long corridor to the staff’s kitchen, she tried to stretch the stone of tightness out of her neck.

  Please let there be coffee. Please let there be coffee.

  She was greeted by a cold, empty pot, and an encroaching irritability that instinct told her wasn’t going to go away after one meager cup of joe.

  She grabbed the handle, filled it with water, then dumped coffee grounds into the filter. Pulling a chipped mug out of the cabinet, she thought about her own mentally ill mother.

  Diagnosed with schizophrenia like Mr. Smith, Annie O’Hara’s health had been a constant concern to Wren for as long as she could remember. Her father left during one of her mom’s many hospitalizations and never came back, leaving Wren as her caretaker ever since.

  “Wren.” Tiffany’s voice made Wren’s shoulders rise. “Your sister’s on the phone.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Thank goodness the nurse was visiting her mom today. That was one less thing to worry about.

  With steaming cup in hand, she walked down the hall, past her colleagues’ empty offices and into her own small, windowless box.

  A dull throb was making its way from the back of her head to the painful spot in front, directly behind her left eye. It was too early for a headache, usually taking until noon for life’s stressors to overwhelm her, but today seemed to be an exception. She rubbed her temples, then massaged her scalp, pulling her black curls through her fingers.

  It didn’t help.

  Before picking up the receiver, she sea
rched her desk for the migraine medicine the doctor prescribed last year. She’d suffered headaches since childhood, but the pain had turned into migraine caliber when she returned home after college to care for her mother full time. What caused them, the doctors didn’t know, though they said it was likely stress. It didn’t take a medical degree to figure that one out.

  She popped the lid off the bottle and threw two tiny white pills into her mouth, taking a long pull of water. Steeling herself, she lifted the phone.

  “Wren,” yelled her sister, Erika. “Where the hell are you? That so-called nurse just called here asking about Mom’s medication. I thought you were supposed to take care of her.” Wren ignored the permanent accusation and irritation in her older sister’s voice.

  “She was sleeping when I left this morning and was fine last night, but I’ll give Kelly a call and see what’s going on.”

  “Well, hurry up. I don’t like her calling here. The twins are asleep and I can’t leave. And try to get her a real nurse next time.” The line went dead.

  Wren replaced the receiver and picked at her cuticle until it bled. She fished a Band-Aid out of the desk drawer and wrapped it around her finger before searching for the clothing vouchers Jerry needed.

  RIAGAN TENMAN LED the young maid through the Grove, careful not to alert the druids guarding the Cauldron. He doubted he would be missed, and besides, he had needs to take care of.

  He wove through the enormous trees, their trunks rotund, their canopies interwoven, and into the thick overgrowth that covered the ground near the river. This place always worked as a haven for his liaisons. It was dark, hidden, and quiet. Never had he been interrupted whilst pursing his endeavors.

  He turned, yanked the young woman to him, and tickled her sides, silencing her giggles with a kiss. Riagan didn’t know her name, nor did he care. She was one of the new girls brought on to do the weaving for the warrior druid sect called Brotherhood of the Sacred Grove, of which he was a member. He was one of twelve immortal men born and sworn to protect the ancient Murias Cauldron, a magical object brought forth and placed in the druid realm by their ancestors.

  The artifact, as old as time itself, held within its iron bowl the ability to heal as well as grant immortality to all who drank from its waters. No attempt had been made to steal it in all the years of Riagan’s life, so he freely, and liberally, left his post to satiate his insatiable needs.

  He traced a finger over the waist of her skirts, but she was impatient and with one swift pull, she had them hiked up around her waist, exposing all she had to offer.

  And he liked what he saw. Nakedness. Bare, beautiful, feminine nakedness.

  “You waste no time, do you, lass?” he whispered, and giggles erupted from her thin lips.

  He preferred women who made him work for the sweet reward, but there was little time to waste today. He had to get back since the Arch Druid, Caswallen, had been agitated as of late, barking at the Brotherhood like a feral, famished dog. Though he was not one of the twelve who made up the Brotherhood, he was charged with order in this realm, and in charge of the order of the Brotherhood.

  First things first.

  Riagan slid out of his clothing, a long cloak made of light wool and dyed a rich green, then he pushed the maid to the ground. Judging by the swiftness with which she spread herself for him, she was as eager as he was.

  No maiden was she.

  As he stared at her, his manhood pulsed. He’d not had a woman in three days’ time and his body ached. Without a moment’s delay, he fell on top of her, teasing and tickling until she squealed with delight. Just as he was ready to mount her, a flash of black caught his eye.

  He whipped around, scouring the land with his laser-sharp vision for any sign of an intruder. His hearing was as precise as a hawk’s but he heard nothing amiss, though the air smelled acrid, putrid. Was it an animal?

  Then the flash again, followed by the sound of pounding footsteps, many footsteps. He yanked the cloak about him and unsheathed his dagger before motioning for the girl to stay on the ground. Several bodies ran past, then he heard the sounds of a struggle in the distance that ended almost as quickly as it began.

  By the gods, the Cauldron.

  He crouched, ready to sprint to his post. Before he could move, though, Caswallen appeared in the distance, clad in ceremonial crimson robes saved for only the most extraordinary of circumstances. With purposeful steps, he moved forward.

  Riagan jerked up straight and bowed his head. “Arch Druid.”

  “Riagan, son of Ragda.” Caswallen’s voice was high pitched and suddenly, unexpectedly painful to Riagan’s ears. “Why are you not at your post?”

  Sweat erupted on his back. He’d gotten caught. But what was there to say?

  He willed his breath to slow as his mind launched into race mode. Had there been an attempt to steal the Cauldron after all this time?

  Caswallen’s gray eyes locked on his. He’d known this Arch Druid for years. Though he was not an immortal like Riagan, they’d shared many years of teachings, purpose, and friendship. He’d have mercy—it was just a simple lover’s tryst. Besides, Caswallen wouldn’t be standing there if the Cauldron had been taken.

  But then the Arch Druid continued, obliterating his hopefulness. “Riagan, there was an attempt to steal the Cauldron on this night.”

  Dread washed over him like rain. Ice cold. Frigid. Glacial.

  “How many times have you left your post these past moons?”

  Riagan examined the moss by his feet as he struggled to form an answer. “I did leave my post,” was the best he could do. This was a serious offense but he knew not what to say in his defense; for indeed, he had none.

  The girl whimpered behind him. She had nothing to fear, though. This druid sect did not kill their help, except under the gravest of circumstances, and there was no way this qualified as a grave circumstance. Did it?

  “Girl, leave us and return to your hut,” commanded Caswallen. “Your work awaits you there. You are new to our sect and our ways. You will not be punished for this offense. But remember, child, one offense is all you are allowed.”

  The girl covered her mouth, grabbed her skirts, and fled toward the huts like a raging fire was burning at her heels.

  In an instant, the rest of the Brotherhood appeared in that ancient and mysterious way of the druids—out of the mists. Like fog, or ghosts, or phantoms of the underworld.

  Each had changed from their daily green robes to their ceremonial red cloaks, of the same crimson hue as the Arch Druid’s. Around their waists hung the woven hemp belt, and from that fell the symbol of their Brotherhood—the sickle of their ancestors. The weapon was small, barely three inches long, but lethal and forged from the silver iron of the mountains of Ural, woven with the magic of their ancestors. Each druid’s blade shined with the light of the moon.

  Riagan tensed, forcing his body to remain tall, powerful. He was a warrior druid of the Sacred Grove, after all. Whatever this sudden Council was about, he would handle it with the strength known to his kind. But he couldn’t ignore the perspiration pooling at his lower back, moistening the cloak. Nor could he ignore the look in his twin brother, Drake’s, eyes as he stared at him. Was it fear he saw there?

  “Riagan, you are a born and sworn Protector of the Murias Cauldron. You were taken as a babe, pulled from your mother’s warm breast, and cast into the household of warrior druids to train for this post. You took the oath, Riagan, to lay down your life for the protection of this treasure. You have risked not only the Cauldron’s safety within this realm but also the fate of the worlds.

  “The capture of this artifact by one of evil intent would put all realms at risk. Our ancient history and knowledge would be lost, gained by a new immortal that could use that power to control the worlds and enslave its peoples.”

  Riagan knew all of this. What was the point of this Council?

  Caswallen moved within inches of Riagan’s face. His eyes glowed by the moon’s light a
nd held a coldness Riagan had never seen. “And on this night, Riagan, son of Ragda, when there was an attempt to steal this Cauldron by the one known as Master, you were not at your post.”

  Panic knocked on the steely wall of Riagan’s mind. He’d heard of this Master, one as fluid as a ghost and as evil as a demon. The Brotherhood had been warned of his presence within the realms but never expected he would be able to penetrate the Brotherhood.

  “You are hereby banished to the realm of man.”

  A gasp burst from his brother’s lips.

  “There you will remain until you can find love and have love given to you in return, for it was your need for the physical act of love that has put us at this grave risk.”

  Something foul and tepid oozed off Caswallen like a stench.

  “When you do find this elusive love, you must return to this Council where you and she will proclaim said love for all to bear witness.”

  Riagan’s fingers curled inward until his nails punctured the skin on his palms. Banished to the realm of man? Until he found love? Wasn’t love the one thing they were taught to live without?

  “You have made unfortunate choices for one of your standing. Now you will have one more choice to make, and this time it will be for your life or your death. Riagan, because your offense is so grave, you will either remain in the realm of man, in that prison of your own making, or you will learn to love truly and deeply. If you do not find love, you will die a mortal’s death.”

  Riagan stiffened. Shocked. Confused. Devastated.

  A single, silvery tear escaped Drake’s eye.

  Caswallen raised his hand and forked his fingers. “Let it be.”

  And Riagan was gone.

  Early the next morning, Wren awoke to find her mother missing. This was not unusual, but the hour of the day was. Her mother always stayed in bed until exactly ten o’clock in the morning. But when Wren peeked into her mother’s room at six forty-five, the bed was empty, neatly made like she’d never slept in it.