To Tempt Fate

The man pulled his coat tighter around himself, ducking his head against the bitter wind. He should be home right now, playing carols on the radio while a merry fire blazed on the large television of the family room. He should be wrapped in a pile of blankets with a glass of wine, not fighting the cold in the dead of night.

The city was quiet around him. Every now and then, a car would rush past him, headlights catching him in their beams for just a moment before fading into the darkness again.

He turned a final left and stopped in front of the third house. It hadn't changed in the seven years he had been coming there. The bricks were still chipped; the lace curtains behind the windows still hid the rooms inside; the weathered porch swing still swung on rusty, creaking chains in the icy gusts.

A weak, golden light snapped on in the bottom floor windows as he approached the house, the door opening before he could even knock. The tall woman stood framed in the dim light coming from inside the house and acres of fabrics and beads. Her blonde hair was shorter, this year, only coming to her shoulders, covered with a gauzy blue headscarf; but the steady brown of her eyes was unchanged.

"My favorite customer," she drawled, leaning one shoulder against the door as if to block his entrance. "I didn't think you would come this year."

With a playful smirk, she turned and led him into the house. The room they entered, what she had years ago told him was called her Receiving Room, looked strangely different with the lights on. Strangely ordinary. The floor was a dark wood, magnifying the woman's steps with a hollow click each time her high heels struck the ground. The walls were painted a royal blue with indigo fabric draped around the room. Dark bookshelves piled high with colorful tomes leaned against the walls, titles written in at least a dozen languages.

The only out-of-place object was the small, circular table set in the exact center of the room. Its tablecloth perfectly matched the fabric on the walls, just a small square to protect the wooden top while allowing customers to see that there were no tricks hidden under the table. It was supposed to make her seem more 'legitimate,' or something. Four wooden chairs circled the table, exactly corresponding to North, South, East, and West.

Like always, the woman sat in the North chair. The man took the South. "I come every year," he answered her, staring demurely at the wide metal bowl in front of her.

She gave him a look that was almost sympathetic as she picked up the card deck and started mindlessly shuffling. "Yes, but after last year..." she paused to find the words before spreading the cards in a semi-circle on the table. "Well, I was always under the impression that you only came because of her."

"And why would you assume that I wouldn't want to talk with her one last time?"

"I'm a fortune teller, not a medium, Caleb," she responded quietly.

"Then tell me my fortune, witch."

She sighed. "Every year it's the same thing. You come here, insulting me and my gifts but still begging me to use them. If they please you, you believe them. If not, I am a liar and a cheat. What will it be tonight?"

The man leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "Give me my fortune, then."

"I don't give fortunes, I read them."

He just glared at her and, with a sigh, she gestured for him to draw cards. He slid three out of the semi-circle and flipped them so their faces were revealed. The woman's brow creased for half a second when she saw the pictures painted on them, but she scooped up the remaining cards and dropped them into the metal bowl. Flames a foot high burst from the bowl as the cards hit the bottom. The man jumped a little, cursing himself. How many times had he seen this same ritual performed? He knew exactly what was coming and it still startled him as if he were a toddler afraid of a Jack-in-the-Box.

The woman stared intently at the flames as they quieted and shrank. With a final sputter, they went out, leaving only a pile of ashes. She scooped up a fistful and let it slip through her fingers, dusting the cards he had picked. He held his breath and shut his eyes as she gently blew on the dusted cards. She was always careful to not blow the ash directly at her customers, but he could never be too careful.

He opened his eyes again to a face completely bloodless, fixated on the cards and the pattern the ash had taken. Somehow, the ash had been blown into a radial pattern around the cards, the longest arm pointed directly at the man.

"So..." he prompted as the silence dragged on.

Her head snapped up like she was just remembering he was there. She cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. "I am afraid that the fortunes are not good," she tried to say in a performer's voice.

The man rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Cut the act, witch," he snapped. "Tell your lies without the drama."

She swallowed and did her best to collect herself. "There is much struggle in your future. You will face consequences of actions you believed would remain a secret forever. But," she added slowly, "you will be reunited with the one you love above all."

Mazy, he thought. It had been fourteen years since she had left. What would they talk about when they met? How would he tell her about Zoey's... about what had happened to their daughter. Did he even still love her after so long despising what she did?

“Don't worry," the witch continued. "Justice will be delivered and wrongs righted."

"Will she be happy to see me?" his whisper was barely audible. Should he even believe this pretender? She had been right about the past year. It was in fact a 'great trial of patience' and 'kingdom of shadows.'

The woman shook her head. "No, the reunion will be bitter."

He can't say he was surprised. Things hadn't ended well. How could they have when he found her phone full of messages from him? It made him sick to even think about. Even when they first started dating back in high school, they had never sent each other messages like that, but now she was sending them to someone else.

The fight had been over in a week. She got her boyfriend and the house. He got their two-year-old daughter and a new job to try to make ends meet. He never regretted leaving her. Not when he was working three jobs. Not when he had to go without electricity for weeks so that Zoey could eat. Not when she grew to look exactly like her mother, especially when she was furious.

The man shook his head and stood, striding toward the door. "You have been as enlightening as ever."

His hand was just turning the doorknob when she quietly said, "We need to talk about it, Caleb."

He froze but didn't turn around. "Talk about what?"

"Your daughter. My son."

"I don't see the point of getting into that argument, anymore."

"I'm not talking about whether they should be allowed to date," she snapped. "I'm talking about the accident."

He slowly turned. "That was a lifetime ago."

She regarded him with her dark eyes. "Four months, one week, and six days is hardly a lifetime."

"I've made my peace with it. I don't see why you should drag me back down."

The woman leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "What happened that night, Caleb?"

"The police told you the same thing they told me. They were speeding on one of the twisting roads up near the mountains. They took too hard of a turn and the car flipped--"

"Three times," she finished abruptly. "I know what they told us."

"So, why are you asking?"

"Who was driving?"

"Miguel," the man answered immediately.

The woman cocked her head like a spider inspecting a fly caught in her web. "How do you know? The police never told us."

"Miguel always drove at night. You should know that."

"I know that Zoey was too scared to go over thirty miles an hour on a straight road in broad daylight, much less a winding one in the middle of the night."

"So?"

The woman leaned forward again, gripping the arms of her chair tightly. "So, why was Zoey in the driver's seat in the wreck?"

"What makes you think she was?"

She gave a small, humorless laugh. "Because I went to the site as soon as I heard, Caleb. Because I actually care about my child enough to see them before they are put in a body bag."

It took a moment for the man to respond. "What does it matter who was driving? They were both killed."

"I taught Zoey how to drive," the woman hissed, standing. "I know that she would never be so careless—"

"So, what?" he cut across her. "This isn't a murder mystery, Rosa. Our children died in an accident."

"She would never have been so careless," the woman repeated louder, "unless she was livid. What were you two fighting about, Caleb? What argument was worth my son's life?"

"What makes you think it was an argument I had with her? Miguel was in the car with her. They probably had a couple's quarrel."

"She was mad before he even got in the car," she said, shaking her head. "And in a rush if they didn't bother to change seats. Now, what did you say that cost the lives of two teenagers?"

His eyes dropped from hers. They found the radial pattern of ash and stayed locked on it. She waited impatiently as the seconds of silence stretched on before he finally said, "He'd proposed to her."

The woman's eyes went wide. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't this.

"She wasn't sure how to respond, so she asked my advice." His voice sharpened at the memory. "I was furious, of course. They were too young for plans like that. We started yelling at each other and, the more I tried to tell her she couldn't, the more she seemed to want to. So, I told her to pack her things, that we were leaving at dawn. Leaving this city. Leaving this problem. Leaving this boy. She was, as you said, livid."

"So, she left," the woman finished quietly. "But not with you."

He nodded sharply. "I got the call three hours later."

The woman took a deep breath, closing her eyes for the count of five before whispering, "My son is dead because you couldn't be bothered to listen to your daughter. You are the one that pushed Zoey into being rash. You pushed her into crashing that car."

"What was I supposed to say? 'Yeah, sweetheart, you're only sixteen but you can definitely marry this son of a witch'?"

"You were supposed to talk her out of it, Caleb! Not scream her into it.”

"It's not my fault—"

"Do you know what this means?" she interrupted, gesturing to the ash, the one arm still pointing accusingly at him. "It means you killed, Caleb. So, unless there is something else I should know, you killed my son."

"It's not my fault," he repeated, softer. His eyes were fixated on the ash. He could make fun of her performances all he wanted, but he believed more than he would admit. "It's not my fault."

She took another deep breath and pointed to the door his hand was still resting on. "Out," she hissed. "May your fortune come true, quickly."

The man made sure to slam the front door shut behind him as he stepped onto the porch. The lights of the Receiving Room shut off abruptly. He took a moment to glare at the door before shoving his hands deep in his pockets, bracing himself against the wind, and walking quickly up the street.

A distant howl split through the night, freezing him in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see a wolf staring at him from down the street. But the street was abandoned except for him.

He shook his head. He was in the middle of the city, miles from the nearest forest. It had just been a dog in one of the dark houses, trying to scare the shadows. But the man couldn't shake the echoing call of the wild that had been in that howl.

He started to walk again, mind spinning faster than the wind. How could she blame him? Zoey had been reckless, but that's what teenagers did. It wasn't his fault that she had been driving too fast or dragged the witch's son into the mess. Right?

The howl rang out again, closer than before. This time, the man sped up.

He couldn't have done anything different. He couldn't have.

The howl came again. It sounded less than a block away. The man looked over his shoulder again, not slowing down. There was still nothing there. As the fourth howl came, he broke into a sprint.

His car was two blocks away. He made it there in under ten seconds, throwing open the door and starting the car without checking the mirrors or putting on his seatbelt. His foot slammed into the gas far too hard and he barely managed to clear the other cars parked along the side of the road.

He didn't relax until he hit the twisting mountain roadways, taking a deep breath. It was just a dog, he chided himself. The witch is playing tricks on you.

His daughter died in an accident. An accident she wouldn't have been in if it weren't for that boy. It was Miguel's fault not his. He should be blaming the woman and her son, not the other way around.

He turned a wide corner to follow the road around the mountain. A dark shadow jumped down in front of his car and he jerked sharply on the wheel. The car protested to the sudden change, tripping over its own tires and flipping.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

It settled upside down. The man lay on the broken glass and dented metal scattered by the crash, unable to move, unable to cry out, unable to anything but stare as the ink black wolf got closer. It sniffed, first the car, then the man, and its lips curled up in a growl.

The man could only watch as the wolf howled for the last time and leaned in.

The man could only think about how much the wolf's strange hazel eyes looked exactly like Zoey's had.

The man could only realize that it wasn’t his wife that he loved above all.