Chariots of Wrath Read online

  Chariots of Wrath

  Happenstance and Bron Book 2

  R. L. King

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

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  Books by R. L. King

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by R. L. King

  Chariots of Wrath: Happenstance and Bron, Book 2

  First Edition, April 2020

  Edited by John Helfers

  Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, except by agreement with the vendor of the book. If you would like to share this book with another person, please use the proper avenues. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  Family. Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em.

  That’s how the saying goes, anyway. But in my case, that resolve sometimes gets tested.

  I know as soon as I see the number on my phone’s display that it’s not going to be good news. My mother never calls just to chat—which I guess I can take as a blessing, but the downside of that is…well, she never calls just to chat. Which means every time I see that number I know my life is about to change. And usually not for the better.

  I briefly consider not answering. Let it go to voicemail, and pretend I somehow didn’t get the message.

  Aurora leaps up on the table next to the phone and bats at it, purring.

  “Yeah, I know,” I grumble, petting her as I pick the thing up and stab the button to answer. That cat has more sense than I do most of the time.

  This is possibly not one of those times, though.

  “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Mom is—to put it diplomatically—not good with technology. To be fair, she doesn’t need to be, but it does amuse me sometimes how she treats the most common aspects of modern life, like Caller ID, as a kind of magic.

  Which I have to admit is sort of funny, all things considered.

  “I’m psychic. What can I do for you?”

  She pauses for a second, and I picture one of those little progress bars on a computer—you know, the ones that say Processing.

  She decides to let it go this time. Good choice, Mom. Instead, she says, “I…uh…need your help.”

  That’s a new one. Ever since I moved out here five years ago, my mother has called me exactly eight times. Three of those, all in the first year, tried to convince me to move back to New York. All three involved a lot of attempted guilt, and all three ended with one or the other of us hanging up. Four, spread throughout the next two years, tried to get me to come home for some holiday or another. Less guilt that time; those four all made it to an amicable end, but never the one she hoped for. The last one, almost a year ago, was because one of the cousins had gotten herself into some trouble out here with drugs and the magical underworld, and she wanted me to clean things up for her. My answer to that was the reason she hasn’t called me again in almost a year.

  “Mom…why do you do this?” I slump down into the nearest chair, paging through a magazine without seeing anything in it. Aurora, perhaps sensing this, climbs on the table and plops her furry butt down on top of it before I can turn another page.

  “I know, Bronwyn. I know. Believe me, I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important. I know you don’t want anything to do with us back here. But—”

  “Don’t call me Bronwyn. That’s a good start.”

  She sighs loudly. “Fine. I don’t know why you want to take the beautiful name I gave you and turn it into something that sounds like a dockworker, but fine. I—we—need your help, Bron.”

  I hate the way she emphasizes the name, like it tastes bad on her tongue. “There’s nothing wrong with dockworkers, Mom. Now, come on—tell me why you called. I’ve got to get to the shop. Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me. And Nana.”

  I freeze in my chair. “Nana? You’re serious?”

  “Do you think I’d say so if I wasn’t?”

  “Nana…asked you to call?”

  “She suggested it.”

  I let my breath out. This puts a whole new spin on things, like it or not. I don’t bother asking why Nana didn’t call me herself.

  “Okay…what does she want?”

  She hesitates. “Twyla is coming out there for a few days next week to take care of some…business. She’s never been out to California, and Nana’s concerned. She’d…like her to stay with you. Just for a few days,” she adds hastily.

  “Mom…” I shoot Rory an exasperated glance. Twyla is another “cousin”—not blood-related this time, but she might as well be the way she has Nana’s ear.

  She also used to be my best friend, before I got her mother killed and turned my back on anything to do with magic.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with—you know what. I promise.”

  She’s honestly trying that approach? I sigh again. “Come on.”

  “It’s true. Twyla’s got a job. She’s working with some non-profit organization helping homeless kids, and they want to shoot a video. You know, for fundraising. She’s meeting with a production company out there. But Nana’s afraid—well, Twyla hasn’t spent much time away from…our kind.”

  I roll my eyes. Mom’s the master of understatement, as usual. “So what am I supposed to do about that?”

  “Take her in for a few days. Give her a place to stay and keep her out of trouble. Maybe give her a ride to her appointment. Come on—it’s not much to ask. You two used to be so close, and Nana thinks it might be time to start a little healing.”

  My hand clenches around the phone. Yeah—and you know as well as I do why we’re not close anymore. “Mom—I’ve got a bookshop to run, remember? I…lost my assistant recently, so it’s just me. Plus, I can’t give Twyla a ride anywhere unless she wants to get on the back of my bike.”

  “Oh, I was hoping you’d come to your senses about that ridiculous thing by now.”

  “We all have to hope for something, I guess.”

  “You’re difficult daughter, Bronw—uh, Bron.”

  “Right bac
k at you, Mom.”

  “So anyway—are you going to tell Nana no? Or should I let Twyla know you’ll pick her up at the airport? In a real car?”

  I sigh. Despite my words, I know there was never any other possible ending to this conversation. I won’t say you never defy Nana—I did defy Nana on a fairly major scale, which is part of why I’m out here in the first place—but I will say if you’re going to do it, you pick your battles carefully. Helping out a cousin for a few days isn’t, as they say, the hill I want to die on.

  Even if it’s Twyla.

  Though I can’t deny I wish it was anyone but Twyla.

  “Fine. I’ll find a car. Just send me the details. Find somebody who can handle email to do it. It was nice talking to you, Mom. Let’s do it again in another year, okay?”

  “Are you sure you won’t consider coming home for—”

  “Bye!” I tap the button to end the call and slump back into my seat. Talking to Mom is like going ten rounds with a friendly, overcaffeinated gorilla—when I’m done, I always feel like I need to take a long nap and a handful of aspirin.

  Rory jumps in my lap and peers up at me as if to say, “Hey, it’s over now.”

  But it’s not over. I lurch up, gently dumping her to the floor. She offers me an irritated mrrow.

  “Oh, don’t you start too. Come on—we have to go. We’re already late.”

  Across the room, the TV flips on. It’s tuned to Little House on the Prairie, and shows a scene of the whole homespun family gathered around their kitchen table—which is also their dining room table—all of them on the same side so nobody has their back to the camera.

  “Enough, Alice!” I yell. “Give it a rest—it’s not going to work. That happy-family horseshit doesn’t happen in real life.”

  The TV flips back off again, and a stack of magazines slides off the breakfast bar and lands on the floor with a loud thump.

  I swear, between my cat and my resident poltergeist, it’s a wonder I don’t drink.

  My phone rings again as I’m heading out to my bike. I set down Aurora’s specially-made, padded carrier and dig in my pocket for it. If Mom’s calling back again—

  But it’s not Mom. The number itself isn’t familiar, but the name next to it stops me in surprise. “Nick. Hey.”

  I sound more hesitant than I want to—not because I don’t want to talk to Nick Morgan, but because I can’t figure out why he’s calling me. It’s been over a month since all that crazy business went down with the soul engine, and he hasn’t called back since then. I figure it’s probably for the best, all things considered. The last thing I want is to get anywhere near the Happenstances, even by proxy.

  “Hey, Bron. How’s it going? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  I look down at Aurora’s carrier—yes, I do ride her to the shop on the back of the bike sometimes, when the weather’s nice. It’s not far, and she loves it, so don’t judge. “Depends on how you define ‘bad.’ What’s up?”

  “Sorry I took so long getting back to you—things have been crazy over here. But I don’t want you to think I forgot about our platonic seafood excursion.”

  I chuckle. I’m still not convinced Nick has fully accepted the whole “I’m not looking for a relationship with you or anybody else” thing, but at least he’s trying. That’s better than most guys do. “I wondered,” I admit.

  “How about Friday night? I got reservations and everything. Look at me being organized. You’d better accept, because that might not happen again this century.”

  “Yeah, okay. Can’t pass up an offer like that.”

  Chapter Two

  I can’t decide if I’m happy or disappointed that Nick actually called back. As I walk into the little restaurant in Newport Beach, dressed in a decidedly un-date-like outfit of combat boots, jeans, Nirvana T-shirt and motorcycle jacket, I’m still debating the question.

  On the one hand, he and his newfound family have the potential to seriously upset the nice, quiet, mundane life I’ve built for myself out here.

  On the other, though, I’ve never been much good at making friends. And ever since Jane died, I have been avoiding people, except for my customers. That’s probably not healthy.

  He’s already there, lounging against the railing outside. I’m relieved that he’s not dressed for a date either—unlike most guys around this area, a sport jacket and slacks are his usual outfit. He says it makes him look more respectable for his clients. As respectable as a sham fortune teller can look, anyway. My first impression is that he looks troubled, but as soon as he spots me, he smiles.

  “Hey,” he calls, waving. “How have you been?”

  I shrug. “Quiet. I’ll be honest, I almost didn’t come.”

  “Why not? Developed a sudden aversion to seafood?”

  “No. I just didn’t want to dredge up…what happened again. I’m trying to forget it. Not that it’s working.”

  He nods, growing serious. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t blame you. But you’re here now, so at least let’s go gorge ourselves on king crab before you go. Maybe you can take a doggie—er—kitty bag home for Rory. She’ll love you forever.”

  “She already loves me forever. But you have a point.”

  The hostess takes us to a table near a window, with a great view of the ocean. She tilts her head at me when I set my helmet down on the chair next to me, but doesn’t say anything. “So,” I say as I sit down next to it, “How’s the fleecing-old-ladies business?”

  “It’s…okay. I have a couple of new clients—Maddy’s friends—but I think she might just feel sorry for me. I haven’t felt much like getting out over the last month.” His smile falters. “I’ve been trying to keep busy, but…you know.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t look at his aura because I don’t do that anymore, but it doesn’t take aura reading to tell he’s not in a good place. I’m not at all surprised. I hide my sudden discomfort by grabbing a roll and buttering it. “Me too.”

  “You okay, Bron?”

  “I’m fine,” I answer too fast. “You’re the one I should be asking that. And how’s Frederic doing?”

  “He’s…good. Mostly. Haven’t seen much of him, actually. He just got back last week. He and some guys he hangs out with took a trip down to Mexico. Said he needed some time away.”

  “Can’t fault him for that. And you? Been learning anything from Grandpa and the Happenstances? Which totally sounds like a band name, by the way.”

  Now it’s his turn to duck his gaze. “I…haven’t really spent much time with them. I’ve mostly been focusing on trying to keep up with my clients so they don’t dump me, and getting caught up with my reading.”

  “No?” That surprises me. “Nick, I thought this was what you wanted. Didn’t you tell me you spent your whole childhood hoping magic was real? Now you know it is. I know things kind of sucked last month—” that was the understatement of the year, “—but I’d have thought they couldn’t keep you away from it.”

  “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He sighs. “Look—Bron—would it be okay if we didn’t talk about that stuff? I just wanted to see you again, catch up a little on normal life. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how hard it was to pick up the phone and call you at all.”

  “Uh—sure. If that’s what you want.” In truth, I’m relieved to hear him say that. If he doesn’t want to talk about magic, that means there’s no chance he’ll start asking me about it. My tension level drops as I take a bite of my bread.

  We talk about normal stuff—the bookshop, cats, some of his more interesting clients—but I feel like the other stuff is hanging over us like a cloud, always there. We can’t go forever without discussing what happened—not if we want to stay friends. But I’m grateful to Nick for doing a good job of keeping away from it tonight.

  We’ve made it about halfway through dinner before an obvious solution to a problem pops into my head. “Hey, Nick…”

  “Yeah?” He’s got a plate of crab legs and he’s busil
y working away with one of those cracker things, trying to break into a claw.

  “I need a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I’ve…got somebody coming to stay with me for a few days, and I’m supposed to pick her up at the airport.”

  “Yeah? And—Oh.” His gaze shifts to the other chair, where I’d put my helmet. “I take it she doesn’t like perching on the tiny back seat of a murder machine while hurtling down the 405 at seventy miles an hour.”

  I laugh. “Come on—when have you ever seen anybody ‘hurtle’ on an L.A. freeway? More like ‘crawl uncomfortably at five miles an hour’—and that’s only because I can lane-split on the bike. But yeah, I don’t think she’ll go for that. Especially if she, you know, actually brought any bags with her.”

  “Uh—yeah. Sure. I guess you could borrow my car, but it would be easier if I just drove you. When is it?”

  “Next week. Plane comes in Wednesday afternoon at one-thirty.”

  “Yeah, okay. I don’t have anything scheduled for then. Maddy’s weekly reading is on Tuesday. Want me to just give you a ride?”

  “That would be great, Nick. I hate to ask, but—” I shrug. “I don’t know anybody else around here well enough. Not since…”

  Not since Jane died.

  Nick picks up on that instantly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem.” He offers a hopeful grin. “‘She,’ huh? Old college buddy?”

  “No. She’s family, actually. Sort of.”

  “How can somebody be ‘sort of’ family?”