Destiny's Song (The Fixers, book #1: A KarmaCorp Novel) by Audrey Faye Page A
Authors: Audrey Faye
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rat’s nest in my Song. He slid to a halt in front of me and leaned casually against the wall. “You’re not what I expected.”
There was a lot of that going around. I took a jagged breath. “What were you expecting?”
He flashed a wry grin. “To be a lot more annoyed at the person who’s come to convince me that Janelle is the love of my life.”
His words were casual—friendly, even—but his notes sang potently of the man underneath. A combination of his father’s charisma and his mother’s fire, and the ability to hide both very well.
My Song saw him just fine—and it wanted. I wanted. Which was the fastest path to insanity and unemployment that I could possibly imagine. “You object to my mission?” I could hardly blame him.
“I know you’re here at the Inheritor’s request.” He shrugged, face affable. “I don’t expect you to succeed.”
That was blunt. “Janelle shares your opinion.”
“She’s not easily swayed.” His eyes were deep brown and opaque, no longer the friendly puppy dog. “Neither am I.”
“I believe the first. I’ll reserve judgment on the second.” I had no idea why I needed to poke at him, but I did.
He laughed, and something just south of my belly button tied itself into a hot Cerulian knot. “You’ve met my parents. Twenty-six years of that, and I’m pretty good at not letting myself get pushed around.”
That was becoming rapidly apparent. “I’m not here to force anyone into anything.”
“Maybe not.” He shrugged, a man comfortable with diplomatic wordsmithing. “But you’re here to throw your weight on the scales.”
I was. In service of the greater good, but that wasn’t always much fun for the people who got leaned on. I hummed a quiet subsonic note, recognizing it as my own confusion. The two targets of this particular assignment were throwing me into a hell of a tangle. “You’re the Inheritor Elect. You’re already standing on a pretty weighted scale.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like Inheritors?”
I was way scattered if he’d been able to read that—I’d learned a long time ago to leave my free-wheeling digger roots well hidden. “My personal feelings don’t matter here.”
He snorted. “Like hell they don’t.”
They weren’t supposed to, and when you worked for KarmaCorp, that was basically the same thing. I gritted my teeth and tried not to scream at the flame-dancing harmonics of lust and desire having a wild party under my ribs. “I like to think that people can make themselves into who they want to be.”
Which was a supremely stupid thing to have just said to a man I’d come here to lean on. I was one very messed-up Fixer.
He studied me for a long, quiet moment and then took a bite out of his bun. “Tell me about yourself, Singer.”
Not a chance. “This isn’t about me.”
“You’re here to try to weld my ass to the chair my parents want me to sit in.” The imperial blood in his veins was suddenly very obvious. “So I’m damn well making it about you. I like to know a little bit about people I might have to punch in the nose.”
I had to laugh, and that settled my harmonics some. “You might have to get in line behind Janelle.”
He snorted. “If she’s throwing punches, I won’t need to.”
The affection was mutual, then. My Song spiked more notes of confusion—affection was generally only a very small step away from love. What the heck was keeping these two apart? “It sounds like you like her.”
“I do.” His grin was quick, self-deprecating, and utterly lethal. “Don’t get your hopes up, it won’t make your job any easier.”
I knew the answer already—even my jangling Talent could read the obvious—but I asked anyhow. “You don’t want to marry her?”
“No.” The same simple, clear answer she’d given. “We kissed once when we were eight. There’s nothing there. I like her very much, but there’s no fire.”
Plenty married with less than mutual affection. I
There was a lot of that going around. I took a jagged breath. “What were you expecting?”
He flashed a wry grin. “To be a lot more annoyed at the person who’s come to convince me that Janelle is the love of my life.”
His words were casual—friendly, even—but his notes sang potently of the man underneath. A combination of his father’s charisma and his mother’s fire, and the ability to hide both very well.
My Song saw him just fine—and it wanted. I wanted. Which was the fastest path to insanity and unemployment that I could possibly imagine. “You object to my mission?” I could hardly blame him.
“I know you’re here at the Inheritor’s request.” He shrugged, face affable. “I don’t expect you to succeed.”
That was blunt. “Janelle shares your opinion.”
“She’s not easily swayed.” His eyes were deep brown and opaque, no longer the friendly puppy dog. “Neither am I.”
“I believe the first. I’ll reserve judgment on the second.” I had no idea why I needed to poke at him, but I did.
He laughed, and something just south of my belly button tied itself into a hot Cerulian knot. “You’ve met my parents. Twenty-six years of that, and I’m pretty good at not letting myself get pushed around.”
That was becoming rapidly apparent. “I’m not here to force anyone into anything.”
“Maybe not.” He shrugged, a man comfortable with diplomatic wordsmithing. “But you’re here to throw your weight on the scales.”
I was. In service of the greater good, but that wasn’t always much fun for the people who got leaned on. I hummed a quiet subsonic note, recognizing it as my own confusion. The two targets of this particular assignment were throwing me into a hell of a tangle. “You’re the Inheritor Elect. You’re already standing on a pretty weighted scale.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like Inheritors?”
I was way scattered if he’d been able to read that—I’d learned a long time ago to leave my free-wheeling digger roots well hidden. “My personal feelings don’t matter here.”
He snorted. “Like hell they don’t.”
They weren’t supposed to, and when you worked for KarmaCorp, that was basically the same thing. I gritted my teeth and tried not to scream at the flame-dancing harmonics of lust and desire having a wild party under my ribs. “I like to think that people can make themselves into who they want to be.”
Which was a supremely stupid thing to have just said to a man I’d come here to lean on. I was one very messed-up Fixer.
He studied me for a long, quiet moment and then took a bite out of his bun. “Tell me about yourself, Singer.”
Not a chance. “This isn’t about me.”
“You’re here to try to weld my ass to the chair my parents want me to sit in.” The imperial blood in his veins was suddenly very obvious. “So I’m damn well making it about you. I like to know a little bit about people I might have to punch in the nose.”
I had to laugh, and that settled my harmonics some. “You might have to get in line behind Janelle.”
He snorted. “If she’s throwing punches, I won’t need to.”
The affection was mutual, then. My Song spiked more notes of confusion—affection was generally only a very small step away from love. What the heck was keeping these two apart? “It sounds like you like her.”
“I do.” His grin was quick, self-deprecating, and utterly lethal. “Don’t get your hopes up, it won’t make your job any easier.”
I knew the answer already—even my jangling Talent could read the obvious—but I asked anyhow. “You don’t want to marry her?”
“No.” The same simple, clear answer she’d given. “We kissed once when we were eight. There’s nothing there. I like her very much, but there’s no fire.”
Plenty married with less than mutual affection. I
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