Fates by Lanie Bross Page B

allowed himself to relax just a little. There was some need in her eyes—something he couldn’t identify. He wanted to put his arms around her; he wanted to tell her it would be okay.
    Great, now he was feeling sorry for the crazy girl who just tried to stick a knife in his gut.
    â€œCan I walk you back to the Marina?” he asked gently. “Is there someone I can call? Someone at home?”
    At the word home, her shoulders went rigid again. She sprang forward, the knife pointed at his chest, and he barely had time to react. She forced him to back up until he was almost at the edge of the roof.
    He glanced over his shoulder, feeling a moment of swinging vertigo. Wind buffeted the clothing clipped to the lines strung between the buildings. Jumping was out of the question. There was another building ten or fifteen feet away. He’d never make it over the gap.
    Anticipate your opponent. Look for an opening. His coach’s barked commands fired through his head. But there were no openings. He dodged left suddenly, then right, tried to get past her, but she anticipated every move he made.
    She obviously knew what she was doing. The door to the stairs was twenty feet away, but he’d have to get by her first. Which meant exposing his back to her if he made a run for it.
    She raised her knife again, pointing it at his chin.
    Luc’s pulse was roaring. He turned his head. He had no choice. He’d have to jump. He spotted a string of shirts and pants that hung motionless on one of the crisscrossed laundry lines despite the stiff breeze blowing off the ocean, as though they were a photograph. Goose bumps sprang up over his skin and the back of his neck tightened, as if someone were squeezing it.
    That was his way out.
    A certainty powered through his body, just like it did when he was on the field. He didn’t know how he knew it, but it was as clear as his own name.
    Jump.
    Luc turned back toward Corinthe. She paused, and a gust of wind lifted strands of her hair, making it dance around her head chaotically. For a second, insanely, he wondered how it would feel to have her body pressed up against him one more time. When her hair settled back down, he noticed a tiny light darting about near her head, its glow buzzing softly in and out. He could swear it was a firefly.
    â€œWho are you really?” he asked.
    When she didn’t respond, he took a small, involuntary step forward. The soft grayish-purple color of her eyes was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t keep from staring. Her pupils dilated and the color changed, deepening to a wild violet hue that reminded him of dark storm clouds in a summer sky. The air between them felt charged with something electric.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, and for a moment he thought she looked troubled.
    It finally registered: she was dead serious about hurting him.
    Luc stepped up onto the ledge. His heart raced so hard he thought it might explode from his chest. Corinthe stared at him with narrowed eyes, releasing a small bit of air between her lips, a cross between a hiss and a sigh. It was as though she knew what she had to do but wanted to stop herself. And then her eyes went cold, her body tensed, and she arched her arm back. The blade glinted in the sunlight.
    She threw the knife straight at him.
    He launched off the edge of the roof. The world seemed to slow down, and for several seconds he felt as if he were flying, weightless, through the air.
    Then his Giants cap whipped off and sound rushed back like a freight train. Luc knew he was falling. He reached desperately for the clothesline, stretched his arms and fingers toward it.
    Panic, white-hot and blinding, raced through him.
    His fingers brushed the edges of a pink blouse, and then they were empty. The wind was rushing, roaring, all around him. He wasn’t going to make it.
    Suddenly, he couldn’t see. Everything had broken apart into mists and vapor. He spun