Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy Read Online Free

ignoring workers as they yelled and waved at the cavalcade of cars, she shifted into fifth gear. The more distance between herself and the old woman, the more the knot eased in her chest.
    Spencer turned from the back window and shook himself, lather flying. He didn’t sit, but poked his upper body between the seats to perch partially on the console, standing watch, his jowl stuck on an exposed canine.
    Brenawyn now noticed the dashboard plastic peeled away like paper straw wrappers, and the frothy saliva drying on the windshield. Claw marks punctuated by—she looked down at the dog’s paws—dry blood.
    The car ate up the highway, and by the time the Salem welcome sign appeared on the horizon, Brenawyn had trouble discerning the truth from figments of her tired imagination. Thrown off by the state of the unkempt bathroom, the woman probably just wanted toilet paper. Perhaps she couldn’t hear, or spoke another language? The woman’s red eyes were definitely her wild imagination’s doing, and the distance from the parking spot to the bypass road a perception issue. But the dog’s response?
    As if hearing it would make it be so, she said, “Yep, that’s it, I’m just tired.” Catching sight of Spencer’s reflection in the rearview mirror, “Don’t look at me like that. It was just my imagination and that’s that!”
    Brenawyn turned the corner, and the car’s headlights did nothing to illuminate the long shadows on her grandmother’s familiar street. She slid into a parking spot in front of The Rising Moon, the establishment her grandmother owned. The store’s windows were dark, as were those of the residence above. It was too early to announce her arrival, but lights shone from the bakery across the street, as if calling all ships home. Not too early for fresh croissants.
    As the car door swung wide, the offending lone flip flop slapped the pavement, reminding her to retrieve her antibacterial wipes from the glove compartment. She rubbed several pads on her feet and donned another pair of dollar store sandals that she grabbed from the backseat. “Kills ninety-nine percent of bacteria—it will have to do until I can scrub my skin off.”
    She shuddered as she bent to grab the discarded flip flop, holding it at arm’s length between two fingertips while trying to handle the dog that bolted out of the car like a rushing tidal wave. He crashed into the door, making it strain against its hinges, and she lurched as the dog tripped her, fumbling the shoe.
    “God damn it, dog,” rubbing her stubbed toe. “It’s combat boots for me from now on.” Retrieving it again and hobbling on her injured foot, she tossed it into the nearest trashcan on the curb.
    Spencer took two steps and sniffed the air. His hackles rose and he moved in front of Brenawyn, herding her with his bottom in the direction of the car. Brenawyn looked into the deep shadows afforded by the broken streetlamp halfway down the block. “Jesus.” She stepped around him and yanked on his lead. He fought, his nails scrabbling on the asphalt, choking on the strained collar, but she won and hurried across the street to the safety of the lighted, public bakery.
    ~ ~ ~
    Alexander Sinclair was among the few midnight denizens who stalked the bakery for freshly baked bread. He had to remember to eat. Tonight, following a lead, he had slogged through miles of construction traffic tailing the mark, only to be led to a rest stop, where it appeared for an instant that his search would finally bear fruit, but he was too damned eager.
    The Oracle was there again, as she always was: the shadow, the tool of his nemesis. What her name was, where she came from, it didn’t matter. She was The Oracle. The enemy was getting bolder, using her for other than interpreting omens—he was desperate. Time was running out. Never before had she made direct contact. Alexander wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen her slam her fists on the hood of that car, nor sift time