Tangled Fates
by
Carly Fall
© 2013 Westward Publishing
All Rights Reserved
The Six Saviors Series - in reading order
The Light Within Me
Finding My Faith
REBORN
Beverly’s Rebirth
Destiny’s Shift
Tangled Fates
For other books by Carly Fall, visit www.CarlyFall.com
Prologue
One hundred twelve years ago—SR44
“I’ll be back soon,” he had told Mia as they stood among the throngs of SR44ians and
the hustle and bustle of the city life, the golden buildings soaring above them. “We won’t be
gone that long, my love.”
“I shall wait for you with anticipation and worry,” Mia said. “You carry my soul with
you. Care for it with integrity, and complete your mission with honor.”
“I will do as you say. This is my oath, my promise, to you.”
Chapter 1
Ten Months Ago
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay? You’re not going to do anything stupid, are
you?”
Cohen stared at his fellow Warrior, Rayner, not really processing what he was saying. He
was in a haze consisting of agony, disbelief, defeat, gut-wrenching guilt, and he had put a big, fat
cherry on all that with some Captain Morgan, the rum of all rums.
He brought the glass to his lips, his hand shaking. He had to take a piss but didn’t know if
his legs would carry his six-foot-four, two hundred fifty pound-frame. Instead, he shifted in his
chair and ran his hand through his dark hair.
Finding out that your mate was dead could incapacitate a male.
Cohen looked over at the clock. It had been three hours, two minutes, and fifteen seconds
since the news had been delivered, and the conversation kept replaying over and over in his
mind.
“SR44 is no more,” Liberty had said. “When we left, it seemed our world exploded from
the inside, leaving nothing. It is gone.”
Gone.
His whole reason for existing had disappeared in one fiery, fuck-all explosion.
“Cohen, I need you to talk to me, man.”
He lifted his violet eyes to Rayner’s red gaze and took another drink. What he really
wanted was to be left the hell alone. There was only one way that was going to happen; he had to
convince Rayner that although he was devastated, he wasn’t going to off himself.
“I’m okay.”
“And you’re not going to do anything stupid?”
“Like what? Drink more rum?”
“No, dumbass, like hurt yourself.”
Cohen threw his head back and laughed. It wasn’t the normal sound that came from his
throat, but something that resembled a bullfrog choking on Skittles.
The so not ha-ha funny thing was that he could remove his heart with a butter knife and
tweezers and it wouldn’t hurt as badly as what was rolling through him now.
“What’s so funny?” Rayner asked.
“Nothing, man, nothing. There’s not a fucking thing funny right now. Obscene, yes.
Disorienting, sure. But funny? Nope.”
Rayner’s eyes narrowed on him. “Where are your guns?”
It was obvious Rayner thought Cohen had lost his jar of dice and would blow out his
brains. The guy couldn’t have been more wrong. Cohen had no intention of killing himself; he
had too much to atone for, and he needed to be very much alive to do that.
But, whatever. “In the closet. In my gun safe.”
Rayner got up and went to the closet.
“You’re supposed to keep this thing locked,” Rayner said from inside.
He was supposed to do a lot of things. He was supposed to be concentrating on going
home to SR44, to see his mate, Mia. He was supposed to honor his mating vows. Keeping his
gun safe locked? Pretty far down on the list of important stuff he was supposed to do.
Rayner came out of the closet with a loaded-down black duffle bag.
“You sure you’re going to be okay, Cohen?”
No. Things would never be okay again. He was an SR44 male without his mate. Things
were going to be one large pile of smelly crap for the rest of his days.
“Yes. Now go see Faith and leave me alone.”
Rayner stared at him a minute longer, his red eyes piercing him, then headed for the door.
Cohen listened as the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. When he heard the hum of the
elevator taking Rayner away, he felt all his emotions—the guilt, the agony, the sheer disbelief
that Mia was gone—swelling together, fueling the screams and cries of pain that emanated from
his lips.
After a few moments, he was hoarse, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
He should have honored his mating vows to Mia, but instead he had been whoring around
on Earth for the past seventy-five years of the two hundred twelve years he had been on this
rock. His betrayal to her ran deep, and he needed to atone for his sins.
Oh, and sinned he had. He was a Grade-A sinner.
The first time with a human female had felt so magnificent and put him on such a high;
the guilt was almost non-existent. After that, he was like a junkie looking for his next fix. The
loneliness that had driven him to his first encounter with a human female once again resurfaced,
and he was on the prowl. He’d always tried to counter any guilt with promises to himself that he
would make it up to Mia once he got home, and he would once again be the male of dignity and
honor he had been. If he didn’t love Mia as much as he did, he wouldn’t feel so goddamned
alone, and he wouldn’t need to find another body to rub up against to quell that loneliness.
However, if he were to be honest, he had developed a deep-seated hatred for himself and
his extracurricular activities over the past seventy-five years.
Standing on wobbly legs, he made his way to the bathroom. After using the toilet, he
studied his face in the mirror. His dark hair stood on end, and his violet, red-rimmed eyes burned
brightly. His tanned skin looked pale, and his broad chest heaved with ragged breaths.
He was a cocksucker of epic proportions.
Visions of Mia, her rose-colored SR44 form, swirled before him. Cohen’s SR44 Forest
Dwelling family held on to the old customs of choosing a mate for their children. Mia had been
chosen to mate him when they were young. Thankfully, as they had grown up, they spent time
together in the forest running in the high tree branches, sharing private talks, and attending
Forest Dwelling ceremonies, they had grown to love each other.
On their mating day, as Cohen had said his vows, Mia became his reason for existing.
And then, one hundred fifty years after their mating, he’d been sent on this godforsaken,
never-ending mission of catching and eradicating Colonists, and his vows had meant less and
less to him as the loneliness and need for companionship grew and grew.
And now, Mia was dead. He’d sullied their mating, reneged on his vows, and it was now
time for him to let the guilt take over and eat at him.
Inhaling, he wiped his violet eyes again. How could he make thi
s situation better? What
could he do to atone for his sins?
As he splashed cold water on his face, it came to him. He would make an oath, an ancient
oath practiced by the Forest Dwellers. Yes, he would perform a Tambaran to honor Mia, her
memory, and their mating vows.
He went back into the bedroom and pulled out a black marble box from under his bed. A
Forest Dwelling elder had made the box especially for Cohen, and no one would ever be able to
open it but him. It had been a gift from the elder, to be used as a place to hold Cohen’s most
important possessions.
He placed his hand on top of the box, and channeled his energy into the lock, reciting a
chant in his native tongue that spoke of precious belongings. He heard a small click, and the box
was open.
pitchfork-like SR44 knife. It was about twelve inches in length, and the prongs were a copper
color. The hilt was violet, the exact shade of his SR44 being. Each prong was engraved with the
English equivalent of Honor, Truth, and Respect. The last time he had held the knife was right before he left SR44 to come to Earth.
“Be well, my love,” Mia had said.
“As you, my Mia.” He had then put the knife in the case along with the other contents
and locked it.
“It is my last eve here, Mia. Come join with me. Let me take beautiful memories of you
with me on my short mission.”
Now, as he knelt on the floor in his room, thinking about Mia and staring at the knife, it
felt like his heart was going pump out the front of his chest. He pulled out a yellow silk-like cloth
and gently unfolded it, revealing a reddish powdery substance called Natwa. Being a Healer,
Cohen had the ability to heal others by using their energy and fusing it with his own to repair
wounds. But what happened when the Healer got hurt? The red Natwa powder was the answer.
Cohen simply needed to spread it along the wound and it would mend.
It had been ten years since he’d used the contents of the case.
He’d used it a few times with different run-ins with their enemy, the Colonists, but most
of the time he stayed on the back lines waiting for the injured to come to him. Sometimes this
irritated him when he was itching to fight, but usually that itch could be scratched by going a
couple of rounds with Rayner or Hudson down in the gym.
As he studied the powder, a tear slid down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away so it
wouldn’t land in the red granules.
He laid out the powder and knife on the dark brown carpet. He stood, turned off the light,
and lit two candles that smelled like evergreen, reminding him of the forests of home. He placed
the candles by the knife and powder. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt and his belt
buckle, letting his jeans fall to the floor. He walked over to the bar and poured another drink,
making it a double for courage and good measure.
Naked, he approached the gathering of tools he would need for the ceremony, and knelt
before them.
Closing his eyes, he began chanting in his native tongue.
He spoke of honoring promises, righting wrongs, and retribution. He began to rock and
sway, as he would if he were in his natural SR44 form, a mass of violet smoke.
After a few moments he reached for the knife next to him, and his chanting got louder.
He held the three-pronged beast in front of him, and with a primal scream, he plunged it into his
chest and abdomen.
Minutes later, Cohen awoke flat on his back, weak and covered in blood. He looked at
the blood pooling on the floor beside him and had the passing thought that the Rug Doctor was
going to have to make a visit.
The knife protruded from his body, as though the Devil himself had stuck it there. He
didn’t have the energy to pull it out, so he reached for the red powder.
Breathing heavily, he sprinkled it on his wounds. Laying his head back, he tried to relax
as the powder mended his internal injuries. It felt as though there were colonies of little ants
within healing him.
Thirty minutes later, the knife fell to his side. He looked down at his torso and saw angry
red marks. Sitting up, he rubbed more red powder on the wounds and knew that the welts would
be gone by morning, if not sooner.
Standing, he took stock in how he felt. He had made a pledge to Mia that he would honor
their mating vows until his death. He’d certainly done a crappy job of this before, but his soul
felt a little lighter now that he had renewed his conviction. The ache of loss was still monumental, but it had eased.
After picking up the knife, he made his way to the bathroom, stopping at the bar for more
Captain Morgan. As he ran the knife under water, he watched the red ringlets of blood flow
down the sink. When the knife was clean, he staggered back to the black box laid open on the
floor. He knelt down and gently wrapped everything he had taken out, then placed them back in
the box and slid it under his bed to its original resting spot. He blew out the candles, plunging the
room into darkness, and fell into bed.
Chapter 2
Present Day
Cohen stared at the large, white screen hanging on the wall. He sat back in his chair and
the screen, he wished he could find some enthusiasm within himself to feel some excitement at
the impending results. However, he had none to offer.
Nevertheless, he could feel the anxiety in the room as the other seven people seated
around the black marble table stared at the screen. It was almost as if the tension was an entity in
itself and had been jacked with a good dose of crack cocaine as it morphed and built.
Noah, Rayner, Hudson, Jovan, and Annis were all leaning forward, their arms resting on
the black marble table, their eyes glowing their SR44 color. Blake sat back in his chair taking the
same pose as Cohen, and Talin slumped in his chair in front of the computer, his gaze shifting
from the big ideas the computer’s little brain was spinning and the large, white screen.
Talin, the resident tech-head, was always developing ways for the Six Saviors to catch
Colonists. A Colonist was base evil. The Six Saviors had been sent to eradicate the Colonists that
had been unleashed on Earth more than two hundred years ago from the planet SR44. Saying that
things hadn’t gone as planned would be a misstatement of epic proportions. They had been
hunting the Colonists all that time, and to throw a little salt in the wounds, the Colonists had
mated with humans, producing some of the most terrible criminals Earth had ever seen. Colonists
dropped black ash when they were in a heightened state before, during or after a kill. Humans
couldn’t see this ash, but the Six Saviors could. It had been a long, tedious hunt to find the
Colonists.
This newest program, aptly named Columbo after the detective on TV, consisted of little
cyber talons fingering through police department files from all over the country searching for bad
guys. It randomly ran a general family tree for those it chose. Twelve original Colonists had
landed on Earth, and the Six Saviors had done away with all but four of them. However, how
many offspring they produc
ed, no one knew. And to make the game even more fun, sometimes a
Colonist’s offspring got the bad genes, sometimes they didn’t. It was all one big crapshoot.
Like that half-breed, Blake. He was an okay guy even though his daddy had been a
Colonist. Blake had shot the fucker and watched him turn into a pile of black ash many years
ago. Yeah, that would screw with a guy’s brain.
When Talin’s computer program detected something amiss, it let the Six Saviors know.
It had yet to catch a Colonist, or one of their offspring, but there was a first time for
everything.
Blue boxes with names and dates flashed on the white screen while black lines slowly
made their way between the squares, connecting them. The bottom box had one name within it:
Susan Kresper. All of the other boxes housed different names that were all connected to her:
sisters, aunts, mother, father, grandfather, grandmother . . . the family tree kept building before
their eyes.
Susan Kresper, age thirty-two, with shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar
on the side of her neck stood at five-foot-five and weighed one hundred sixty pounds. She stared
at them from the screen. It was her mug shot from two years ago when she was a foster care
parent and had been arrested for child abuse. She didn’t look happy. There were no tears, no red-
rimmed eyes to indicate that there had been any remorse. Instead, a cold gaze and hard features
stared into the camera, almost looking threatening. She looked like a mean bitch, but was she a
Colonist or related to a Colonist? Doubtful.
For one thing, they had never seen a female Colonist, and they had never seen the female
offspring of a Colonist catch the bad genes. They had always been male.
Another box appeared, then the timeline stopped.
“Is that it, Talin?” Noah, the Warriors’ leader, asked.
“Yep.”
Everyone stared up at the screen. The anticipation had grown to monster levels, but was
now slowly lessening.
It looked like Columbo was good for something after all. The last box in Susan’s family
tree read a name that only the Six Saviors knew translated to Jack the Ripper.
A Colonist. Huh. Color him surprised.
Not.
Well, Cohen probably would be surprised if he was able to muster the energy to do so.