Forgotten Destiny Book One Read online

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Forgotten Destiny Book One

  Copyright © 2017 Odette C Bell

  Cover art stock photos: licensed from Depositphotos.

  www.odettecbell.com

  Forgotten Destiny

  Book One

  She’s got powers, and she has to use them to find her future husband before it’s too late....

  This isn’t fair. Beth has just found out she’s a witch, and in this world, witches are regulated.

  When her powers are tested, she's pushed into a new job working for a rakish bounty hunter who's charm only just makes up for his arrogance. But if Beth thinks finding bounties for Josh McIntosh is the worst punishment imaginable, she hasn't met Maximus C. Knights yet. He's the most powerful kingpin in town, and he needs her to find something. Specifically? Her future husband. You see, there’s a prophecy that says one day a witch just like Beth will come along, and with a little help, she’ll save the world….

  Chapter 1

  “I don’t… I don’t understand. I can’t be a witch,” I said as I sat behind the chipped wooden table, my hands shivering in my lap.

  The doctor stared across at me, an uncaring expression crumpling his old features. “Well, you are. If you are having trouble coping with this situation, there are various counseling services you can contact,” he said, his voice automatic, making it clear he was saying something he’d learned by-heart. Without bothering to get up from his chair, he leaned over, rummaged through the pamphlets lined up in the plastic holders behind him, and plucked out several. Never glancing at them, he slapped them down on the table and scooted them over to me.

  One or two fell off onto the ground, and I automatically leaned down and picked them up. Then I caught sight of their titles – from the Work Regulations of Witches, to Housing Services for the Magical – and I hit my head on the underside of the table.

  Cursing, I sat back up, rubbed my head, and carefully placed the pamphlets as far away from me as I could put them. Again I went back to shaking my head, the move more feverish this time. “There has to be a mistake. I have no family history of witches. I only bothered to get the test—”

  “Because your latest bloods showed unusual markers. Look, Miss—” the guy searched through the file on his desk until he found my name, “Samson, this isn’t something to be scared of. It happens a lot.”

  … This wasn’t something to be scared of? It took a lot of self-control not to tilt my head back and snort in this guy’s face.

  I wasn’t a newbie to the world of magic. I lived relatively close to a magical housing unit. I also read the papers and watched the news, for God’s sake. I understood just how much a diagnosis of witchism could change your life forever. Though there wasn’t that much stigma against witches these days, they were highly regulated entities. They were valuable, after all. It meant the government got to dictate what line of work you could go in. They got to decide where you lived. Heck, they pretty much got to have a say in every aspect of your life from now until the day you finally died.

  Sure, technically a diagnosis of witchism wasn’t the end of the world, but if you valued your freedom – like I did – it was close.

  So this had to be wrong. I leaned in, clutching the edge of the table once more. My fingers easily slipped into a set of grooves that made me wonder if people just like me had done exactly this before, clutching on for dear life as they tried to make sense of their rapidly crumbling world.

  Before I could demand another test – yet again – the doctor leaned back, crossed one arm in front of his body, locked his elbow on the table, and proceeded to massage his brow with two fingers. “Look, Miss Samson, I get it – this is going to be a big change for you. But like I said, there are plenty of counseling services that can help you through this transition period. It’s not the end of the world,” he emphasized that with his hard baritone that shook around the small office, practically bouncing off the multiple certificates on the wall – including the one that was pride of place and proved his government certification as a witch specialist. “I’m not giving you a diagnosis of cancer here. You don’t have an incurable illness. You have powers. Now, what’s wrong with that?”

  I opened my mouth to automatically reel off everything I could think of – from lack of freedom to the fact I would now have to apply to the government for permission to leave the freaking city.

  Then I saw the look in his eyes. I’ve always had the ability to read people’s emotions, and this guy was being pushed to the limit.

  “You know what I used to be before I became a witch specialist? A trauma surgeon. You haven’t been shot, you haven’t been stabbed, and there’s nothing wrong with you. Witches, on average, lead much longer lives than non-magical humans. Yes, you’re going to have to work in a government-sanctioned job from now on, but you’re also going to have a job.” He emphasized the word have. “In this difficult economy, that isn’t exactly something to cry about. You will also be moved into permanent accommodation. So let me once more reiterate the situation.” He brought up his hands and started to count on his fingers. “You’re not sick, you’re not dying, you’re about to get a permanent job, and you’ll never have to worry about a roof over your head again. So what exactly is the issue?”

  My fight quickly withered and died up as I tilted my head down and stared at my hands. “When you put it like that—”

  “Thank God you’re finally being reasonable. I thought you’d be one of those witches who demands 10 more tests.” He gruffly pushed up from his chair, and it scraped along the floor behind him. Leaning back, he cracked his neck. “Now, take whatever pamphlets you need.” He indicated the pamphlets behind him with a tilt of his neck. “You aren’t my only patient today, and I really need to get to the rest of them.” He turned to walk off, leaving me in a totally fragile state, with nothing to hold onto but a bunch of poorly printed pamphlets that talked in cheery tones about the fact I was now never going to have another say in anything I ever did again.

  He got half a meter away, reaching a hand out toward the door that would lead him to his back offices – which were a darn sight nicer than here. I’m usually relatively observant, and the first thing I noticed when I walked in was that this meeting room was barely decorated and the furniture was all old and easily replaceable. Though I was definitely taking the news about my witch diagnosis badly, I knew my reaction was mild compared to most. I caught a news report only last night of a soldier being told he was a warlock, only for the guy to use his newfound powers to absolutely trash the hospital reception room.

  The doctor turned hard on his expensive shoes, shifted over to the chipped, old bureau behind him, opened one of the doors with a creak that echoed through the room, and rummaged around. Finally he found what he was looking for and pulled it out. “These are your registration papers.” He shifted over to the table, plucked a goldplated fountain pen from his front pocket, and quickly, if carelessly, signed the last two sheets of the form. Then he shoved it over to me. “You need to fill these in and take them to the Government Registration Board downtown. Due to your genetic subgroup, I want your powers tested sooner rather than later.”

  I paled. “What does that mean?”

  “Relax,” he said in that same compassionless voice that told me he’d been dealing with freakouts just like mine for way too long. “I don’t think your powers are dangerous. It is precisely because your powers haven’t manifested properly yet that I want them tested. You’re going to need to take these papers straight down to the registration office, got that?”

  “But I had plans—”


  He slowly arched an eyebrow at me. Then he let his gaze tick down my body – or as much of it as he could see, as I was still seated compliantly, my hands clasped hard in my lap until my knuckles had gone white.

  “You don’t look like the kind to make trouble. I’m certain I shouldn’t need to remind you of this, but this is serious, Miss Samson. Witches are powerful, and for the good of them and everyone else, they must be regulated. But the government doesn’t want you to lose your every civil right. So for now,” he emphasized the words for now with a deep, guttural growl, “we trust you. If you become noncompliant—”

  “I get it,” I cut him off short as I leaned in, grabbed up the papers, resisted the urge to tear them up, and instead neatly folded them and placed them in my bag. “I’ll comply.”

  “Good. Now welcome to your new life. I assure you it won’t be as bad as you’re imagining.”

  As bad as I was imagining? No, it would be worse.

  Much, much worse.

  Chapter 2

  I sat there at the testing station, my hands clamped so hard in my lap, I thought I’d pull my thumbs from my knuckles.

  There were a bunch of other so-called witches sitting around on the little plastic chairs next to me. I called them so-called witches, because technically, despite proficient medical tests these days, you couldn’t be confirmed as a mage until and unless you went through proper testing. There was still a chance – a slim but hopeful chance – that you could get past the medical tests and get to this stage only to find out you didn’t have any powers. Then you could go back to a normal life, albeit one where you had to be dragged back into testing every couple of years in case your powers had suddenly blossomed.

  As I glanced at the other patients around me, none of them looked as full of dread as I did.

  The guy sitting next to me had leaned all the way back in his chair. His hands were clasped behind his head, and he was tapping his feet on the chipped linoleum. He was kind of handsome, in a rugged way. His features were unusual, but that just added to his mysterious charm.

  There were five other patients lined up on the plastic chairs, and though the rest of them were definitely not as uncomfortable as I was, nobody was nearly as carefree as this guy.

  My phone rang. The third time it had rung while I’d been waiting here for the last half hour. I knew who it was. My best friend, Susan. We worked in a café together. Hell, we’d only just managed to get the funds together to start our own. Then this.

  I stared at my hands. I couldn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t tell Susan about this until it was finally confirmed and there was no way out of it.

  Out of nowhere, Mr. Smooth and Calm beside me reached forward, plucked my bag up, despite the fact it was held tightly between my ankles, grabbed my phone out, and answered it, all in a smooth, quick move. I didn’t have a chance to stop him – I didn’t even have a chance to splutter.

  “Hello, who is this?” the guy asked.

  “What are you doing? That’s my phone,” I stammered.

  “Ah, who the hell is this?” I could hear Susan on the other end of the line, her voice echoing angrily over the receiver.

  “This is Joshua McIntosh. I guess you want to talk to the nervous dame beside me, ha? I hate to say this, but she’s been avoiding your calls, darling. If indeed that was you who’s called two times in the last 10 minutes.”

  “What are you doing? Give me back my phone!” I leaned over and tried to grab my phone from the guy, but, acting exactly like a six-year-old in a playground, he just locked his hand on my shoulder and pushed me away, leaning in the opposite direction as he kept my phone clamped against his ear.

  We were drawing attention from the other patients sitting around, but nobody got involved.

  For some reason, they all stared at this guy warily as if they knew him and he wasn’t somebody you wanted to mess with. That, or everyone was too busy contemplating their new futures as witches to bother intervening in a light tussle in the waiting room.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I heard Susan demand from the other end of the line. “I don’t care who you are – put me onto Beth.”

  “Like I said, sweetie, she’s avoiding your calls while waiting for her witch tests. Either she doesn’t like you anymore, or she’s got other things on her mind. Just do us all a favor and stop calling—” He went to hang up.

  I threw myself at him. This time I didn’t try to push past his longer arm – I went for his chair leg. Though he was a heck of a lot heavier than me, these chairs were old and rickety. What’s more, he was too much of a cool guy to sit straight – and he’d already pushed back onto two legs. All I had to do was kick at the back of the chair, and he fell forward. Then I practically dive rolled into him, grabbed the hand that held my phone, twisted his grip using the little self-defense I knew, and snatched my phone up.

  Before he could make a go for it, I jumped up and darted several meters away. I faced him warily, pressing my phone to my ear as I turned this way and that, hoping to catch sight of someone in charge.

  “Beth, is that you? What the hell is going on? You’re having the witch test?” Susan emphasized with a blast of a breath.

  My lips wobbled. I’d been about to tell her that a jerk had grabbed my phone, but now—

  The jerk in question had settled back in his seat, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out. He had a long, lithe form, but he was one of those tall guys who could seemingly bend himself in half so he didn’t stick out like a gladiator amongst a bunch of lambs. Now there was a sanctimonious smile spreading across his pretty face. “That’s right, Susan, Beth here is in line for the witch tests. Is that why she was avoiding your calls?”

  The idiot spoke loudly enough that Susan picked up on it. There was a tense breath. I could hear it as Susan no doubt pushed it through clenched teeth.

  My heart shook. Susan had always been my best friend. She’d always been there for me.

  And now…?

  I squeezed my eyes shut – for like half a second. I wasn’t stupid enough to wrench my attention off that jerk, lest he make another play for my phone.

  He didn’t look like he was going to – he’d settled down, crossed his arms further over his broad chest, and now had the kind of watchful attention of somebody about to enjoy a show.

  “Look, Susan,” I began, bringing a hand up and trailing it across my suddenly sweaty brow. I attempted to push my dead-straight blond hair from my eyes, but it just flopped back down again.

  Susan was a lot of things. And she could forgive a lot of things. But she’d always demanded total honesty. Now I’d lied to her. Or at least I hadn’t told her the full truth.

  “… This isn’t a game, is it? God, Beth, why didn’t you tell me? When did you begin to notice? When did you have the medical tests? What on earth is going on?”

  I tried to push the phone closer to my ear to ensure no one else could hear, but Mr. Jerk didn’t pull his attention off me, and with every new remonstration Susan spat through the phone, his lips curled harder.

  If I ever got the chance, I would slam my fist into this guy’s face. Were it not for the fact that reversing grips was the only self-defense I knew and that hitting people was totally illegal and if I so much as put a finger on this guy, he would probably wrestle me into submission in a second flat.

  Not the point, though. He’d ruined everything.

  I went to walk away, to get some much-needed privacy, but that’s when the guy pushed out one of his folded legs and put it right in front of me as if he wanted to trip me up.

  “Do you mind, you asshole?” I hissed, clamping a hand over the phone so Susan couldn’t hear and mistakenly think I was talking to her.

  “Firstly, not an asshole,” he said as he patted his chest. “Secondly, you were given pretty clear instructions not to move from these chairs. All participants must stay seated until a registered training professional comes to get them.” He spoke with the kind of automatic efficiency of someon
e who’d said that multiple times. He gestured back to the chair as if he was an air hostess going through a safety protocol.

  I bared my teeth at him. I was not the kind of woman who usually bared her teeth at anyone or anything. Heck, I didn’t even bare my teeth when I was brushing them at night. I wouldn’t exactly call me meek, just soft. I was the kind of person who didn’t like confrontation. And that wasn’t a bad thing. Sure, if you believed movies and books and the media in general, the world liked somebody who could stand up for themselves. People with enough balls never to allow themselves to be trod on. That culture was wrong. Arrogant, entitled jerks who ran around starting fights just because they felt their rights were being impinged led to problems, not solved them. You need diplomats – just like me – to keep the peace.

  But this guy?

  “Can you just leave me alone? Sit down and wait for your own goddamn test,” I spat back, clamping my hand firmly over the phone, ignoring the fact Susan kept demanding I answer her.

  “All participants must remain seated until a registered training professional comes to get them,” he repeated, that same sanctimonious smile on his face as he gestured with a practiced hand to the seat beside him.

  I made a quick mental calculation about how much trouble I’d get in if I a) threw my phone in this guy’s face, or b) just walked away.

  Both options were equally as tempting, but… with a blast of reason, I pushed them away.

  I remembered exactly what the doctor had told me after he’d given me my test results. Things would change if I was found to be noncompliant. Witches and warlocks who didn’t know how to get along with the system were forced to get along with the system.

  I rounded my hand into a fist, turned around, and sat abruptly, hooking my bag with my leg as I pushed it under the seat, far away from Mr. Jerk’s prying grip. With a breath, I pulled my hand off the receiver. “Susan, look, I’m really sorry – but I’m waiting for my test now. I was going to tell you—”