Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones
Prologue

“Well did you even know what he wanted -- Jesus,

Margre, slow down before you kill us!”

Slender indentations formed in the leather steering wheel clenched beneath Margre’s fingers. Her hands did not tremble -- they shook, wildly, like her eyes. Jonathon stared at his wife as she darted her attention between the downpour-laden highway, the rearview mirror, and frequent terrified glances at him.

“What? Aren’t you listening? I knew him! Knew his face, I felt him damn it. I didn’t have to ask what he wanted, I knew!” Her voice rose with hysterics and Jonathon jerked on his seatbelt for surety. Fifteen minutes had passed since Margre ran into his office with her eyes wild and her hair flying around her face in a golden halo.

Come, come now! She bellowed, jerking his keys and briefcase from his desk, though it wasn’t even lunchtime. People stopped and stared. He followed her because she wouldn’t slow down and explain, but he didn’t think she’d taken a full breath since they’d gotten into the car.

She was pale. Frighteningly so, he thought, glancing at the side of her face again. Her hair hung, wet and matted against her head -- standing out in stark contrast to her complexion. Her lips were so white they were almost blue.

Fifteen minutes of her driving seventy miles an hour while ranting about some guy who showed up at her office and he still didn’t understand what was going on.

Margre glanced in the rearview mirror again and switched lanes, cutting off another driver who laid on his horn in annoyance. Jonathon turned to look behind them. “Well, what does he drive?”

This made Margre laugh. Hysterically.

“They don’t drive, husband, they don’t need to drive.” She switched lanes again and looked at him. “You have to get out of the car.”

Jonathon exploded. “Well I’m not jumping out of the car! You’re going too fast for me to get out and whatever the hell is happening here I’m sure as hell not leaving you to it!” Heat spiraled in the small space of their car, fogging the windows. Margre slapped at the defrost button and kicked the air conditioning to its’ coldest setting.

“He’ll kill you!” she argued, switching lanes again. “If it’s just me in the car then you’ll live.” Horns followed their progress. Whomever they were trying to outrun would be able to follow by the noise alone.

Rubbing a tense hand across his face, Jonathon tried again. “Who are you talking about?”

Margre darted a glance at him. “His name is Dion, for short. I heard him say Dion.”

“For short? What’s the long of it?” he asked, frowning, unable to place any would-be assassin by the name.

“The long of it is Dionysus.” She looked at him expectantly and switched lanes without looking. The car driving in the lane she tried to enter slammed on his breaks and spiraled out into the rain, taking out two other cars. Jonathon watched the melee behind their accelerating car with a groan.

Legal problems on top of everything. Great, he thought. When she realized he didn’t recognize the name, Margre turned to watch the road before them.

“They killed my mom.” She whispered and Jonathon frowned.

“Your mom was killed in a house fire.” Margre began shaking her head, prompting him to recant the rest of the story gently. “You were at school, your father was at work, and your mom fell asleep with a lit candle. It caught on the draperies and she never knew what happened. You yourself told me that, Margre.” He reminded her.

Margre shook her head frantically, shook it so hard it seemed it might come off her shoulders. “No!” she shouted, glancing at the rearview mirror. “I stayed home from school that day. I was sick with nerves, mom said, though we had no cause for it. She let me stay home. I was in my room when I heard voices downstairs. I crept down the hall, tiptoeing on the runner to be silent.

There was a light-skinned man with dark clothes, and long—long, black hair. He stood next to this woman, a beautiful pale woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. They murmured to my mom, who just sat on the couch shaking her head back and forth with silent tears rolling down her face.

I watched -- watched! The man lit her dress on fire and stood back to watch her burn.” Margre wailed and swiped at tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t see damn it!” she cursed at the air.

Jonathon stared at her, dumbfounded. Was it true?

“Don’t stare at me like I’m crazy!” she yelled. The anger shifted her pale face to molten red.

“I’m not,” he whispered, knowing he probably was, “okay, if that is how your mother died then what does that have to do with the man who came to see you today?”

Margre switched lanes, darting across two lanes of rushing traffic to exit the highway. He could see nothing at the end of the ramp, though recognized the exit and knew a gas station rested at the light. He glanced at the gas gauge. Empty, of course.

“It was the same man, Jonathon. That’s how I knew who he was.”

“But, wouldn’t he be much older now, Margre? You were only five when your mother was killed in that house f- by the two people.” He said, hastily correcting himself when she glared at him.

She drove through the intersection, not stopping at the gas station. She’s mad, he thought, crazy.

“Yes,” Margre said, monotone. “I was the same age our daughter is now. It was thirty years ago today.” She turned to him suddenly, taking her eyes off the road.

He glanced at the road and darted his attention back to her face, and back again -- trying to listen and watch at the same time.

“My grandmother was killed, too, and my great-grandmother. I never told you because you always laugh at superstitious people. All at the same age, Jonathon, all of them. The same age as I am now.”

“Stop!” Jonathon yelled, reaching for the steering wheel.

“Noooooo!” Margre screamed when she caught sight of the street ahead. A man slowly crossed the road, drenched by the rain, but continually moving from one side to the next in dark clothes and long, long dark hair.