Authors: Sarah Fine
“Tell me now,” she commanded.
“The Mother was delivering a soul, and she was attacked. We don’t know what did it. The description made it sound like Shades, but—”
“Shade-Kere. I sent a message about them.”
He swallowed hard. “I just read it. That must have been what this was.”
Aislin’s heart was pounding. “Cavan, focus. What happened to the Mother? Where is she now?”
Cavan’s sculpted face twisted into an expression of sheer desperation. “She’s dead, Aislin. They killed her.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
M
oros was standing on his patio overlooking the city when the pain burst in his chest, causing him to stagger back. Gasping, he fell to his knees, arms curled protectively over his ribs, his forehead touching the ground. Several seconds passed before he could bear to raise his head, moments in which the certainty grew like a cancer inside him. Something terrible had happened.
He closed his eyes and willed himself into the Veil, all the way to his sisters’ domain. Usually he appeared in the weaving room, but this time, he hovered just outside, preparing himself to meet any threat. What he saw instead brought him through the soft barrier between worlds, and he ran toward the prone form lying beneath millions of dangling threads, and millions more scattered across the floor, still vibrant but completely unraveled. “Atropos,” he barked as he neared his sister. “Did someone attack?”
“No,” she said with a moan. He turned her over and held her in his arms. Her face was ghastly pale, and he suspected his looked much the same. She gazed up at him, looking resigned and weary. “I felt it, though. Did you?”
He nodded. “A mass killing?”
She shook her head. “It didn’t affect the fabric. But Clotho . . . I heard her screaming.”
Moros picked up Atropos, and it was a testament to how bad she felt that she didn’t try to kick him, or even to insult him. So many times, he’d asked himself if she might be willing to betray him. But seeing the pain in her eyes now drove those suspicions underground. “I’ve killed Nemesis,” he told her as he walked toward the massive loom where Lachesis did her work. “Eris and Apate fled from me. But I’ll find them.”
“Eris hasn’t returned here,” she said as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Which is a good thing. The more the fabric shreds, the worse we feel.”
“I feel it, too,” he said. “Not as severely, but I do feel it.” Searing pain was coursing down his arm as he reached the end of the fabric and stepped around the loom to the other side. “And just now I felt—”
“It was terrible,” she said in a choked voice. “I thought it would kill me.”
He set her down gently with her back leaning against the loom and ran to the spinning room. Clotho lay curled into a ball, surrounded by a mass of stinking, singed wool. “What happened?”
“It caught on fire,” she whispered, her knees hugged against her chest. “And then it went out. I don’t know how.”
Raw fear rose like bile in his throat. “Where is Lachesis? She wasn’t at the loom.”
“I don’t know,” Clotho said as Moros helped her to sit. Her thick brown hair was matted and greasy, and her skin was sallow. She almost looked like a Shade. “She’s been ill, like the rest of us. I haven’t left this room in a very long while, and I haven’t heard her voice, either.”
“I’ll find her. Atropos was affected, too, and she’s resting now. You do the same.”
She nodded, looking too drained to speak again. Moros got up and headed back out into the larger weaving room. “Lachesis!” he called, looking down the length of the loom.
She stumbled out of her private quarters, and when she saw him, she fell to her knees, looking relieved. “You came back. Have you found the Blade?”
Moros had never felt like a failure, but suddenly the feeling was crushing him. “I haven’t yet. Eris escaped me with the Blade in her grasp. But I intend to make another.” And he planned to run Eris through with it at his earliest convenience.
Lachesis slowly got to her feet, accepting Moros’s offered arm. “How will you do that? You’re death. The Lucinae hate you.”
“I have an ambassador,” he said, and for the first time since he’d left the Psychopomps boardroom, he smiled. “I have every confidence in her.”
“One of your Kere?” she asked, smoothing down a messy sprig of pale-blonde hair. “I can’t see how that would be better.”
“It’s the Charon, actually.” He couldn’t help the way his voice softened at the mention of her. “Aislin Ferry.”
Lachesis’s eyes widened in surprise, but then she bowed her head and leaned against him as they started to walk toward Atropos. “Of course,” she said. “The one whose thread has disappeared.”
“She’s still alive, and she’s helped me reacquire Trevor, one of my Kere whose soul was stolen.” He looked down at her. “I still can’t figure out how Eris managed to take souls from my trunk. She would have had to sneak in here multiple times, right under your noses.”
Lachesis sighed. “We’ve been preoccupied. And ill.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.” Worry was carving at him as he looked at Atropos and Clotho. He wasn’t sure how much longer they would last. “By tomorrow, I should have a new blade. I’ll draw them out and end this.”
“Hurry,” she whispered as he lowered her down to sit next to Atropos, whose sickle hung idle at her belt. They were too weak to do their jobs, and humans would pay the price. Everything was falling apart.
“I swear to you, I’ll make this right,” he told them, then willed himself back to the real world. As soon as he did, his phone began to beep, signaling a message. He thumbed the screen to open it, and Aislin’s face appeared.
“I’m about to leave for the Lucinae realm, but something has happened,” she said, her eyes so focused that it looked like she was about to step through the screen and into his penthouse. “The Lucinae Mother has been killed by Shade-Kere. The funeral is taking place right now, but the coronation of a new Mother will happen tonight, and I will be there. I’ll bargain with the successor for the Blade, but I don’t know who she is or whether she’ll cooperate.” Aislin’s mouth tightened for a moment, but then she continued. “I know you’re depending on this. And I’ll do my best. Just in case I don’t see you before I go, be careful. Protect yourself.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked like she regretted what she’d said. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
His screen went dark again, and he checked the time the message had been left—only a few minutes before. That pain he’d felt, the way Clotho’s wool had caught on fire then gone out—the death of the Mother had to be the cause. He willed himself into the Veil, his senses immediately reaching out to find her. But when he looked up, he was greeted with two sets of glowing red eyes. Hai and Parinda were standing on his patio with the washed-out gray cityscape behind them. “We heard you were wounded,” said Hai, his crimson eyes sweeping over Moros.
“And were you worried about me?” Moros asked with an amused smile. “How charming.”
Parinda shook her head in disbelief, her long dark hair swishing across her shoulders. “It sounds like you should be more worried than you are.”
He was more worried than he’d ever been, and he hated the feeling. “Or I could spend my energy on something more productive, like destroying Eris and Apate before they end the world as we know it.”
Hai stepped forward. “Tell us how to help you. Wherever you’re going, let us come, too.”
For a moment, Moros wished he’d never taken their souls. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with disappointing them now. These two had been with him almost from the beginning, during the rebellion, and had been loyal ever since. “You can’t come where I’m going. But when I return, we will fight side by side.”
“Where are you going?” asked Parinda.
Moros smiled. “I’ll be accompanying the Charon to an event, it seems.”
Hai’s mouth dropped open. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Not remotely. Of course, that event is taking place in the realm of the Lucinae, which is why you’re not coming. Our kind aren’t exactly welcome there.”
“Why the hell would you set foot in that domain?” Parinda said, her smooth voice growing jagged. “You’ve told us to avoid the Lucinae on pain of death!”
“True, but I have every reason for going to them now.”
“Why can’t the Charon go by herself?”
Moros shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
Hai threw his arms up. “Who cares what happens to a Ferry, Moros? If she’s maimed or lost, they’ll just elect another. Why risk yourself? What if she’s laying a trap for you?”
“She would never do that,” Moros said simply. “It’s insulting to even suggest it.” Though a few weeks ago, he would probably have thought the same thing himself. How had he come to trust her like this?
Because she’d asked him to touch her, just to prove she wouldn’t betray him. Knowing it would hurt, knowing he could take action against her if he saw something he didn’t like.
How could he
not
trust her after that? And further—how could he not admire her bravery?
Parinda’s upturned eyes narrowed. “This Charon is special to you?”
He met her gaze. “No.” Apate would be proud. “I am merely protecting our interests.”
“Don’t get killed for those interests,” Hai said angrily.
“I don’t plan to,” said Moros. “Go hunt the Shade-Kere, and call all of your brothers and sisters in death to help you—”
“While you go run off with a Ferry?” snapped Parinda.
“Go. Hunt. Them.” Moros bared his fangs. “I’ll summon you when I return.” He didn’t wait for them to vanish—he was gone before they could. He focused on Aislin, following his sense of her through the Veil until he appeared in a vast desert. She was standing there, alone, a garment bag slung over her shoulder, looking down at her Scope.
“I’m not too late, then,” he said, bringing her whirling around.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She’d changed into a different suit, slim pants and a simple jacket, all black.
“I assumed you’d need an escort to the coronation festivities,” he replied.
She glanced over her shoulder at the empty miles of sand. “I can handle this.”
He searched her face, wondering if that was concern flickering in her eyes—or irritation. “I know you can handle it, Aislin. However, you left a message telling me that Shade-Kere had attacked and killed the Mother. Forgive me if I’m not willing to lose the Charon as well.”
She slid her garment bag from her shoulder. “I’ll be inside the realm,” she said. “It’s not a place you want to go.”
He couldn’t explain the jagged feeling inside his chest as he watched her thumb stroke over her Scope. She was right—he didn’t want to enter the Lucinae realm. He’d already felt the pain of the Blade of Life cutting across his flesh. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be so close to the Spring. But at the same time, he remembered Hugh’s visions of Aislin being torn apart by Shade-Kere, and he couldn’t get them out of his head. “You’re not going without me,” he said, seeing his red eyes reflected in her blue ones.
“This is ridiculous.” She tilted her head. “Isn’t it more important to find your siblings?”
He was in front of her in two strides, his fingers wrapping around her upper arms. Their eyes met, and he reveled in how startled she looked, how vulnerable. He wanted to throw her down and claim her right there in the sand. He wanted to make her beg for him.
He just wanted
her
. Safe and whole and exquisite, always. “There is nothing more important,” he said in a low voice, his gaze dropping to her mouth as his body roared. “Absolutely nothing.”
Her hands came to rest on his chest, and she pushed him back gently. “All right,” she murmured. “We’ll go together.”
He let her go and she turned away, but an instant before she did, he was certain he saw her smile. It dulled the pain in his arm and chest, and for a moment, he felt hope.
Then he remembered she’d be gone soon, and any hope where she was concerned was nothing short of insanity.
Aislin had turned back to the endless desert and was concentrating on her Scope, muttering a plea in a language long-since dead. Then she raised her head, and the air in front of her warped, a massive oasis taking shape behind a filmy bubble. Palm trees sprouted, succulents bloomed, and spreading across the sand before them was a shimmering stream leading to a lake, around which sat numerous tents and huts. At the opposite shore of the lake rose a stately sandstone palace, home of the Mother, queen of the Lucinae.
Moros shuddered, but then Aislin slipped her hand into his. She wasn’t looking at him; her gaze was on the realm of the Lucinae, on the shimmering Spring of Life. “Together,” she said quietly. Her fingers tangled with his were cool and reassuring, a healing balm that shocked him with its effectiveness.
“Together,” he replied. Hand in hand, they walked through the barrier. He took a careful breath, grimacing at the cloying taste settling in his mouth.
“Are you all right?” Aislin asked, releasing him and looking around.
“If I wasn’t, I’d say you need a new protector.” He looked away and swallowed back the strangest feeling, as if his stomach were trying to turn itself inside out.
“As long as you’re sure,” she said, “but I—” She gave a stifled cry.
Moros turned, prepared to tear her attacker’s head off. But before he could see what had happened to her, he felt the sting of a blade at his throat, lifting his chin. He gazed into yellow eyes, like those of a tiger, lit with murderous hatred.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I
know exactly what you are,” said the woman holding a machete against Moros’s throat. She wore flowing pants, a golden belt, and a collar of beads and baubles that barely covered her small breasts. Her dark-brown hair was in two braids that hung over her shoulders, and her olive skin gleamed with health and life—much like the weapon she was wielding.
There was an arm around Aislin’s waist; she had the impression of dark-umber skin and the tangy scent of male sweat tempered by the sweetness of almonds and figs. She’d stopped her instinctive struggling the moment she saw that Moros was being threatened, but her captor didn’t release her.
“We come as friends,” Aislin said as the humid, warm air of the oasis raised beads of sweat across her brow. “I am the—”
“I know who you are, Ferry,” the woman said as she jerked her chin toward Aislin’s Scope. “And I know this one is an abomination. He desecrates our realm with his presence.” She raised the handle of her machete, flexing her lean, muscular arm.
“Perhaps you could do us the favor of saying who
you
are, my dear,” Moros said with a charming smile. His voice was steady, but Aislin could tell he was in pain.
“Magda,” said the woman. “That’s Zayed.” She waggled her elbow at the man who had Aislin’s back pulled snug against his hard-muscled chest.
Aislin smiled at Magda. “Unless I am mistaken, the Mother’s youngest daughter bears the name of Magda,” she said gently. “My condolences on her loss. We’ve come to pay our respects.”
Magda’s eyes shone with tears, which overflowed as she gritted her teeth. “If you wanted to be respectful, you would have stayed away. Why would we want two servants of death in our midst?”
“My ambassador said he would arrange it,” Aislin said.
Magda pulled her blade away from Moros’s throat, but only by a fraction of an inch. “Cavan is an idiot,” she said.
“I’m sure they’ll be expecting us,” Aislin added. “One of your older sisters will be assuming the throne?”
Magda let out a frustrated growl. “Baheera.” She grumbled something under her breath, and Moros looked at Aislin, as if wondering if she had caught what the young woman had said. Then Magda swished her machete through the air, and Zayed released Aislin.
She looked over her shoulder to see a tall young man, his body oiled and rippling with muscles. Zayed had curly black hair and was wearing loose pants and cloth boots. He carried no obvious weapons, but his grin was lethal as he flashed it at Aislin. “Your sweat smells like syrup,” he said to her, his brown eyes skimming up her body.
Aislin smoothed her hand down her wrinkled blazer and gave Zayed a polite smile. Cavan had told her that the Lucinae were earthy and instinctual, valuing pleasure over protocol. “Thank you,” she said, unable to stop herself from glancing at Moros, who was calmly staring at Zayed.
Magda rolled her eyes. “Save it for the party,” she snapped at Zayed, then began to slash her way through the vegetation at the edge of the barrier between the Veil and their realm, heading for a sandy path that led to the palace. It meandered along the shore of the glittering waters of the lake, and as they got closer, a lovely cool breeze blew across Aislin’s face, drying her sweat and making her skin tingle. She had the sudden urge to raise her face to the sun above and laugh out loud. Everything was so vibrant: the green of the palm fronds, the crystalline yellow of the sand beneath her feet, the glow of the water, the feel of the sunlight, the sound of laughter in the distance.
Next to her, Moros shuddered again. “You’re having a party? I was expecting a slightly different response to the death of your Mother,” he said to Magda.
“Which proves you don’t understand us. You’re a creature of death, and you don’t know a thing about life.”
Zayed, walking a step behind Aislin, chuckled. “We’ve celebrated the life of our Mother, and we’ve returned her to the earth. Tonight we will worship our new Mother and have a feast. We refuse to dwell on death.”
“Have all the Lucinae been warned of the threat?” asked Aislin. “My understanding is that the Mother was attacked in the real world while delivering a soul.” In some ways, Lucinae were as mortal as Ferrys without Scopes. The more time they spent in the realm of the Lucinae, the slower they aged. But they could be killed as easily as a regular human. “Your messengers should be careful.”
Magda pointed her machete at the spot along the shore where the lake was fed by a stream. Two Lucinae, their dark hair braided, their tanned skin healthy and smooth, were capturing a glowing wraith in a net and hoisting it into the air. It was pink with streaks of amber, and the two women cooed at it, laughing as it wriggled. “Everyone’s been warned,” she said, her lip curling in disgust as she looked Moros over. “Cavan has convinced my sister that it would be bad for the servants of fate if deliveries were halted completely, though. Not that I give one heaping pile of camel dung for any of you.”
Aislin gave Moros a sidelong glance. His skin tone was usually quite similar to Magda’s, a lustrous olive that looked as warm as it had felt beneath her hands. But now he was a shade paler, and the black hair at his temples was damp with sweat. His gaze was directed away from the lake, and Aislin wondered if it hurt his eyes to look at it. And he hadn’t vanished and reappeared elsewhere when threatened with that blade—Aislin wondered if he couldn’t quite manage it here.
Once again, she wished he hadn’t been so stubborn about coming. She understood how badly he needed the blades and wished he had trusted her to fetch them alone. At the same time, she hadn’t been able to help the way her insides had melted as soon as he’d taken her by the arms, at the strain in his voice as he’d said this was important. Despite his monstrous appearance in the Veil, she’d wanted him to kiss her so badly, but she’d needed to keep a clear head. Her feelings for him were too messy to sort out, and further tangled by the way he switched back and forth between warm tenderness and utter detachment. She couldn’t tell which was the real Moros, whether he cared about her or just needed her as an ally.
But as she watched him swipe his sleeve across his sweaty forehead and wince, probably as it pulled at his still-healing wound, she desperately wanted to take his hand again, to offer him whatever comfort her touch could provide. However, the presence of the two Lucinae guards who flanked them kept her hands at her sides.
The palace loomed on a stepped hillside leading down to the lake, bedecked with purple and pink succulents as well as several naked Lucinae, their bodies shimmering with crystal droplets as they sunned themselves at the very edge of the water.
“You swim in it?” Aislin asked. She’d always assumed the water was sacred.
Zayed’s fingers trailed down her arm, and he pointed back to the mouth of the stream. “When a soul is ready, it travels up from the Spring. We capture them before they enter the lake and take them to their bodies in the real world. What is left is pure life.” He ran a hand down his chest. “There is nothing like plunging into it, feeling it surround you. ‘Invigorating’ is not a strong enough description. And if your swimming companion is beautiful, and willing”—he grinned at Aislin—“you have never experienced such an intense pleasure.”
Aislin’s body flashed hot as she remembered her moments in the shower with Moros, hard and frenzied, ecstasy heightened by the slightest taste of pain, by longing so deep and fierce it could never be sated. “If you say so,” she said quietly.
Zayed leaned down. “Tonight,” he said in a low voice. “During the celebrations. We can—”
“Save it,” snapped Magda, tromping up a staircase that had been carved into the broad steps leading up the hill to the palace.
“Yes, save it,” muttered Moros, following her.
Zayed gave Aislin a mischievous smile. “Holding out only makes the release more powerful, don’t you agree?”
Aislin let out a jittery chuckle and followed Moros up the steps, knowing that Zayed’s eyes were on her body as she climbed. The palace was a vision, burnished golden sandstone, the facade intricately carved. The entrance was set back, leaving room for a large courtyard strung with colorful lanterns.
“This is where we will celebrate tonight,” Zayed told her. “The view is magnificent, isn’t it?”
She turned to look down the stepped expanse, across the lake. Tents dotted the banks, adobe huts interspersed along the wide sandy strip between lake and jungle. It was paradise, a place where it seemed nothing bad could ever happen. She greatly hoped that was true.
As they strode through the courtyard, several Lucinae who were decorating and setting out platters of fruit raised their heads to watch. When they spotted Moros, they scowled, muttering angrily to each other. Magda smirked as she held a door open for them to enter the palace. “You disgust us,” she hissed as Moros passed.
His shoulders were stiff as he walked by, but he said nothing. Aislin looked at Magda coolly. “I met your Mother once. She was a great lady, and a gracious one. It would be a shame to disgrace her memory.”
Magda’s face twisted with hatred. “We can kill, you know,” she said in a low voice, gripping her machete. “If the enemy is death, we can kill.”
Aislin refused to look away from the young woman’s fiery eyes. “Then learn to recognize your true enemy.” She turned and walked past Magda, into the entryway of the palace, where Moros was staring up at a mosaic portraying the first Mother rising, fully formed, from the Spring. He seemed riveted by it, but before Aislin could ask him what he was thinking, Zayed stepped between them.
“The throne room is this way,” he said, striding toward another set of arched doors. “Baheera has been communing with the Mother’s spirit, but I’m sure she’ll grant you an audience.”
“Only if Baheera can take her eyes off Cavan’s ass for that long,” Magda muttered from behind.
Aislin’s eyes went wide, and she whirled around to look at the woman, who merely offered a suggestive wink in return. It was enough to plant a seed of suspicion, probably exactly what Magda had wanted.
Aislin pressed her lips together, realizing the hypocrisy. Here she was, half her thoughts consumed by the Lord of the Kere and whether he truly cared or had merely screwed her. Perhaps she should wait to judge until she knew the whole story.
She kept her head high as she entered the throne room, the floor of which was scattered with sumptuous rugs, each one a work of art. The walls glittered with a rainbow of glass tiles, and the sun shone through, casting splashes of color everywhere. On a small dais sat a chaise longue laid out with silk pillows.
Magda shoved past Moros and glared at Aislin. “I’ll go tell Baheera you’re here. Zayed, you know what to do.”
Zayed moved a step closer to Aislin. “I always know what to do,” he said, seduction dripping from every word. “And who to do it with.”
Moros calmly looked down at his hands, then began to remove his gloves. Her heart beating with alarm, Aislin sidestepped Zayed and put her hand on Moros’s arm. “Jason,” she said softly, nodding at his now-bare left hand.
“Of course. How careless of me.” He put the glove back on.
Aislin glanced at the door through which Magda had exited. Raised voices emanated from within, the loudest belonging to Magda. “Does it seem like Magda is eager for a fight?” she whispered.
Moros stared at the door, but he didn’t have the chance to reply before Magda and Cavan entered the room. She looked livid, and he looked harried.
“Aislin,” he said, straightening his vest as he walked toward them. He had changed into traditional Lucinae garb, the flowing pants and cloth boots—and no shirt. Beneath the vest, his pale chest stood out like carved marble. His hazel eyes were lined, the black paint smudged slightly at the corners. He held out his hands to her, and she accepted them. “I’ve just been informed of Magda’s behavior. I’m sorry you weren’t welcomed properly.”
Magda’s mouth crimped with displeasure, like she was trying to keep all her angry words inside. Cavan looked down at her, and Aislin could see an uncharacteristic anxiety swirling within. “She’s been through a lot today. They all have. I hope you can forgive her disrespect.”
“I certainly understand and forgive her behavior, especially today,” Aislin said, glancing toward Moros, who stood off to the side, silent and brooding, letting her deal with the diplomacy.
Cavan gave her a pained smile and tossed Magda a cautious look, but the young woman merely glared at him, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the machete. Suspicion once again rose inside Aislin—she’d been fooled before. Eris had influenced Rylan, and Nemesis had sunk her claws into Hugh, and she’d never suspected a thing. Could Eris have gotten to Magda as well?
Cavan’s fingers tightened around hers, bringing her attention back to him. “I’m afraid Baheera isn’t ready to receive visitors yet.” His grip was clammy. What was he so worried about? “But she asked that you attend her coronation and the feast afterward. She said she’d be pleased to meet with you as the sun rises.”
Aislin gave Moros an anxious glance of her own. “Perhaps we should leave and come back.” It looked like this place was rapidly siphoning Moros’s strength and health.
Cavan shook his head and leaned down to speak in her ear. “These things matter to Baheera, and she would be insulted if you skipped her coronation.” He looked over at Moros and spoke loudly. “She was intrigued by your presence here, Moros. She said she’d be honored to have you as a guest as well.”
“You could have mentioned you were the actual Lord of the Kere a little earlier,” Magda said peevishly.
“Would it have made a difference?” Moros asked, giving her a close-lipped smile.
Magda drew her machete. “Yeah. I might have cut your throat immediately, just to see the diplomatic dance Cavan here would have had to do. That’s a situation even he couldn’t worm his way out of.”
Cavan closed his eyes as if praying for patience. “Magda—”
She put her hands up. “Like you said. It’s been a rough day.” Her voice cracked, and she turned on her heel and stalked away down a corridor leading further within the palace.