by Sarah Fine
She wiped tears from her face and stepped back. “You should hurry, then. Because, yes, the loom is malfunctioning. It keeps tangling the threads, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t measure out some of the lengths. They get away from me. I . . .” She pressed her lips together as her tears sprang to the surface again. “Clotho has it the worst, though.”
Moros looked toward the barnlike structure that housed the great wheel from which Clotho spun the thread of life. “Is she still working?”
“I think so,” Lachesis said, running her finger along the edge of her ruler, which was lying at the edge of the loom. “You know how I love order. I really do love it. It’s been so hard to let it go . . .” Her voice broke over the words.
“Don’t let go. And don’t give up,” he said, reaching to touch her shoulder. His hand fell short as she moved away. She trudged up the length of the loom, her fingers trailing along the snarled threads, her ruler forgotten.
Rage coursing through him, he strode into the spinning room to find Clotho sitting on the dirt floor, her hands buried in the bottomless basket of fleece that she fed into the wheel to create the thread. “It won’t hold together,” she said with a moan. Her brown hair hung lank and snarled down her back. “We’re going to run out of thread.” She gestured weakly at the pile of stout bobbins stacked against the wall, the thread waiting to be measured and incorporated into the fabric of fate.
“How long?” he asked.
She turned, revealing bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know. A week, perhaps? Maybe less.”
It only confirmed what he’d suspected. “I have to find our siblings. I have to take the fight to them.”
“You’d need years to search the Veil,” she said wearily. “They could be anywhere.”
“They found this place somehow. And they must have been here before.”
“It makes me wonder,” she murmured. “Do you trust Atropos?”
He glanced back toward the loom, the tattered tapestry of fate, beneath which Atropos prowled for souls to reap, threads to cut. “I’m not sure.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “Me neither. But I know you’re trying to save us, Moros. I know you are.”
Determination crystallized inside him. “I’ll return with the means to protect you, or not at all.” Gathering every ounce of concentration, he willed himself back into the cold and gray, to where mountains still stood majestic and unchanged while the rest of the world had faltered. The north face of Mount Kailash was striped with snow and dark with challenge as he paused at its base to gaze at its peak. It was said that Shiva the destroyer lived at its summit—but then again, it was also said that Buddha made this place his home.
The reality was far more frightening. This mountain symbolized the divine because the truth slept, vanquished, deep inside. But Moros could feel Chaos even now, a vague muddiness ebbing his will, an uncertainty chipping away at his resolve, a confusion pricking at his sense of mission—the Blade of Life waited within, he hoped, and that was what he had come for. It was the only reason he would ever venture so near the resting place of this ancient enemy.
“I’d best get this over with,” he muttered, appearing briefly in the real world to let the wind whip his hair. He’d changed into a plain T-shirt and leather pants, all the easier for scrambling over rocks. He closed his eyes and pictured an image drawn in one of his faded scrolls, a door carved into a rock face, etched with ancient symbols—the entrance to the old battleground where his mother had finally cornered Chaos and bent him to her will. Before long, he stood in front of it, his thoughts having carried him through miles of solid rock to where the gods had hollowed it out.
He laid his palm against the damp, cool stone, running his fingers along an image of his mother, her eyes blazing and her mouth set, wielding a thin blade against the god who had subjugated the world, kept it from being what it was meant to be. As in the ancient texts, here Chaos was half man, half monster, horns jutting from his massive head like a bull’s, several sets of arms sprouting from his body, all with massive hands reaching out to crush the goddess determined to slay him.
Because no text included images of what lay behind the door, Moros couldn’t simply will himself inside, so he stepped into the Veil and pushed his way through the barrier of rock. It was thick and suffocating, crushing him in an unwelcome embrace. But a moment later he stumbled out the other side to find a massive, soaring tomb. In the always-gray Veil, he could easily make out the sheer face of rock split down the middle, rising as high as a mountain itself, with a small plateau about several hundred feet up.
He could also easily feel the evil presence within. Even safe within the Veil, he could hear it breathing, and with every intake of air, Moros felt his thoughts scattering, as if Chaos were sucking away his reason, his memory. Raw fear ran through him. Could Chaos sense him here? Was the god already growing stronger as the fabric of fate frayed?
Not wanting to spend one extra moment here, he staggered toward the ancient tomb. He had to reach that high plateau—because sitting on its edge, barring the entrance, was a carved stone casket. It probably held the weapon he’d come for. His mother had pulled a curtain of rock closed and left the Blade of Life there, ready to be used again if the need ever arose.
Moros imagined plunging it into Eris’s chest, and savage joy quickened his steps. With the Blade, he could kill all of them. And even if they succeeded in awakening the sleeping god in his mountain tomb, Moros would have a chance of defeating him. He then reached the edge of the Veil, for this tomb existed in one of those hidden pockets, a realm within the realm that could never be reached from the real world. He ran his palm along the dull, slippery surface and then stepped through, right at the base of the rock face. The soaring chamber was filled with an eerie green glow, emanating from somewhere deep in the mountain above him.
Stale air rushed past him like it was trying to pull him up the cliff, toward the crack in the rock and then through it, right into the jaws of his enemy. Steeling himself, Moros began to climb the sheer, rough rock, his mind focused on the Blade. His bare fingers found every handhold as he pulled himself higher, his breath rushing sure and strong from his lungs. He weathered every echoing inhalation from the monster buried within the thick wall of rock, reminding himself that he had nothing to fear—although tattered, the fabric of fate was still intact, and while it was, Chaos would not wake.
And Moros would make sure he never did. He heaved himself onto the plateau halfway up the cliff and found himself on his knees before the stone casket. Into its surface was stamped the silhouette of a blade, elegant and long, deceptively thin. Panting but grinning with triumph, he hooked his fingers into the groove of the lid and wrenched it upward. The lid fell away, clattering onto the rocky path that led to the sinister crack in the rock, only steps away. Moros barely felt the deadly pull of Chaos now—he was too elated. Eager to claim his prize, he leaned over the casket.
And his sense of triumph shattered, along with his hope.
Though the imprint of a sword could still be seen inside, the stone casket was empty.
Someone had beaten him to it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aislin’s hand was halfway to her silent alarm when Rylan laughed. “Are you sure you want to do that? Killian and Timothy are both lying in the Veil, dealing with fairly nasty gut wounds right now. I’d hate to have to do that to another of our cousins.”
Aislin silently willed her guards to live, but she let her hands fall to her sides and faced her brother. He looked dapper in a business suit and tie, his dark hair swept back, his broad shoulders square. For so long, she’d been envious of his imposing presence, of his easy confidence. Now she knew they masked a deep insecurity. “You’ve given up pretending you’re anything but a bully, obviously.”
He smirked. “Can you blame me for enjoying my new powers? Aislin, you really have to try it. Our Scopes are nothing. Now I can travel with a simple thought.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think you’d
enjoy it.”
“You’re wasting my time,” she snapped. She could practically feel the suffering of her guards, who had been hurt because she’d asked them to protect her. “What do you want?”
Rylan flopped down in a chair, the very one Moros had occupied only minutes before. He looked down in mock surprise. “My, this seat is warm. One would think you’d been consorting with a Ker.”
“Were you spying on us?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Only for a moment. You know, I always thought the Lord of the Kere knew everything, but it turns out he has some gaping blind spots.” He grinned. “And my mistress is exploiting them to the fullest.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know.”
Rylan’s lip curled. “Have you really chosen him over me? You’re dooming our family, Aislin. What does the board have to say about this?”
She glared at him. “I am well in control of the board. They’ll comply with whatever I decide.”
“Really?” He chuckled. “Does Hugh know that?”
Aislin could barely contain her rage. “You’ve been conspiring with him?” It made so much sense—Hugh had practically suggested the Ferrys join Rylan and whomever he was serving.
“And so what if I have visited him? I’m not a Ferry anymore—I’m not subject to your command. You made sure of that.” Rylan ran his fingers along the arms of his chair.
Aislin could still see the blood of her guards under his fingernails. “You became a monster even before you were made a Ker.”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’m something else, Aislin. Something you can’t understand, seeing as you’re so blinded by your faith in the Lord of the Kere!” He shot up from his chair, so suddenly that Aislin gasped. “He leads an army of bullies who’ve intimidated us for centuries. Wouldn’t you be glad to see his downfall?”
“Not if it came at the expense of our family.” Not even if it didn’t, her mind whispered. She couldn’t help the thought that Moros was like her, determined to look after the people he was responsible for. “We serve fate, Rylan, and so does he.”
“Screw fate!” he shouted. “In the end it’s just another master. If we unleash Chaos, we’ll be free of it.”
“Or crushed. Who’s telling you these lies?” But then she remembered—Moros had a brother who was the living personification of lies. “I am so sorry for what’s happened to you,” she said quietly. “And for my part in it.”
“Don’t you dare pity me.” Rylan stalked forward until he towered over her, even in her four-inch heels. “I don’t regret any of it,” he said, his eyes taking on a crimson glow, heat pouring from him as his hands closed around her upper arms. “The Ferrys have always done the most work with the most risk while the Kere cause all the suffering and pain they can. We’re the ones who planned for the future while they took pleasure in the moment. We’re the ones who upheld the treaty. And Moros—the being you’re aligning our great empire with? He’s just a killer, and he has been for millennia. Do you wonder why his siblings hate him? Do you wonder why his own mother won’t look him in the eye? He betrayed all of them. And he’ll betray you, too.”
She squirmed to get away from him, but his grip only tightened. “Are you too timid to challenge him, Aislin? Eris and the others have spent years gathering their strength to defeat him, years looking for the means to do it. Why not take advantage of their efforts?”
“Because doing so might end our entire race,” she said unsteadily, the pain in her arms becoming unbearable. It felt like Rylan was about to snap her bones.
“He’s filled your head with stories meant for cowards,” Rylan snarled. “This is why you never should have been Charon. You have no vision and no strength. It’s why Father picked me to lead.”
“He chose me to lead, too,” she said, remembering her father’s last words to her. Wasn’t that what he had meant? The fate of the Ferrys rests with you.
“Then lead,” Rylan said, his breath hot on her face. “Have the guts to seize the opportunity you’ve been given. Join me and help Moros’s sisters and brother end him. Without him getting in the way, we can take over. If we can capture the souls of the Kere, we’d have them at our beck and call. And even if we can’t, we have enough businesses and gold to hold on to our empire if the worst happens. This isn’t the time for clinging to the status quo.” He looked her over, seeming to focus on the sweat that beaded her brow, the fear in her eyes. “Unless you’re too weak to do anything else.”
“Let me go,” she whispered. The pain was so intense that she’d become light-headed. She drew in a sharp breath and forced authority into her voice. “Rylan, let me go.”
He obeyed, stepping back and straightening his tie. “I’ll leave you with this: my mistress will be generous with us if you help her and the others end Moros.”
“Who is your mistress, Rylan?”
“Pledge to defeat Moros and I’ll introduce you to her myself.”
Aislin scoffed, even though her whole body pulsed with terror. “Would she turn me into a Ker, too?”
“Only if you’re very lucky.” Rylan winked. “It only hurts for a second.”
“And does she keep your soul in a box, Rylan?”
Rylan frowned. “I’m not a slave, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Aislin suspected that was exactly what he was, a tool that would eventually be discarded. “I’m just wondering why you ever believed destroying the order of things would be better than what you had. You were the Charon.”
“I’ve been promised that once Moros is having his insides torn out by the Keeper of Hell, I’ll have anything I want. Our family could rule the whole planet. We could do it together.”
You’re a fool. “I’ll think about your offer.”
He gave her a superior smile. “Do. I’m eager to hear your answer.” He vanished.
Aislin grabbed the edge of her desk, trembling all over. Tears stung her eyes as she fought to draw reason around her like armor.
Rylan was wrong. Aislin wasn’t weak. And she wasn’t stupid. She knew evil when she looked it in the eye, and she also knew she’d never felt that way when she’d met Jason Moros’s gaze.
But he didn’t trust her. He’d held back in their last meeting; she could tell.
And if he didn’t trust her, he could easily turn on her at the worst moment.
With Killian and Timothy now safe and being healed by the Ferrys’ personal physician, Aislin called a car and told her driver to take her to the Chinatown EMS station. On her way there, she contacted Cacia to make sure she wasn’t out on a call and was available to meet. Her younger sister sounded surprised but said she was about to take her break and would make time.
Aislin leaned her head back against the cushioned headrest and watched the filthy canal water splash against the windows of the amphibious limousine. Exhaustion threatened to pull her under even as she tried to summon the energy she needed to survive a meeting with Cacia. Somehow, they infuriated each other without meaning to, and it made her ache. She had adored her feisty little sister when Cacia had been a child. And she actually still did, as frustrated as she got when Cacia was rude and ill-mannered, when she didn’t respect the politics and relationships required to run a large corporation full of walking egos who held on to every slight and wielded every grudge as a weapon.
Aislin had succeeded because she always knew what to say, how to act, where to push, and when to smile and let someone believe he was getting his way. “Too bad that won’t help me now,” she muttered as the limousine pulled to the curb outside the spare EMS station. She knew Declan wasn’t here—he was at Psychopomps helping Galena supervise the setup of her new lab space.
Aislin told the driver to wait and got out. She tapped on the screen set into the door of the EMS station, and, a minute later, her sister’s face appeared. “Hey,” said Cacia. “Come on in.”
The door clicked, and Aislin pulled it open to see Cacia coming down the hall. She was in uniform, her black hair in a
high ponytail. She gestured toward an office, and Aislin followed her in, catching a glimpse of a few curious paramedics watching from the locker room.
“Have a seat,” Cacia said, gesturing at a few metal chairs against the wall. She plopped down into the chair at the desk, upon which sat several computer monitors.
This was probably Declan’s office. “Are you supposed to—?” Aislin pressed her lips shut.
Cacia rolled her eyes. “Were you about to ask if I’m allowed to be in Dec’s office?”
“No.” Yes.
Cacia crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you come over here just to criticize me, Aislin?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Because I’ve got shit to do in the garage, and a soul to ferry before my next call, which could come at any moment.”
“No, Cacia, I’m sorry.” Aislin leaned forward and planted her elbows on her knees, then rubbed at her eyes. “I needed to talk to you about something . . . personal. I need some advice.”
Cacia let out a surprised laugh. “What?”
Aislin lifted her head. “I guess I’ve never said that to you, have I?”
“Not even close.” Cacia’s brows drew together as her gaze traced over Aislin’s face and clothing. “Hey—what the hell happened to you?”
Aislin looked down at herself, realizing there were bloodstains on her gray skirt, red smudges on the cuffs of her suit jacket. Self-consciously, she tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “Rylan came to my office. He got through my guards—”
“Jesus, Aislin, what the fuck? Does Dec know?”
“It’s fine. I made sure the guards received the care they needed, and—”
“I have no doubt, but are you okay?”
Aislin met her sister’s eyes. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I think I need to sleep soon.”
Cacia dropped from her chair and squatted at Aislin’s feet, looking up at her face. “You look like you need a lot more than a nap. Did he hurt you?” She put a hand on Aislin’s arm, tender and gentle.
