Fated

by Sarah Fine

  Why hadn’t he sensed this before? Not even caught a hint of it?

  He meant to find out.

  “Lachesis!” he called as soon as he materialized, glancing up the vast length of the massive loom for his sister. Where was she? “Lachesis?”

  “Here,” came a weak voice. Lachesis came trudging out of her private quarters, ghastly pale and clutching her stomach. “I haven’t been feeling quite right, I’m afraid.”

  He met her in the middle, grasping her elbow to support her. “Worse than before?”

  She nodded, then gave him a curious look. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

  “I need to consult you and Atropos.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  He began to guide her toward the loom. “I need to look at the life thread of Aislin Ferry.”

  “Oh,” said Lachesis, her voice unmistakably hollow. “The Charon?”

  He nodded as he led her to the edge of the fraying tapestry of fate. That tight feeling was back in his chest as they stepped beneath the fabric, held up by stout timbers over the travertine cutting floor. Atropos was many yards distant, coming toward them unsteadily, her steps faltering. “What do you want?” she snapped hoarsely.

  “Aislin Ferry,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I mean, I want to look at her thread.”

  “Why?” Atropos looked up at the fabric, at the gaping holes and missed stitches, and sliced a gray thread above her head.

  Moros felt the sting and pushed the feeling outward, where it would find one of his Kere. “I touched her,” he said simply. “And I was surprised by what I saw.”

  Atropos let out a ragged laugh. “With the fabric unraveling, you’re still arrogant enough to believe your future-sight is trustworthy?”

  Moros thought about that. Ever since Patrick Ferry’s Marking, there had been holes in his sight, blank spots where he’d previously seen the future clearly. But this was different. “I didn’t believe she was fated to die. I would have seen it.” If not now, then years ago. He always knew the when of someone’s death—unless that death wasn’t meant to be. But he couldn’t recall ever sensing anything about Aislin. He’d always assumed it was because he’d found her distracting, and he’d worked hard to push her—that face, those eyes, that voice—out of his mind. “Just show me her thread.”

  “You don’t know which one it is?” Atropos asked, her tone mocking.

  Moros’s fists clenched. Usually, he could easily feel which thread went with a particular soul, but none of the threads brought her beautiful face to mind, no matter how closely he looked at them. He recognized Galena’s, and Declan’s, and Cacia’s, and so many of the other Ferrys’, but not the Charon herself, when she should have been prominent and shimmering and easy to spot. “I feel nothing.” How he wished that were true.

  “You sound like it matters to you,” Atropos replied.

  “Of course it matters,” he barked. “She’s the Charon. And she’s—” He gritted his teeth. Necessary. When had she become so necessary? He could work with any Charon, couldn’t he? “I just need to see where she is.”

  Lachesis leaned into him. “You don’t usually care so much,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. “But I can tell something has changed.”

  “Nothing has changed.” He blinked. If that were true, why was the thought of Aislin’s death eating at him this way? He’d spent only a handful of hours alone with her over the last eighty years, and though he’d always been amused by her, always admiring, and definitely intrigued, that didn’t explain this need he had to see a future for her, this inability to accept that she didn’t have one. “We’re meeting with the Keepers in less than three days, and I wanted to examine her thread before we appear in front of them together.”

  “Spare us your excuses. The current Charon is right—” Atropos’s mouth dropped open. “She was here.” She slid her finger along a split in the fabric, not that far from Galena Margolis’s sparkling tangled thread. Many of the threads that had been connected to the scientist’s were now separated from it by that long tear, which looked like it had been made with a scalpel . . . or a sickle.

  “What have you done?” Lachesis asked her sister, gaping at the neat slice, which traveled from the base of the loom, up onto the frame, and into the far distance. “Her thread is gone. Did you cut it from the cloth?”

  “N-no,” stammered Atropos. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lachesis, her voice taking on an edge. “But I’d love to hear an explanation.”

  The accusation was clear, but Moros could see the shock on Atropos’s face. It looked genuine. “The thread disappeared?” he asked, staring at the tapestry and willing Aislin’s thread to appear again. “How is that possible if it wasn’t cut?”

  “It’s not possible,” croaked Atropos, looking ill. Her usually neat black hair tumbled over her face as she looked down at her sickle.

  He glanced around, a terrible possibility dawning on him. “What happened to Rylan Ferry’s thread when someone took possession of his soul? Did it disappear like this?” He imagined Aislin with glowing red eyes, glaring at him with hatred, eager for his destruction. Was that her destiny now?

  Atropos shook her head. “It turned gray, and I cut it from the fabric, just like all those you turn into Kere.”

  “I didn’t turn him, though.”

  “Then who did?” asked Lachesis. “Could one of our other siblings have done it?”

  “They don’t serve fate,” said Atropos. “They couldn’t create something like a Ker, that wields the power of death.”

  Moros wasn’t actually sure Rylan could Mark humans for death. “He was killed before his soul was taken—you’re sure?”

  Atropos nodded, her dark gaze on him defiant and sullen. Moros stared back, wondering if she was lying. He cut his eyes toward Lachesis, who was glowering at their sister with clear suspicion. “I would have thought you’d have mentioned slicing away someone so important,” Lachesis said quietly. “But you didn’t. I learned of Rylan Ferry’s demise from our brother.”

  Atropos waved her sickle between them, looking like she wanted to cut their throats. “I—” She let out a choked noise just as a rending pain tore through Moros’s chest. Lachesis wailed as gray threads began to rain down around them, pulling from the fabric and dangling like paralyzed limbs from the tapestry above.

  The burn inside him drove him to his hands and knees as dozens of threads landed on the floor around him. He raised his head to see his sisters in similar positions, both staring with wide eyes at the fraying cloth. Moros forced himself to his feet, pushing the pain away. The dangling and severed filaments were clustered around the tear where Aislin’s thread had once been, and horror washed over him. He’d known something was coming for her, but he’d left her alone, so disoriented by his feelings about her impending doom that he couldn’t bear to be near her another moment.

  But had she already died? Would he even know if she was gone? “I have to get back,” he said.

  “You’re leaving us? Like this?” cried Lachesis, her hair grayed by threads that had tangled with her short blonde locks.

  “I have to.” He needed to. “I can’t do anything here. I should never have left. Whatever this is,” he said, motioning to the gray threads, “it’s happening in Boston, so that’s where I need to be if I’m going to stop it.”

  “But whatever’s happening . . . this could be the end,” Lachesis said quietly, her eyes burning as they met his.

  He couldn’t explain it, only that he was desperate to know if Aislin was still walking the Earth.

  “Then go,” Atropos said, her voice thick with pain. “But if you leave now, don’t bother coming back. Ever.”

  Moros looked at his sisters, feeling like a lash their resentment and anger at being left behind. Lachesis, usually loving and understanding, looked just as angry as Atropos. There was nothing he could do for them, though, except to find Eris and tak
e her on. And he was certain she was behind whatever had caused all these unsanctioned deaths. There was no one else it could be. He couldn’t help a pang of suspicion, though . . . “Hold on for as long as you can,” he said to them.

  He closed his eyes and willed himself back to Boston, dreading what he would find when he arrived.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aislin entered the lobby of Psychopomps to find several Ferrys lying maimed and bleeding on the marble floor, their corporate physician frantically attending to broken bones and torn flesh so they would heal properly, administering massive doses of pain meds to keep the process from hurting too much. Their Scopes had protected them from being Marked by the Shades, but they hadn’t protected them from the creatures’ rotting teeth and freakish strength.

  Hugh had come back inside as well and was near the elevator banks, talking into his phone as he watched his relatives suffer. He looked perfectly calm, and it made Aislin want to rip the phone from his hand and crush it beneath her heel. She’d just spent several long minutes in the Veil guiding several of her human employees to Heaven—and one of them to Hell. All dead before their time, Marked without any regard for what was meant to be. The Shades had acted mindlessly, controlled by whoever had taken their souls.

  She’d put Declan in charge of liaising with the human authorities in the real world. In her gut, she knew it was only a matter of time before the Shade-Kere attacked again. Aislin had done whatever she could to keep everyone calm, telling them that she and Moros would control the threat as soon as possible—assuming she could find the man. She’d tried to reach him on his phone, but as was so often the case, it went straight to voice mail. Technology didn’t work in the Veil, and that was most likely where Jason Moros was.

  She fought the inexplicable desire to have him by her side right now. It wasn’t that she couldn’t face this latest challenge alone, but she would have appreciated his confident presence. He was rarely rattled and never, ever afraid.

  Right now, though, her own rage was overcoming her fear at what had happened, and what it meant. She stalked toward Hugh, who had shed his suit jacket and tie. His tailored white shirt looked pressed and neat, especially in contrast to Aislin’s blood-smeared cashmere, sullied as she’d helped move wounded Ferrys from the sidewalk outside to the lobby, where they could heal out of the view of the public. Before she was halfway to him, Hugh turned his back to her and stepped into the elevator, still absorbed in his phone conversation as the doors slid shut.

  Propelled by suspicion, Aislin tried to be patient as she fielded a frantic call from her media liaison, who needed to know what story to feed to the press, then summoned an elevator. Her last moments with Moros beat in her head like a pulse. She had no future to speak of, nothing but blackness. And that meant that somehow, her Charon’s Scope was going to be stripped from her. Maybe by Hugh and his allies. Even now, he might be finalizing his plans.

  The elevator finally arrived, and she took it to the floor that housed a warren of executive offices, including for the board members. It had been her home for two decades when she’d worked as vice president of foreign exchange. Her office had been down the hall from Hugh’s then, so she marched in that direction, unsurprised at how quiet it was—the sun was still an hour or so from rising, and with the exception of the finance floor, which remained busy twenty-four-seven as the Ferrys traded on the world markets, Psychopomps wouldn’t open for business until eight.

  Her shoes were silent on the carpet as she treaded down the hall. At the sound of a quiet moan, she stilled, her stomach tightening. She had just begun to creep forward again when another low cry reached her. The noises were coming from Hugh’s office. His door was slightly ajar; he thought he had the floor to himself.

  Well, to himself and whoever was moaning in his office.

  Disgust roiled inside Aislin. She pushed the door wide and stepped inside. Sure enough, Hugh was with someone. He was on his knees, his head buried between the legs of a woman lying on his desk, her black dress hiked up her thighs, her back arched, her hands threaded through his silver hair.

  At the sound of Aislin’s intrusion, the woman shoved him away, and Hugh ended up on his backside next to his desk. Furiously wiping his mouth, he scrambled to his feet as his partner unhurriedly slid from his desk and tugged her skirt back into place. Her golden hair fell around her face in tousled curls, and when her eyes met Aislin’s, her eyebrow arched in keen assessment. “This is her, isn’t it, baby?”

  “Get the hell out of my office,” Hugh rasped, glaring at Aislin.

  “Two dozen of our family members lie wounded in our lobby,” said Aislin. “Thirty innocent people have been slaughtered. And you—” She gestured at the erection tenting Hugh’s pants. “You’re up here with yet another plaything.” Hugh was known for his office liaisons, one more reason Aislin disliked him.

  The woman chuckled. “Oh, darling, I’m anything but a toy.” She reached over and took Hugh’s hand.

  “I’m actually glad you’re here then, Aislin, because I have something to tell you,” he snarled. His face twisted with hatred. “I have the votes locked in. When we meet later this morning, you’re out.” He took a jerky step forward, his face turning a mottled pink. “And when I’m Charon, I’m going to strip you of your status as a Ferry. No one will have the time or will to stop me.”

  “The board members don’t know what’s happened yet,” Aislin said in a hard voice, but as Hugh advanced on her, his fingers still tightly laced with the blonde’s, she couldn’t help but retreat. He looked murderous. “And you heard what Moros said about working with me—”

  “Moros will soon be at the mercy of the Keeper of Hell,” Hugh shouted, spittle spraying from his lips. “I’m going to make sure of it. This latest attack proves he’s completely lost control.”

  Aislin opened her mouth to respond but was struck by the shining eagerness in the blonde’s slate-gray eyes. There was something about her features that was strangely familiar, but Aislin couldn’t place her. “Who are you?” she asked, pausing in the doorframe.

  But she never got an answer. Hugh lunged forward and shoved her out into the hallway, slamming his office door in her face. “Better get your affairs in order, Charon,” he yelled from the other side. “You’re going to suffer for what you’ve done—I will make sure of it!”

  As Aislin stood, stunned, she heard the silky lilt of the blonde’s voice, then a low groan from Hugh. Her mouth dropped open. As Hugh’s grunts became rhythmic, she strode back down the hall, her thoughts a hum of possibilities—and worry.

  “Is this how it’s going to happen?” she whispered to herself as she got on the elevator. Hugh had indicated he had the votes to unseat her as Charon, but he’d also revealed his plan to strip her of her status as a Ferry as well.

  And if he did that, it would be so easy to kill her.

  Her fingers dipped into the pocket of her slacks as the elevator began to descend, and she pulled out her phone. “Please answer,” she whispered as she touched Moros’s icon—the ancient Theta symbol of death.

  The sound of ringing startled her, and she looked up to find Moros standing right in front of her, his gray eyes sparking with crimson. He reached back and hit the elevator “Stop” button, bringing them to a halt between floors.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice rough. His hair was tousled, and he was breathing hard and clutching his side, looking startlingly human.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked. It wasn’t the answer to his question, but it was the first thought that sprang from her mind.

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he took her by the arms, looking her up and down. “Which Ker did it? Were you there?” His grip tightened as he noticed the bloodstains on her sweater. “Are you hurt?”

  Her hands rose to cup his elbows. “I’m not hurt, but I was there. It wasn’t one of your Kere, though. A horde of Shades have been transformed—someone has taken their souls. They can Mark people for death, and they attacked right o
utside this building less than an hour ago. They killed over two dozen humans and injured several of my—”

  Aislin felt a rush of cold, then hot, air. She clung to Moros’s arms as she found herself tugged through the Veil. They arrived in a stone room, much like she imagined would be in a medieval castle, complete with a grand fireplace, a thick wool rug, and a large ornately carved trunk against the wall. “Where are we?”

  “My new domain.” Moros let her go and rushed over to the trunk, lifting the lid to reveal what she assumed must be the souls of his Kere, brilliant snakelike apparitions of all colors. He stared at them for a minute, then his tense shoulders relaxed slightly. “They’re all here,” he muttered. “They couldn’t have done it.”

  “I didn’t see any Kere at the scene, apart from Tamasin and Nader, who were protecting Galena.”

  He straightened and turned to her. “She shouldn’t have been there, and neither should you. You could have been—”

  She smirked and folded her arms over her chest. “Are you actually suggesting that I should be protecting myself? There’s really no point in keeping my head down, is there?”

  He shook his head, brushing a stray lock of ebony hair out of his eyes. “I don’t believe that’s your fate. You’re not supposed to die, just like none of those poor souls outside of Psychopomps were fated to perish.”

  “Even if that’s true, it’s going to happen anyway,” she said in a small voice. “You said it yourself.” She watched as he drew nearer, relishing the heat that rolled from him as it warmed her Veil-chilled skin. “Plus, I’ve just been informed by Hugh that he has the votes to oust me as Charon. He said he would take my Scope—and my status.”

  Moros’s eyes narrowed. “He won’t allow you to remain a Ferry?”

  “I found him in flagrante delicto with some woman in his office, and he was enraged at my intrusion.”

  Moros looked skeptical. “But I know Hugh. He’s been on the board a long time, and he isn’t stupid. If he stripped you of your status, he’d have to deal with the rage of all those loyal to you, a waste of energy and time as he tries to gain power.”