by Sarah Fine
“Magda,” Cavan began.
“Don’t!” she shrieked. “You can’t stop me, and if you try, I swear you’ll regret it! I thought we were in this together, but now I’m past caring what you think. Now I’ll take pleasure in watching you deal with the aftermath.”
“Oh my God,” Aislin whispered. “Jason.” She reached back to touch him, but at that moment, Magda swung open the door and burst into the hallway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Aislin staggered back, and Moros took an instinctive, protective step in front of her. But before either of them could do a thing, Cavan plowed into the corridor and hooked Magda around the waist, clamping a hand over her mouth and dragging her back into the room from which they’d emerged. He gave Aislin a sharp sidelong glance. “If you heard any of that, you’d better come in.”
“Not if she’s got that machete within reach,” Aislin said, moving to stand beside Moros, somehow managing to be both stately and seductive in flowing purple that bared her taut stomach and hugged her hips and breasts. The mere sight of it made Moros want to stop time and peel every scrap of it off, tasting each revealed inch of her smooth skin.
She poked him in the side. “If she stabs me, I’ll heal,” she murmured, refocusing him on the danger at hand. “You’re used to being invincible, but I’m safer here than you are.” There was something like concern in her eyes, and he was ashamed by how much he craved it.
“She’s unarmed,” called Cavan. “Baheera insisted all the blades be put away.”
That was both a relief and painfully disappointing. The longer he was here, the more he’d begun to contemplate stealing one of the blades and making a run for it, damn the political consequences. Every hour in this place made him feel weaker. But if the Lucinae complained to the Keepers that he was a thief, it would be one more excuse to condemn him. Besides, he was not about to leave Aislin’s side.
They stepped inside the room to find Magda weeping on the bed and Cavan standing over her, looking miserable. “I have to talk to you,” Cavan said to Aislin, giving Moros a nervous look.
Aislin’s eyebrows rose. “Is this what you called me about?”
Cavan nodded. “But I’d really prefer it be a private conversation.”
“Oh, just tell them,” Magda wailed. “Or are you too ashamed of me to do even that?”
“It’s not that!” Cavan said, his own voice rising. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, seemingly on the bleeding edge of losing his diplomatic cool.
“Then tell us what you two are up to,” Moros replied, looking back and forth between them, not sensing even a whiff of Eris in the air, or a sour tang on his tongue. But then again, he couldn’t rid himself of the cloying sweetness of this place.
Cavan and Magda exchanged glances, and in that second, Moros felt the pull between them, a thread of connection so taut it seemed he could reach out and strum it with his fingertip.
“What are you planning?” asked Aislin, clearly not sensing it. “Cavan, I warn you now, if you’ve been working against our official interests, I will not only strip you of your position and Scope, I’ll strip you of your status and feed you to a Shade myself.”
Cavan’s mouth dropped open. “But I . . . I didn’t think . . . I hoped you might understand?”
Aislin stepped forward, looking like a vengeful goddess. “You thought I might understand a plot to kill Moros and subvert fate?”
Something warm and nourishing stirred within Moros’s chest. Was she angry because she felt protective of him—or just of fate in general? Either way, Cavan and Magda had obviously been planning a completely different kind of intrigue than the one Aislin was thinking. “Aislin,” Moros began, his voice soft.
She put up a hand. “No. I’ve been too trusting, it seems.” The betrayal was clear on her lovely face, in the tightness of her mouth and the clench of her fists.
Cavan fell to his knees before her, his expression creased with torment. “I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. Please!”
Magda gasped as she saw Aislin reaching to snatch Cavan’s Scope from his neck. “Don’t touch him!” she shrieked, diving in front of Cavan with her arms out.
Moros caught Aislin’s wrist and held it tight. “You’re being too hasty,” he said. “Look. Really look at the two of them.”
Aislin glared down at Cavan and then at Magda. Tears running down her face, the young woman turned and threw her arms around Cavan. “I’m so sorry, my love,” she said between sobs.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Aislin said, throwing her arms up in exasperation.
Cavan folded Magda against his chest, still on his knees as he looked up at Aislin. “I never meant this to happen. But I can’t help the way I feel about her.” He bowed his head and pressed his face to her hair. “And you’re right,” he whispered to Magda. “I have been a coward.”
“No,” she said. “I had no respect for the pressures you face.”
“How sweet,” said Moros. “So the thing you’re fighting over is whether to go public with this little affair?”
Cavan’s cheeks darkened as he raised his head. He kept his gaze on Aislin, like Moros wasn’t even there. “This is a sensitive time.” His hazel eyes were intense, like he was begging her not to make him explain.
Aislin folded her arms over her chest. “If you’re so in love, explain all your angry remarks about Cavan on the hike to the palace,” she said to Magda. “Explain your comment about how your sister couldn’t take her eyes off . . .” Her eyes went wide. “Good Lord.” She took a step back. “That does complicate things.”
“What is it?” Moros asked.
“Baheera is in love with Cavan, too, isn’t she?”
Cavan bowed his head again. “I’ve tried to be clear with her, but, well, you have to meet her. She’s—”
“A cow,” mumbled Magda, her face pressed to his shoulder.
Cavan squeezed her. “Stop that.” His eyes met Aislin’s. “I was going to tell you in our meeting,” he said.
“Now is the time,” Aislin said firmly, every line of her emanating an authority that made Moros ravenous with want. “Join me outside.”
She strode out to the patio, where the sun draped her in golden light. That was where she belonged, in the sun. Brilliant and shining.
Cavan extricated himself from Magda’s arms, murmuring gently to her and helping her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be by your side as soon as I can,” he said. “I promise.” He walked quickly out to join his Charon.
“Now I understand why this day was even more difficult for you than it was for others,” Moros said casually to Magda, who was wiping her nose on the bedspread.
“He won’t stand up to my sister,” she replied, apparently too distraught and drained to hate Moros properly. “He’s been too afraid to offend anyone to stand up for me. For us.”
Moros sighed and sat down next to her, though he kept a safe distance between them. The girl seemed rather unpredictable. “Or perhaps he was too afraid of losing you to risk it.”
Magda’s tiger eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Too afraid of losing me to actually be with me? That’s stupid. If you want to be with someone, you go be with them. Easy. Done.”
Moros chuckled. “If only.”
“What does the Lord of Death know about love?” she snapped. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not sure, either,” he said, his gaze drifting back out to the patio, where Aislin was deep in conversation with her distressed ambassador. “And to answer your question, the Lord of Death knows very little about love, and less about how to keep it.”
He tore his gaze from Aislin to find Magda staring at him with shrewd comprehension. “To answer a question you didn’t bother to ask,” she said, “I know a lot about love, or some parts of it, at least. Enough to recognize it when I see it.”
He leaned back on his hands, glad she wasn’t sharp enough to hear the hammering of his heart. “I’m sure I don�
�t know what you’re talking about.”
Magda sniffled and swiped her hands across her face, and then rose from the bed. She looked out to the patio. “Tonight at the feast, Zayed is going to offer his body to the Charon, as an instrument for her pleasure,” she said simply. “Thought you’d like to know.”
Then she walked to the door. “I’ll be in my room, if Cavan asks,” she called over her shoulder, then she disappeared into the corridor, leaving Moros alone, staring at the woman he craved with a passion that burned him from the inside out.
Moros stood at Aislin’s side, ignoring the hate-filled, suspicious glares of all the Lucinae gathered for their new Mother’s coronation. They were in the wide courtyard overlooking the massive lake fed by the Spring of Life. The sun was setting over the water, nearly blinding Moros with its poisonous brightness. His head was pounding, a foreign, unwelcome sensation that made him want to bury his head beneath a pillow, just to block out the light for a while.
Aislin’s shoulder brushed his, the silky cloth tickling his bare skin. Everyone else gave him a wide berth—once they had learned who he really was, no one got within six feet of him. But Aislin held her head high and remained near, as if daring anyone to challenge Moros’s presence. Caught in the misery of this realm, Moros had the urge to take his glove off and tangle his fingers with hers, to anchor himself to something strong and real. He’d never had such a desire, but here it was, and it made him feel even more pathetic. He was the Lord of the Kere. He shouldn’t need anyone. Shouldn’t trust, shouldn’t depend upon, and shouldn’t seek out anyone, let alone love them.
I don’t love anyone but my sisters, he reminded himself. Anything else is folly.
A cool breeze blew strands of Aislin’s platinum hair against his face, and he inhaled, nearly moaning at the scent of her. But then a stream of notes issued forth from the musicians on the far side of the courtyard, and a row of shirtless courtiers strode out from the palace. The Lucinae cheered, and Moros took Aislin and Cavan’s cue and clapped politely. From beneath the grand arch of the palace walked a naked woman wearing an elaborate headdress. Her black hair flowed down her back, and her skin was fine and olive, much like her sister’s, for this was clearly Baheera, the new Mother of the Lucinae. She smiled at the adulation of her subjects, her arms raised as she moved to the center of the courtyard, beneath several garlands of flowers and lanterns. She turned in place, stopping momentarily as she faced Cavan. Her gaze flared with challenge, but then she continued to move until she faced the lake.
“My children,” she said in a high, clear voice. “We face a loss today, but we cannot dwell on the past, only the future that we represent. Together we will continue our work, without which the world would cease to turn. I will lead you and nurture you always. You are orphans no longer, for I am your Mother!”
The Lucinae were giddy with joy, wailing and calling her name, each peal of sound like an ice pick to Moros’s head. The louder they got, the dizzier he felt. Then the courtiers began to dance around Baheera, their feet stamping in the dust-strewn courtyard, their oiled skin shining in the rays of the setting sun. Moros closed his eyes, pushing down another strange sensation, one he had experienced so rarely in his entire existence—fear. He’d never felt this way, his body betraying him. But the last thing he could afford was to show weakness. He forced himself to stand up straight and open his eyes again. He glanced over to find Aislin’s gaze focused on the courtiers, one of which was Zayed, who was dancing and leaping as if springs had been attached to his feet.
“The Mother will choose her partner for the night!” shouted one woman, her large breasts bobbling as she rose to her tiptoes and swept her arms toward Baheera, who had been swaying to the music.
On Aislin’s other side, Cavan stiffened and muttered something to his Charon, who whispered something back. Ever since their tête-à-tête on the patio, things had been tense between the two, but there hadn’t been time for Moros to ask Aislin what had passed between them. Now, as Baheera strutted among the courtiers, who had stopped their dancing to preen for the new Mother, each obviously hoping to be chosen by her, Moros wondered—had Aislin asked Cavan to use Baheera’s reported desire for him? It would smooth things over politically, but it had been obvious the boy was besotted with the fiery, semiferal Magda. Normally Moros would have found it amusing—the two were opposites in every way, and their youthful desperation might have once made him chuckle. But somehow, in the last many days, that detachment had been peeled away.
If Cavan offered himself to please Baheera, it might make it easier for Moros to get what he needed—a Mother who would give him a Blade of Life, if not an arsenal of them.
But the thought of that sacrifice, for some bizarre reason, made Moros ache for the poor lovers. To put one’s heart on the chopping block . . .
Baheera ran her hands down her body as she wound her way leisurely through the throng of would-be “partners,” offering each a suggestive smile. But she kept moving toward the spot where the foreign dignitaries stood, and with each step, Moros felt the tension rise. Finally, Baheera’s eyes met Moros’s, and she arched an eyebrow. “You are far finer than I expected from a creature of death.”
Moros gave her a half smile. “I’m not so much the creature as the creator, darling.”
Her gaze flared with intrigue. “You want something from me.”
“True, but you should want it, too, if you desire to live free of the threat that took your dear Mother away from you this very morning.”
Baheera rolled her eyes. “We can protect ourselves easily enough.” Her full lips stretched into a brilliant smile as she gestured toward the lake, filled with pure life, as Zayed had told them. “We’ll be prepared when we venture out to deliver souls. And here we are safe.”
“Are you so sure?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, never taking her gaze from his. He had no doubt she was aware that every single one of her subjects was riveted to their exchange, though, because her voice rose as she said, “The sanctity of our realm has never been breached.”
“Such confidence.”
“Well earned,” she retorted, tracing her fingertips up the center of her chest. She was trying to toy with him in the same way she did her courtiers, probably accustomed to being desired by every male she encountered.
It wasn’t working in the slightest. “Ah, but sometimes hubris and self-assurance are indistinguishable,” Moros said before he could stop himself.
Aislin elbowed him in the side. “But in this case, it is confidence, of course,” she said quickly. “We’re honored to be witnessing your ascendance.”
Baheera ignored Aislin, which sent a bolt of anger through Moros. “I hope you’re comfortable here, my lord,” she said in a mocking voice that made Moros’s stomach turn.
“Very,” he gritted out.
“I’ve instructed that all our blades be locked away.” She leaned forward, her eyes keen and knowing. “For your safety.”
“You are the soul of compassion.”
She took a step closer to him, her gaze drifting down to his gloves. “Is it true, the things I’ve heard about your touch? Because you look very touchable.”
Aislin stiffened, and everyone in the courtyard gaped, the shock and outrage palpable.
Moros looked down at his hands and chuckled. “Best not to test it, hmm?”
She gave his body a lingering once-over, then shrugged. “I suppose not. Sorry.”
Sorry? He almost laughed. “My poor heart.” He couldn’t suppress a grin.
Baheera might have been full of herself, but she was also observant. Her expression hardened when she realized he wasn’t properly stricken with lust, and she took a quick step away, giving Aislin a dismissive wave as she passed. “Thank you for being here, Charon.”
“My condolences on the loss of your Mother,” Aislin said politely. “We’re grateful you were willing to grant us an audience despite this tragedy.”
Baheera’s attention had a
lready drifted to Cavan. “You have a very . . . persuasive ambassador,” she purred.
Magda, standing several feet behind Moros, made a strangled sound. Cavan gave Baheera a slight bow. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, his tone formal. “I am honored to serve.”
“Are you?” she asked. “Is your whole self devoted to your duty?”
“I am committed to facilitating relations between our two peoples.”
He sounded robotic. Like his brain had disconnected from his heart. Moros looked at Aislin. She had the power to demand this sacrifice of Cavan, to disregard his feelings and force him to comply for the good of all involved, except the poor ambassador and his lover.
Baheera inched closer to the man and put her hand on his cheek. “Then I choose you,” she said, “for I can think of no better way to honor your commitment.”
A choked sob came from Magda, followed by the sounds of her bare feet slapping the stones of the courtyard as she fled. It made Moros’s throat go tight, especially when he caught sight of Baheera’s triumphant smile. He was willing to bet she wasn’t so much in love with Cavan as unwilling to accept that not every man would be fixated on her, unwilling to allow her sister to enjoy the attention of a handsome man. Her ego had to be fed, and Cavan would be her meal tonight.
But then Aislin sighed. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I must object.”
Baheera’s hand dropped away from Cavan’s cheek. “What?”
Her voice was like a lash, but Aislin didn’t flinch. “I know Cavan would be delighted to accept your invitation, and he will probably hate me for saying this, but one night with you would make him unable to do his job.” Aislin smiled as she stroked her gaze up the length of Baheera’s naked body, a look ten times as seductive as the new Mother could manage on her best day. (Of course, Moros realized, he might not be the most objective observer.) “You are so compellingly lovely that he would be unable to remember the Ferrys’ interests.”
Baheera’s mouth tightened with suspicion. “I’m sure he could manage it.”
