Secret of Fate

by Tamar Sloan

  Secret of Fate

  Tamar Sloan

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Micah

  2. Micah

  3. Kadence

  4. Micah

  5. Micah

  6. Kadence

  7. Micah

  8. Micah

  9. Kadence

  10. Micah

  11. Micah

  12. Kadence

  13. Micah

  14. Micah

  15. Kadence

  16. Micah

  17. Micah

  18. Kadence

  19. Micah

  20. Kadence

  21. Micah

  22. Micah

  23. Kadence

  24. Kadence

  Epilogue

  Son of Poseidon

  Blood of Medusa

  Want to stay in touch?

  About the Author

  Also by Tamar Sloan

  Prologue

  No amount of sunlight streaming through the window could hide the darkness growing in the Loom.

  Moira steps around the massive, wooden machine. Despite the immortal years she’s spent with it, she still takes her time to appreciate the way the ancient pieces of timber interconnect. The Loom is symmetrical and square, a labyrinth of threads creating regimented lines. It’s intricate yet simple, logical yet unpredictable.

  Just like the Fates, it spins and weaves.

  But her peace doesn’t last long. Usually, the threads of humans it connects are testament to the balance of light and dark. The luminescent, shimmering threads that draw the eye are there, alongside the threads of those who struggle to shake off the darkness. Adding sharp contrast, are the midnight threads of those who’ve embraced the dark. Just like the Loom itself, the fabric it weaves is beautiful, abstract, unpredictable…but somehow in complete harmony.

  Usually, the rhythmic tick, tick, ticking, is enough to soothe her. It has become instinctive to step in time with it. It reminds her that destinies are like time—inevitable. Underestimated. Always moving forward.

  Except, today, it’s silent.

  Perhaps it’s a good thing it’s stopped.

  Moira shakes her head. Rarely has the Loom ever stopped. And, the few times over the past millennia that it has, it was either because gods or their demigod children had interfered.

  Sometimes, it helped.

  Sometimes, it didn’t.

  Moira pauses, pulling her white lab coat a little closer around her. So far, she’s the only one who’s noticed the new differences. Changes in the Loom have always happened, the balance has always cycled.

  But this, she’s never seen before.

  A sound outside grabs her attention, and when the goddess of fate sees Kronos walking up the path, she’s not surprised. Alarmed. But not surprised.

  Moira greets him at the door, her smile gracious. “Hello, Kronos.”

  He nods, eyes grave in his youthful face. “We need to talk, Moira.”

  With a sweep of her arm, Moira invites him in, her eyes searching the gardens behind him. As always, Elysium is beautiful. With its forever sunlight, its expanses of greens and kaleidoscopes of color, it looks exactly as it should—somewhere that pays homage to the final resting place of good and beautiful souls.

  But that’s not what Moira is checking. When she confirms there’s no one there, she closes the door, hoping it stays that way.

  Kronos is already in the room housing the Loom, standing over it with a ferocious frown. “It’s like the Wheels of Time. It’s not meant to be still. Or silent.”

  Moira nods. “Your daughter did this, didn’t she?”

  Kronos’ shoulders tighten. “Yes.”

  “It also happened recently, but she restarted it.”

  Moira doesn’t need to point out that, this time, it’s different. The Loom isn’t moving because time is still frozen.

  “I need some answers first.”

  Moira gazes at Kronos calmly. “If it has to do with what will happen when it restarts, then neither of us can provide anything definite.”

  Kronos’ hands fist at his sides. “We never do, Moira. But we have a responsibility to shape this in the right direction.”

  Moira takes a step closer, her regal face tense as she studies him. “Are you doing this for all of humanity, Kronos? Or are you doing this for your daughter?”

  All Kronos does is blink. It’s the only sign her words registered. But it’s enough for Moira. She’s a primordial god, after all. She knows the Titans. She’s watched them longer than their descendants, the Olympians.

  Jaw clenched, Kronos spins to stare at the Loom again.

  Moira allows herself to relax, calling upon the tranquility that has helped her oversee wars and famine and countless deaths. You have to believe humanity is, at its core, good.

  She knows. She’s experienced it firsthand.

  Kronos steps around the silent, frozen Loom. He pauses, then peers closely. He waves his arm across the fabric. “What does this mean, then?”

  Moira freezes. “Yes, the dark areas are growing again. I cannot dispute that.”

  Kronos leans closer, honing in on one of the shadowed patches. Fine, shining, gossamer threads spread through the dark blotches like roots, but the gray—the color of death—is unmistakable. “Why is it spreading, Moira?”

  With a sigh, Moira steps away. “I’m unsure. As people die, their souls are removed from the Loom. It allows space for good to be found, to grow. But these…”

  Kronos waits.

  Moira angles her chin, her blue eyes steady. “They aren’t following how it has happened before.”

  “You’re saying their impact is remaining in the fabric?”

  “I’m not saying anything. Fate is far too complicated for any of us, even the Greek gods, to understand.” She glares at Kronos. “To predict.”

  Kronos throws out his arms. “So, we just sit back and watch? Wait?”

  Moira shrugs, her white lab coat shifting with the movement. “I have faith, Kronos. It takes very little good to outweigh the bad. Darkness is not fated to win.”

  “It’s our duty to address this.”

  Moira shakes her head. “It could be nothing but a new angle on the same old cycle. You know this, Kronos. A war. A nuclear bomb. An outbreak of disease. The light will return, just like it always does.”

  “Or, it could be the start of something big.”

  “That you could make worse,” she snaps. Pulling herself up, Moira takes a breath, moderating her tone. “So, you’ll send this daughter of yours, who has stopped time and walked away, to what, fix it?”

  Kronos narrows his eyes. “You don’t have a demigod child, Moira. Between being a primordial god, and your choice to remain separate, you wouldn’t understand. We are not watchers of this realm. We are keepers. Our demigod children allow us to ensure the balance is maintained.”

  Moira remains still, chin high and proud. “Your demigod children can upset the balance.”

  Kronos turns away with a frown. “Talking with you always ties me up in knots, woman.” He heads toward the door. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ve confirmed what I suspected.”

  Moira doesn’t speak. To do so, would influence this even more. Her role is to observe.

  Not to interfere.

  Kronos pauses on his way to the door, turning back to seize her with his mercury gaze. He raises his hand, his young-old face almost challenging.

  A click of his fingers is all it takes.

  Behind her, the Loom starts up again. Tick, tick, ticking fills the room, calming Moira’s breathing. Below, on Earth, humans will begin moving again—hearts will beat, emotions will rise and fall, lives will continue like they never stopped.

  Balance will be found.<
br />
  Moira nods, but doesn’t speak. There’s still a chance Kronos will leave this alone, allow it to run its course. He’ll realize this daughter of his has already complicated things.

  Kronos turns to the door, only to pause when it bursts open.

  Moira’s hand flies to her chest when she sees who’s standing there.

  A boy. Dark haired, a smile wiping from his face. He halts when he sees there are more people than he was expecting. He pales, then swallows. “S-sorry. I’ll come back later.”

  Within the space of a breath, he’s gone.

  Although Moira knows, just as Kronos would, that even a second can be more than long enough.

  Kronos is rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard as he stares at the door. “Who was that, Moira?”

  Moira drops her hand to her side, straightening. “One of the residents.”

  Kronos shakes his head, turning to face her. “But he has your eyes.”

  Moira takes a steadying breath. She could lie, but Kronos is already doubting her advice as it is. She can’t afford to lose face if he catches on. Moira slicks back her perfect hair. “That was my son, Micah.”

  “Your demigod son.”

  Moira nods, her throat too tight to respond.

  Tick, tick, tick. The Loom counts out the seconds, physical proof that destinies are being woven as the silence stretches between them.

  Kronos shakes his head, his eyes unfocused as he mutters, almost to himself, “The son of a primordial god. This is why she moved to Elysium.” He finally looks up. “I could never figure out why you, Moira, the goddess of fate, wanted to live in a house. You even moved the Loom here.”

  Moira feels as if her spine has turned to lead. “No one knows he exists. He barely leaves Elysium. I’ve kept him separate from the fabric of life.”

  “The next generation of non-interferers, huh?”

  “Yes, Kronos.” Moira’s eyes narrow. “He knows the impact one choice can make.”

  “Like the choice to have a child, goddess of fate?”

  Moira pulls herself up. “Exactly my point, Kronos. Gods are just as susceptible to the whim of emotion. The difference is, I’m not willing to let that fleeting moment affect others and their future.”

  Doesn’t he realize that’s what makes systems so unstable? Fate can never be predicted because emotions can never be predicted.

  Kronos nods, turning to the door once again. “I see.”

  Moira winds her hands together tightly. Does he? Has he finally seen reason?

  A few steps, and he opens it, just like Micah did a moment ago. Elysium is on the other side, drawing the eye with its unapologetic magnificence.

  Kronos steps through, turning to look at Moira. His face is pensive, eyes full of storm clouds as he regards her. “Tell me, Moira—how bad does it have to get before you do something about it?”

  Kronos closes the door behind him before she has time to answer. Moira suspects he knew she wouldn’t respond.

  She turns back to the Loom, trying to shake the uneasiness.

  Maybe he assumed it was a rhetorical question.

  Micah

  I went back.

  I promised I wouldn’t. I was told of the consequences.

  And yet, I went back.

  All because I refused to believe.

  Sitting on the bench I threw myself on after my mad dash, I drop my head into my hands.

  And now Kadence believes I’m dead.

  Pain knifes through my heart, spreading like wildfire through my veins. Since the moment I realized the building was collapsing, this is how it’s been. A piercing stab. Rupture. Agony detonating, spreading from cell to cell, until each and every one of them is throbbing with it.

  Just like the butterfly effect. One flutter of its wings, a sonic boom throughout my body.

  I hear the door open from the slice of garden I escaped to, hear the man leave. I don’t lift my head.

  Another consequence.

  Another mistake.

  Whoever it was, he was a god. His presence felt too large for the room, his face ageless but wise. Then there were those piercing eyes that missed nothing.

  Shoving my fingers into my temples, I grit my teeth, not bothering to wish the pain would abate. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s my fault.

  Waiting a few minutes for the man to leave, even though he’s already seen me, I finally rise to my feet. It feels like my bones have become porous, corroded by the holocaust happening in my body.

  I walk through Elysium—calling it Sweet Dreams feels like a mockery now—barely seeing, hardly hearing. I think someone calls out, but I don’t turn. I need to face my mother.

  The door to our house is open, like an invite. She’s waiting.

  She’s in the lounge room. The door to the Loom is closed, but I can hear it. It’s a relief to register the rhythmic ticking. It stopped again recently, and Mom explained it’s unusual, but not unheard of. Kronos, the god of time, has had to do it a handful of occasions before, generally when the other gods have interfered and needed to be sent back.

  But twice in such a short space of time?

  I pause, taking in the sharp angle of my mother’s shoulders, realizing something. “The man who was here, it was Kronos, wasn’t it?”

  She nods, and the implications cement me to the floor. I don’t know how I know, but I know stopping time had something to do with me. His visit here had something to do with me.

  I never would’ve been discovered if I’d listened.

  Mom turns, her white lab coat swishing around her knees. I think I’m the only one who’s ever seen her without it. Today though, it’s obvious the nexus of goddess of fate and mother of Micah aren’t an easy crossroad to carry. Her blue eyes scan and study me, but I look away.

  There’s only so much disappointment I can take.

  I swallow, staring at the wall across the room. “I’m…sorry.”

  “For what, Micah?”

  My gaze snaps to hers. “For everything. I should’ve listened.”

  Mom shakes her head, her intricate, glossy hair catching the light. “But you didn’t. Why?”

  I swallow again, never seeming to have enough moisture in my mouth. “I fell for a girl. Her name’s Kadence.”

  Mom seems to blink, but she turns her face away. “And you…love her?”

  My eyes slam shut. I never knew those words could hurt so much. “I do.” I shake my head. “I did. I don’t exist down there anymore.”

  “Feelings don’t die after our earthly bodies do, Micah.”

  I wince, knowing what she’s saying is true. It’s thrumming through every beat of my heart.

  “She believes you’re dead now. I know it hurts, but you need to leave it that way.”

  I try to nod, I really do. She’s right. So far, the choice to interfere has done nothing but damage. My mind knows this.

  Every other shred of my being rejects it.

  Mom must see something on my face, because she glances over her shoulder at the closed door, the Loom behind it. “Someone else died in that building.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  “A soul was trapped in there when it was demolished. They woul would be at a Crossroads by now.”

  The place where souls move onto the suffering of Tartarus or the beauty just outside this cottage. Unfortunately, so many of them from Pontiac Point go to Tartarus, unable to rise above the challenges they were born into.

  Which is what Kadence was seeing every day…

  A thought has my spine turning to ice. “Was it my fault?”

  Mom’s lips thin as they press together. She does that when she’s thinking, when something is weighing heavily on her mind. “Micah…”

  I hold my hand up. “I need to know, Mom. Was it because I was there?”

  She looks away. “The moment you became part of their world, you made an impact.”

  It’s not a straight answer, but it tells me everything I need to know.

&nbs
p; Turning away, I stumble out the door, blindly seeking solitude.

  Whoever that soul is, their days ended on Earth because I couldn’t stay away. It’s all the proof I needed to show me I can’t go back.

  I haven’t gotten far, when I’m reminded solitude isn’t easily found in Elysium. The souls here are free of hurt and anger—they have no defenses. It means they happily seek each other out. The joy of connecting isn’t tainted by anything here.

  Thomas is wheeling toward me, so I take a sharp right, veering off the path and diving into the greenery. His choice to remain in his wheelchair tells me he still hasn’t accepted being at Elysium. People still take their earthly forms here, but an earthly form that’s healed. That no longer hurts or hinders.

  The fact the wheelchair is still there tells me he’s holding on to the belief he doesn’t belong. I’ve explained enough times that only the true and righteous can enter Elysium. He couldn’t be here if his soul wasn’t good, even though he’s only a few years older than I am.

  Walking further into the garden, my lungs fill with the sweet scent of earth and foliage. I walk for a long time, knowing the gardens never end. Their beauty morphs and stretches forever.

  And yet, I could turn around and head back, and be home in minutes.

  Not that I plan on doing that anytime soon.

  As the trees and shrubs slowly peter out, my feet leave soil and find sand. Trudging, head down and my mind deep in thought, I’m too lost in pain to notice I’ve reached a desert. Slopes of untouched sand, golden and glowing and rippled, undulate for miles. It’s barren and arid, but beautiful in a way the lush gardens of Elysium could never be.

  I’ve never walked this far—never had to, never wanted to. But, I’m glad I found it.