Fated (18 page)

Zayed whistled low, but the sound cut out as Cavan nailed him with a stern glare. “Not a word, Zayed,” he said. “Not a single word.”

Zayed ran a finger down the crest of his beaked nose, amusement tugging at his lips. “Shall I show them to the guest quarters, Your Excellency?” he asked, making the honorific sound like a taunt.

“Please.” Cavan looked at Aislin. “I’ll come to fetch you once you’ve had a chance to change.”

Zayed slid his fingers down the strap of Aislin’s garment bag and tugged it from her shoulder. “I’ll take this for you.”

He led Aislin and Moros to the same corridor through which Magda had fled, but stopped only a few rooms down. Aislin peeked through one doorway to see an open space strewn with cushions, complete with a patio leading to the steps outside. A soft-looking mattress adorned with fragrant flower petals sat atop a wide platform bed.

“I trust this is to your liking?” Zayed asked, leaning against the wall as he watched her take it in.

“It’s lovely.” She looked over at Moros, who was also watching her, his gaze speculative. For a moment, Aislin imagined the two of them on that bed, tangled and panting. But then Zayed pushed open the door across the hallway.

“And this is your room . . . What am I to call you? Lord? Mr. Kere?” He grinned.

“How about ‘the agonizing death you won’t see coming until it’s too late’?” Moros suggested. He smiled as Zayed’s eyes widened. “I’m joking, my friend. You can call me Moros.”

“I suggest you don’t leave your room without an escort,” Zayed said to Moros. “As you’ve seen, you’re not exactly welcome.” He gave Moros an assessing look, taking in his typically elegant slacks and button-down, and his expression became one of amusement and mild contempt. “I’ll have some appropriate clothing brought to your quarters.” He turned to Aislin. “And as for you, you could look good in absolutely anything—or nothing at all. But if you require wardrobe assistance, ring the bell. An attendant will see to you.”

Moros backed into his room, his eyes on Aislin. She offered Zayed a polite thank-you and good-bye, to which he responded by taking her hand and lifting it to his mouth. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles, and his lips caressed her wrist. “Until tonight,” he whispered, then straightened up and strode away, his gait cocky and assured.

Rattled, Aislin scrambled into her room and closed the door, forcing herself not to check to see if Moros was still watching. She spent the next half hour or so getting ready, freshening up, and changing into her dress—black and modest, perfect for a funeral—but then she realized how inappropriate it was. She had planned for a somber occasion, but it was clear the evening would not be a subdued affair.

She rang for an attendant, who came bouncing in with an armload of colorful garments for Aislin to choose from. After trying on several skirts and rejecting them because they didn’t come with any sort of covering for the upper half of her body, she selected a dress that actually did cover her breasts—mostly—but left most of her stomach bare. It was flowing and long, made of a silky purple material that fluttered around her legs as she walked. Once the attendant was gone, Aislin pulled her long hair into a loose twist, allowing a few tendrils to settle around her face. She secured the whole thing with a few wooden sticks and tucked a pale-pink orchid with a deep-purple center into the back. She smudged a tiny bit of kohl on her lids and some pink stain on her lips, and decided to forgo jewels—the outfit itself was decoration enough, far more flamboyant and risqué than her usual.

When Aislin rang again to request shoes, the attendant looked at her as if she’d asked for a bolt gun and a laser cannon. Aislin looked discontentedly at her feet—she always felt more powerful wearing four-inch heels.

From outside, there came music and rising laughter. Aislin had expected to find the Lucinae reeling with grief, but the force of life was too strong in this place for that emotion to survive for very long. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

And she wasn’t sure how she felt about Magda, either. The woman was armed with a machete that had clearly been dipped into the Spring of Life. Her threat against Moros hadn’t sounded idle. He was here to protect Aislin, but could he protect himself? Especially if his sister and brother had already infiltrated, leaving their poisonous influence festering inside their chosen pawns.

“You’re stunning,” came a voice only a few feet behind her. She turned to see Moros standing next to the bed. He had his gloves on as usual, but he was wearing a Lucinae garment, the flowing pants tied with a sash to his lean hips, a vest in place of a shirt. The bandage Trevor had placed on his arm matched his skin color so closely that it was easy to miss, but Aislin could tell that he held that arm more stiffly than the other. His cloth boots were silent on the stone-tiled floor as he came nearer.

“You’re quite a vision yourself,” she said honestly, wishing things were less complicated between them, wishing she could see into his mind. “How are you feeling?”

His expression hardened. “Don’t ask me that. For the rest of the time we’re here, please don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He waved away the apology and lowered his voice. “Do you harbor any suspicions about Magda?”

“Did you sense that Eris had influenced her?”

He shook his head. “But”—he sighed—“I feel as though my head’s been stuffed with wool, so I’m not sure I would pick it up.”

“She could be dangerous.”

He nodded in agreement. “Which is why I’m here, actually. My door was open, and I saw Cavan walk by.” He looked back toward the corridor. “And then I heard arguing.”

Aislin’s eyebrows shot up. “Should we go listen?”

Moros grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They padded out into the hallway, then pressed into an alcove when they heard someone coming out of a room down the hall. Moros’s nose grazed Aislin’s temple, and he smiled against her skin.

“What is it?”

“I hate to say it, but that bastard was right.”

She looked up at him.

He tilted his head so his mouth was against her ear, making delicious chills spread through her body. “Your sweat does smell rather sweet.”

Does it make you hungry?
The question almost made it out of her mouth, but then she heard Magda’s voice coming from a few doors down. They crept closer, and Aislin prayed that no one would see them slinking along. As they neared a doorway, two slightly muffled voices reached them. And as Aislin listened, she felt her blood go cold.

“If you don’t want to do it, I will!” Magda said, her voice cracking.

“I told you I’d take care of it as soon as I could,” Cavan replied. “But given what’s happened, I just don’t think now is the time.” He muttered something Aislin couldn’t decipher.

She looked back at Moros, who was staring at the door, frowning. “I couldn’t catch it,” he said. “But I wonder if you’re right about her.”

“You’re a coward,” Magda spat. “I guess you’ve always been a coward. But I’m not.”

“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

A
islin 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.”