Fated (3 page)

She was not surprised to step out of the elevator and find him leaning against her desk, looking suave and smug and so distractingly handsome that she had the sudden and ridiculous urge to throw something at him. She closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself that emotionality was the enemy. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you would not intrude on Psychopomps board meetings,” she said.

“Even when it saves you from losing your job?” He reached up and loosened the knot in his scarlet tie. “Come now—I thought you respected results.”

“Results? We have another meeting in twenty-four hours, and you just sent my board away to angrily conspire in the meantime.
Without consulting me first.
”

He waved away the complaint with a gloved hand. “They’re easily manipulated, ready to turn on each other whenever it becomes convenient, just like they turned on you. I would have thought you’d be happy for the interruption.”

“You undermined me.”

His lazy smile faded. “I was trying to do the opposite.”

“Because you didn’t think more than one step ahead.” She walked to her desk and glanced down at the screen embedded in its surface, currently streaming performance updates from financial markets around the world. “The board already believed me to be weak. You just bolstered that belief by swooping down to rescue me.”

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated along her limbs, making her feel even more unsteady. “Are you in need of rescue, Aislin?”

“No,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.

He stood on the other side of her desk, and she fought to meet his eyes. “You underestimate your power,” he said quietly.

“I’ve told you before—don’t patronize me.”

He sighed. “It’s merely an observation, Aislin, informed by many years of working with your predecessors.”

She almost laughed.
Many
years. More like two thousand. “I am realistic, Jason. And realism leads to caution. Do not mistake that for a lack of confidence.” And then she betrayed herself by looking away, too afraid he would see exactly how uncertain she was.

“Very well.” His voice was low, deep, and rich. “You don’t underestimate yourself. You underestimate my need for your help.”

She raised her head and found him staring out the window at the skyline of the city. “Has something happened?”

“Maybe.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “First, I need to hear your answer. I need to know if we are to be allies.”

Or enemies,
she thought. She glanced at his hands, clad in black leather, so feared and notorious for the pain their simple touch could cause. He coaxed the future out of people; he could know their secrets with a brush of his fingers. Her little sister had been one of his victims but had somehow survived it. Aislin had heard stories, though, of those who weren’t so lucky, those who had been driven mad as the weight of the years ahead crushed them. And if he could cause that much suffering with a mere touch, what else could he do? He was Death. He led an army of killers. If she were to turn against him, she would have to do it very, very carefully.

But as her gaze slid up his body and settled on his face, she felt moved to help him instead. “Make me understand the threat,” she said slowly. “If you want me as an ally, I need to know everything you do.”

That lazy smile returned, and Aislin huffed with exasperation. “Just tell me the basics, then, without the mocking commentary.”

He laughed, his canines catching the light. “How well you know me.”

She wasn’t sure she did—but she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been fascinated with him, first uncritically and then begrudgingly, and she couldn’t recall a time when he’d looked as tired as he did now. “What is Chaos, really?” she asked.

“He is the enemy of fate.” Moros strode to one of the couches in her sitting area and settled himself on it, gracefully unbuttoning his suit coat. Then he spread his arms along the back of the sofa and began tapping his fingers rhythmically.

As she took a seat across from him, she became keenly aware that his fingertips were striking the cushions in time with the beat of her heart. There was a full ten feet between them, but suddenly it felt much smaller. “Why had I never heard of Chaos before Rylan appeared in this office a few days ago to taunt us?”

“Because Chaos was vanquished ages ago—by my mother.”

“Your mother . . . Nyx.” Aislin’s father had told her of Moros’s origins, conceived from his mother’s will alone, born fully grown. “How did she defeat him?”

Moros’s stare was an intrusion she felt along her spine, deep in her belly. It was as if he were trying to dismantle her with his gaze, to unravel every secret thought. “She used an ancient weapon.” His mouth opened, and it seemed like the words were poised on his tongue. But then he focused his attention on the darkness outside the window. “It is long since lost.”

Frustration flared hot in her chest. “You’re holding back.”

He kept his attention on the night. “When the first of the Servants of Fate came into the world, our existence kept Chaos, one of the original, primordial gods, in deep sleep. He cannot rule while I walk the planet, while my sisters weave the fabric of destiny, while we keep watch over the order of things. But if we are defeated, he will rise, and he will bring total destruction in his wake. The bombings here in Boston over the last week would be just a tiny ripple compared to what he would inflict. Cities and countries would fall. Civilization would collapse. No one would be safe.”

Aislin’s stomach churned. “And us?”

“You could not hope to maintain your grip on power, not that it would matter anyway. If I perish, the Kere will be subject to the will of the first being to seize their souls. They could fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“You said you had safeguarded their souls.”

“I have done what I can, Aislin, but I am not all-powerful.” For a moment, his face fell, and Aislin read the desolation in his unfocused stare.

She had the urge to kneel beside him and smooth his worry lines with her fingertip. The sensation was so sudden, so compelling, that it pulled her to the edge of her seat before she managed to stop herself. “Are you all right, Jason?” she asked quietly.

He turned from the window. “Am I . . .
all right
?”

She could feel the blush creeping up from her chest, threatening to stain her pale skin. “I-I just meant, well, since the fabric is unraveling, I wondered if you felt it. If it made you feel sick, or weak.”

“Oh.” He was silent just long enough to make her heart pound. “I am as strong as I need to be, as always.” His cockiness disrupted whatever moment they might have shared.

“What do you propose we do next?” she asked. “We have seventy-two hours until our summit with the Keepers, my board is in rebellion, and your sister and my brother are off somewhere plotting to bring us down. Now might be the time to try to acquire that ancient weapon you mentioned.”

He smiled, and it made her breath catch. It wasn’t the calculating smile he so often wore, or the mocking one that made her blood boil. This was open and shocking in its beauty. “You make it sound very simple.”

“If I focus on the magnitude of what we’re facing, I’ll collapse under its weight,” she admitted.

His smile disappeared. “I believe I know what you mean.” He was silent for a second, peering at her across the distance between them. Once again, Aislin wanted to reach out, to risk the fear that he wouldn’t reach back, simply because it felt so truthful.

You can’t understand him,
her father had told her once.
He’s beyond us. But he reveals his character in his actions, if you take the time to look.

She was looking now. And having trouble looking away. “I’ve frozen Rylan’s funds, for what it’s worth. And I tried to warn the board of what he’s become, in case he visits any of them.”

“They don’t hold the power, so they won’t hold his interest. Make sure your personal security detail is alert, though, hmm?”

“I already have.”

He stood up. “Well, I have a little errand to run. But first I need to check in with my sisters.” He moved toward her, getting close enough for the temperature around her to rise. “Aislin, I believe Eris is not the only one of my siblings working against me. Apate—lies—and Nemesis—vengeance—are probably helping her.”

“I’m sorry.” She knew the sting of family betrayal.

“We’ve been playing defense since the beginning of this fight, and it’s time to start playing offense.”

“Agreed. What do you need me to do?”

“Decide which of your Ferrys you trust. Tell them what is happening and warn them of Rylan’s betrayal. Have them keep you apprised of any unusual behavior from my Kere and let me know immediately if you have news. And do what you do best, my dear.”

Her eyebrows rose.

He leaned forward. “Vanquish your enemies.”

Aislin’s heart skipped. He was right. She had a coalition to form and board members to corral. “I’ll see to it.”

His grin returned as he offered his hand. “Allies?”

This was it, her point of no return. If he was lulling her into providing her cooperation just so he could stab her in the back in front of the Keepers, she was stepping right into his trap. But she didn’t believe it was a ruse; she’d seen the desperation and loneliness in those cold gray eyes.

But she also knew he wasn’t telling her everything. And if he was planning to betray her, she would fight back with every ounce of cunning she possessed.

She slid her palm along his, only a thin layer of leather between them, their fingers curving, their grips tight. “Allies.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’ll see me again soon.” And then he disappeared.

Aislin looked down at her fingers, still warm from his, hoping she hadn’t just sealed her own doom. Then she pulled her phone from her pocket as it buzzed.

It was Cavan, the Ferrys’ ambassador to the Lucinae, the beings responsible for transporting new souls from the Spring of Life into the human realm. His sculpted face appeared on her screen as she touched his name. “Aislin,” he said in a tight voice. “Can I schedule a meeting with you for this week?”

“This week is rather inconvenient. Can’t it wait until our monthly meeting?”

He shook his head, and from the way his eyes darted to the side, she could tell he wasn’t alone. “I really have to talk to you about something.”

Her heart knocked against her ribs as she tapped out a text, one she hoped his companion couldn’t see.
Are you safe?

As soon as he read it, he laughed, but it was strained. “Yes. That’s not an issue.” His eyes met hers again. “But I’d be grateful if you’d make time.”

Cavan was so dependably tactful, so calm and courteous even under pressure, that she wondered what could make him this jittery. “I’ll tell my assistant to make room on my schedule,” she said. “He’ll call you with a time.”

Her ambassador gave her a relieved smile, even as his eyes flicked to the side once more. Aislin’s fingers curled around the phone. “And will you be coming to this meeting alone?”

“Oh—yes. I’ll be alone.” His jaw tightened. “I should go. I don’t want to take up more of your time. But I’ll see you very soon—and thank you.” His handsome face disappeared from her screen.

Aislin frowned as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. One more thing to add to her list of worries. Maybe it was good they would be meeting in the next few days—she could tell Cavan about Moros’s siblings, a warning he could take to the Lucinae. But she would also be on her guard; after what had happened with Trevor, the Ker who infiltrated Psychopomps and helped Rylan escape, she needed to be ready for anything.

“Ms. Ferry?”

Aislin turned to see the wide-eyed face of one of her guards, a distant cousin, peering at her from the Veil through the circular window of his Scope. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then let out a wrenching scream, his Scope falling from his hands and landing, still open, on the floor.

Aislin staggered back as Rylan appeared in front of her, his fingers dripping with blood. He leaned over, picked up the guard’s Scope, compacted it, and tossed it. The disk landed on her desk and spun on its edge.

“Hello, Aislin,” her brother said, wiping his bloody hands on the upholstery of a nearby chair. “I thought it was time we had a talk, just the two of us.”

CHAPTER THREE

T
he moment Moros stepped through the Veil and into his sisters’ domain, he knew he was running out of time. The fabric of fate hung from its massive frame, yawning rips and tears scattered along its shimmering expanse, millions of stray threads dangling loose, a few sections dangling to the travertine floor as if carelessly sliced away.

“Welcome back, brother,” said a hard voice. “I hope you’ve been off having fun.”

Moros turned to see Atropos glaring at him, her black hair dull beneath the glittering complexity of the fabric above her head. She held her curved sickle in one hand, the tool she used to cut the threads of life that turned gray, the souls whose time had come.

“Not exactly. I went to visit Mother.”

“You didn’t tell us you were going to see her.”

“It was a spontaneous decision.” One he’d made out of desperation and hope—the two things fueling him right now. “She has faded to abstraction, I’m afraid.”

“Something we all should probably have done centuries ago,” Atropos said bitterly. “It would have saved us from this.”

Maybe it would have, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree. “At least this way we can greet our enemies with weapons in our hands.”

“What weapons?” she snapped, waving her sickle. “This? It will do me little good against what’s coming for us.”

“I plan to be holding the weapon Mother used to defeat Chaos in the first place.” He watched Atropos closely, waiting for her reaction to the news.

Her lip curled in disgust, and she turned away. “Best of luck with that—another ridiculous waste of time.”

His brow furrowed. “The Blade of Life could save us, even if Chaos were to stride into this domain and try to dismantle the loom himself.”

“And who would wield it—you?”

“Of course.”

“So like always, you’ll follow your futile quests, leaving us to do the real work. Have you ever thought about what it’s like for us here, brother? Locked away, toiling, with only each other for company, while you come and go as you please?” Atropos rolled her eyes, which were ringed by dark circles. “Go talk to Lachesis and Clotho. I have a job to do.”

He took a step back, regret and sorrow twisting inside. There had been a time when he and Atropos had adored each other. She was the sickle and he was the reaper, clearly the more bloodthirsty of all the siblings—and the fiercest. But sometime over the last many years, the fondness had faded, replaced by resentment. “Atropos, I’m trying to save us. I’ll make this better—I promise.”

The sickle of death caught light from above as she lunged forward and edged it up under his chin. He felt the nip, but it was like that of a friendly animal, one that knew its master, as he met her dark gaze. “Save your promises for someone who has faith in you,” she said. Then she turned and stalked away, pausing only to grab a graying thread and brutally cut it away.

Moros flinched as he felt the sting. He pushed the hurt away, willing one of his Kere to reap the soul, and headed for the loom, frowning at the clanking coming from the other side. When he peeked around the edge of the fabric, he saw Lachesis, her short blonde hair standing on end, kicking the grand loom. She was disheveled, her suit jacket hanging open to reveal a sweat-stained shirt beneath. “Has it malfunctioned?” he asked.

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice. “Moros,” she said softly, her face crumpling.

He rushed forward, his arms open, desperate to offer her comfort and push back the helplessness threatening to choke him.

She stumbled into his embrace, and he shushed her as she sobbed. “She was here,” she said. “She walked right in to gloat.”

“Eris, here?” he murmured. He gritted his teeth as she nodded. “Atropos didn’t mention it.”

“Atropos was standing right here when Eris appeared. We all were.”

“How did they find you?” He felt sick as he thought of his trunk of souls. He had moved it from his private sanctuary after what happened with Nader, Eli, and Trevor, creating a new realm in which to hide it, but before then, Eris might have found a way to enter his quarters unnoticed.

“I have no idea,” said Lachesis. “But Eris wanted to know where you were.”

And that was why he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He’d hoped their mother would come to his aid, and he hadn’t wanted to tip his hand. “Was she alone?”

Lachesis shook her head, her fingers curling into Moros’s lapels. “Apate and Nemesis were at her side, as you predicted.” She hiccupped and sniffled. “I don’t know why they hate us so much.”

“Because it’s what they were created to do,” he said softly. It was a fact he had ignored when their rage suited his purposes, when he’d had a rebellion against the Keepers to wage. They had stirred up enough pain and mayhem to force the Keepers to deal with him, to stop treating him and his Kere like dogs. But when the negotiations had ended, his siblings’ thirst for inflicting pain on hapless humans had not, and Moros had distanced himself from Strife, Vengeance, and Lies. Yes, they were his brother and sisters, but the Kere were his children. “And it’s my fault they’ve focused on us,” he told Lachesis. “My fault they’re hurting you.” His fingers curled into her hair, the soft strands tickling. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked up at him. “Aren’t they targeting you, too?”

“They’re trying. But I swear, Lachesis, I’m going to stop them.” He kissed her brow. “I’m going after the Blade of Life.”

“Atropos suspected you might.” Her grip on him tightened, her hands shaking. “You know where it is?”

“I think so. I’ve consulted every ancient text I possess, and there were enough clues to give me a solid idea of where it might be hidden. Mother didn’t deny it was there. I’m going after it now.”

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.