Fated

by Sarah Fine

  Next to her, Moros shuddered again. “You’re having a party? I was expecting a slightly different response to the death of your Mother,” he said to Magda.

  “Which proves you don’t understand us. You’re a creature of death, and you don’t know a thing about life.”

  Zayed, walking a step behind Aislin, chuckled. “We’ve celebrated the life of our Mother, and we’ve returned her to the earth. Tonight we will worship our new Mother and have a feast. We refuse to dwell on death.”

  “Have all the Lucinae been warned of the threat?” asked Aislin. “My understanding is that the Mother was attacked in the real world while delivering a soul.” In some ways, Lucinae were as mortal as Ferrys without Scopes. The more time they spent in the realm of the Lucinae, the slower they aged. But they could be killed as easily as a regular human. “Your messengers should be careful.”

  Magda pointed her machete at the spot along the shore where the lake was fed by a stream. Two Lucinae, their dark hair braided, their tanned skin healthy and smooth, were capturing a glowing wraith in a net and hoisting it into the air. It was pink with streaks of amber, and the two women cooed at it, laughing as it wriggled. “Everyone’s been warned,” she said, her lip curling in disgust as she looked Moros over. “Cavan has convinced my sister that it would be bad for the servants of fate if deliveries were halted completely, though. Not that I give one heaping pile of camel dung for any of you.”

  Aislin gave Moros a sidelong glance. His skin tone was usually quite similar to Magda’s, a lustrous olive that looked as warm as it had felt beneath her hands. But now he was a shade paler, and the black hair at his temples was damp with sweat. His gaze was directed away from the lake, and Aislin wondered if it hurt his eyes to look at it. And he hadn’t vanished and reappeared elsewhere when threatened with that blade—Aislin wondered if he couldn’t quite manage it here.

  Once again, she wished he hadn’t been so stubborn about coming. She understood how badly he needed the blades and wished he had trusted her to fetch them alone. At the same time, she hadn’t been able to help the way her insides had melted as soon as he’d taken her by the arms, at the strain in his voice as he’d said this was important. Despite his monstrous appearance in the Veil, she’d wanted him to kiss her so badly, but she’d needed to keep a clear head. Her feelings for him were too messy to sort out, and further tangled by the way he switched back and forth between warm tenderness and utter detachment. She couldn’t tell which was the real Moros, whether he cared about her or just needed her as an ally.

  But as she watched him swipe his sleeve across his sweaty forehead and wince, probably as it pulled at his still-healing wound, she desperately wanted to take his hand again, to offer him whatever comfort her touch could provide. However, the presence of the two Lucinae guards who flanked them kept her hands at her sides.

  The palace loomed on a stepped hillside leading down to the lake, bedecked with purple and pink succulents as well as several naked Lucinae, their bodies shimmering with crystal droplets as they sunned themselves at the very edge of the water.

  “You swim in it?” Aislin asked. She’d always assumed the water was sacred.

  Zayed’s fingers trailed down her arm, and he pointed back to the mouth of the stream. “When a soul is ready, it travels up from the Spring. We capture them before they enter the lake and take them to their bodies in the real world. What is left is pure life.” He ran a hand down his chest. “There is nothing like plunging into it, feeling it surround you. ‘Invigorating’ is not a strong enough description. And if your swimming companion is beautiful, and willing”—he grinned at Aislin—“you have never experienced such an intense pleasure.”

  Aislin’s body flashed hot as she remembered her moments in the shower with Moros, hard and frenzied, ecstasy heightened by the slightest taste of pain, by longing so deep and fierce it could never be sated. “If you say so,” she said quietly.

  Zayed leaned down. “Tonight,” he said in a low voice. “During the celebrations. We can—”

  “Save it,” snapped Magda, tromping up a staircase that had been carved into the broad steps leading up the hill to the palace.

  “Yes, save it,” muttered Moros, following her.

  Zayed gave Aislin a mischievous smile. “Holding out only makes the release more powerful, don’t you agree?”

  Aislin let out a jittery chuckle and followed Moros up the steps, knowing that Zayed’s eyes were on her body as she climbed. The palace was a vision, burnished golden sandstone, the facade intricately carved. The entrance was set back, leaving room for a large courtyard strung with colorful lanterns.

  “This is where we will celebrate tonight,” Zayed told her. “The view is magnificent, isn’t it?”

  She turned to look down the stepped expanse, across the lake. Tents dotted the banks, adobe huts interspersed along the wide sandy strip between lake and jungle. It was paradise, a place where it seemed nothing bad could ever happen. She greatly hoped that was true.

  As they strode through the courtyard, several Lucinae who were decorating and setting out platters of fruit raised their heads to watch. When they spotted Moros, they scowled, muttering angrily to each other. Magda smirked as she held a door open for them to enter the palace. “You disgust us,” she hissed as Moros passed.

  His shoulders were stiff as he walked by, but he said nothing. Aislin looked at Magda coolly. “I met your Mother once. She was a great lady, and a gracious one. It would be a shame to disgrace her memory.”

  Magda’s face twisted with hatred. “We can kill, you know,” she said in a low voice, gripping her machete. “If the enemy is death, we can kill.”

  Aislin refused to look away from the young woman’s fiery eyes. “Then learn to recognize your true enemy.” She turned and walked past Magda, into the entryway of the palace, where Moros was staring up at a mosaic portraying the first Mother rising, fully formed, from the Spring. He seemed riveted by it, but before Aislin could ask him what he was thinking, Zayed stepped between them.

  “The throne room is this way,” he said, striding toward another set of arched doors. “Baheera has been communing with the Mother’s spirit, but I’m sure she’ll grant you an audience.”

  “Only if Baheera can take her eyes off Cavan’s ass for that long,” Magda muttered from behind.

  Aislin’s eyes went wide, and she whirled around to look at the woman, who merely offered a suggestive wink in return. It was enough to plant a seed of suspicion, probably exactly what Magda had wanted.

  Aislin pressed her lips together, realizing the hypocrisy. Here she was, half her thoughts consumed by the Lord of the Kere and whether he truly cared or had merely screwed her. Perhaps she should wait to judge until she knew the whole story.

  She kept her head high as she entered the throne room, the floor of which was scattered with sumptuous rugs, each one a work of art. The walls glittered with a rainbow of glass tiles, and the sun shone through, casting splashes of color everywhere. On a small dais sat a chaise longue laid out with silk pillows.

  Magda shoved past Moros and glared at Aislin. “I’ll go tell Baheera you’re here. Zayed, you know what to do.”

  Zayed moved a step closer to Aislin. “I always know what to do,” he said, seduction dripping from every word. “And who to do it with.”

  Moros calmly looked down at his hands, then began to remove his gloves. Her heart beating with alarm, Aislin sidestepped Zayed and put her hand on Moros’s arm. “Jason,” she said softly, nodding at his now-bare left hand.

  “Of course. How careless of me.” He put the glove back on.

  Aislin glanced at the door through which Magda had exited. Raised voices emanated from within, the loudest belonging to Magda. “Does it seem like Magda is eager for a fight?” she whispered.

  Moros stared at the door, but he didn’t have the chance to reply before Magda and Cavan entered the room. She looked livid, and he looked harried.

  “Aislin,” he said, straightening his
vest as he walked toward them. He had changed into traditional Lucinae garb, the flowing pants and cloth boots—and no shirt. Beneath the vest, his pale chest stood out like carved marble. His hazel eyes were lined, the black paint smudged slightly at the corners. He held out his hands to her, and she accepted them. “I’ve just been informed of Magda’s behavior. I’m sorry you weren’t welcomed properly.”

  Magda’s mouth crimped with displeasure, like she was trying to keep all her angry words inside. Cavan looked down at her, and Aislin could see an uncharacteristic anxiety swirling within. “She’s been through a lot today. They all have. I hope you can forgive her disrespect.”

  “I certainly understand and forgive her behavior, especially today,” Aislin said, glancing toward Moros, who stood off to the side, silent and brooding, letting her deal with the diplomacy.

  Cavan gave her a pained smile and tossed Magda a cautious look, but the young woman merely glared at him, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the machete. Suspicion once again rose inside Aislin—she’d been fooled before. Eris had influenced Rylan, and Nemesis had sunk her claws into Hugh, and she’d never suspected a thing. Could Eris have gotten to Magda as well?

  Cavan’s fingers tightened around hers, bringing her attention back to him. “I’m afraid Baheera isn’t ready to receive visitors yet.” His grip was clammy. What was he so worried about? “But she asked that you attend her coronation and the feast afterward. She said she’d be pleased to meet with you as the sun rises.”

  Aislin gave Moros an anxious glance of her own. “Perhaps we should leave and come back.” It looked like this place was rapidly siphoning Moros’s strength and health.

  Cavan shook his head and leaned down to speak in her ear. “These things matter to Baheera, and she would be insulted if you skipped her coronation.” He looked over at Moros and spoke loudly. “She was intrigued by your presence here, Moros. She said she’d be honored to have you as a guest as well.”

  “You could have mentioned you were the actual Lord of the Kere a little earlier,” Magda said peevishly.

  “Would it have made a difference?” Moros asked, giving her a close-lipped smile.

  Magda drew her machete. “Yeah. I might have cut your throat immediately, just to see the diplomatic dance Cavan here would have had to do. That’s a situation even he couldn’t worm his way out of.”

  Cavan closed his eyes as if praying for patience. “Magda—”

  She put her hands up. “Like you said. It’s been a rough day.” Her voice cracked, and she turned on her heel and stalked away down a corridor leading further within the palace.

  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.”