by Sarah Fine
Eris blew a few loose strands of her dark hair off her forehead and walked forward with Apate at her side. Moros arched and twisted, but Rylan held him fast as Eris looked him over and gave him a small smile. “I used to worship you. I would have done anything for you. Did you know that?”
“Not anything. You couldn’t allow the world to have peace. Your thirst for conflict was too strong.” He glanced around as she advanced, working to gather enough strength to summon one of his Kere, but Chaos was so near that Moros’s thoughts of them kept fluttering and fading.
Apate drew back and punched Moros in the side of the head. “When you got what you wanted, you tossed us away,” Apate said.
Moros spat blood on the pavement. “I couldn’t trust you. You would have ruined everything I’d fought for.”
Eris jabbed the Blade at him. “We fought at your side!”
“But I was fighting for freedom, for better treatment for my Kere—and you were fighting for the sake of fighting!” He was running out of time—he saw his end reflected in her eyes. “Look at what you’ve done, Eris. Do you think Chaos won’t destroy you, too?”
She laughed. “Do you have any idea how good this feels to me? I’ve never felt stronger.” She raised the hilt of the Blade of Life with both hands. Moros tried to maneuver out of the way, but Rylan wouldn’t yield.
“This is for Nemesis,” Apate hissed as he glared at Moros. “Revenge for revenge.”
Moros’s breaths burst from his throat in agonized wheezes as his sister tensed to strike. He watched helplessly as the Blade sliced toward his chest, the seconds like hours, all spent thinking of Aislin, how she would be trapped because he hadn’t been strong enough or fast enough.
It didn’t matter what the Keeper of Hell did to him—knowing he hadn’t been able to save her would be the ultimate torture.
But before the Blade could touch him, Eris’s mouth dropped open and her fingers spasmed. She arched back, and the weapon fell from her grip. Next to her, Apate cried out in pain and jerked forward—enough to reveal Eli standing right behind him. Then Rylan Ferry screamed and released Moros, sending him to the ground in a shocked heap.
“Sorry, Ry,” Declan said softly. He was standing over his fallen brother, a glowing knife in his hands. Rylan’s wide, empty eyes were riveted on Eris, but when Moros turned to look at her, he realized Cacia Ferry had just buried a different glowing blade in her back. Eris writhed on the ground next to Apate, who’d been stabbed by Eli with yet another blade.
Declan’s ice-blue eyes flicked over to Moros, and he held up his glowing knife, his brother’s blood dripping from its edge. “Aislin sent us on a little errand before she left.”
Cacia looked down at Eris, who was flailing in a growing pool of crimson. It streamed from her lips as she gasped for air. “The new Mother sends her regards,” Cacia said quietly.
“But . . . but Baheera refused to give us weapons,” Moros said as Eli stepped forward and helped him to his feet. His leg was unsteady beneath him, and his chest felt like it had been stuffed with broken glass, but he was able to stay upright.
“Baheera’s not in charge anymore,” said Declan. “Apparently a bunch of the Lucinae watched you risking your existence to protect hers, and they didn’t take well to her sending you away empty-handed. Aislin noticed and didn’t think it would take much to push them over the edge, so she put Cavan to work. Magda was crowned as the new Mother a few hours ago.” He wiped the blade of the knife on his pants and pointed toward the wreckage of Psychopomps. “She was pretty generous.”
Moros squinted up the block, where he could just make out the blur of glowing blades, wielded by at least twenty Ferrys who had joined the fight, along with several Lucinae. “All of the weapons have been dipped in the Spring?” he asked weakly as he watched Cavan plunge a dagger into the chest of a Shade-Ker, which fell to the ground instantly.
Eli offered Moros the dagger he had used to kill Apate, its blade curved and wickedly sharp. “This one’s for you.”
The hilt had been wrapped in leather to form a protective barrier between his hand and the metal. Moros took it with disbelief pulsing in his chest. Aislin was responsible for this. She wasn’t even with him, and yet she’d somehow managed to put the weapon he needed right in his hand. His fingers coiled around the hilt, and he raised his head. The noise of battle was rising to an incessant roar as the enemy closed in. Chaos was only a block away, bringing devastation in his wake.
Moros aimed the tip of his dagger toward the god who was coming for them all. “These blades are the only thing that can destroy him.”
Declan, Cacia, and Eli narrowed their eyes as they tried to see through the dust and destruction. “Is he a man?” Eli asked.
“I can’t tell what I’m looking at,” said Cacia, rubbing her eyes.
But just as she said it, Chaos walked from a cloud of debris, and she gasped.
He looked exactly like Patrick Ferry.
“Father?” Declan asked quietly. He gave Moros an uncertain look.
“It’s an illusion,” Moros said, limping forward as his old friend smiled and beckoned to him. “Go gather the others. If I fall, it will be up to you to destroy him.” Without waiting for them to obey, he pushed off, determined to bury the dagger in Chaos’s chest.
“Patrick Ferry” shook his head as he saw Moros coming for him. “Know your enemy,” he said in an eerily deep, wrong voice that carried easily over the crashes and screams and sirens. He spread his arms. Moros skidded to a stop as dark shapes peeled themselves off the being’s arms, spiraling to the ground and sprouting upward, growing instantly into thick-bodied, hunched creatures, each with four muscular arms. Their faces were covered with slitted eyes and a few gaping mouths. Within seconds, there were dozens of them, and Moros was surrounded. He lashed out with the blade, slicing off an arm, which turned to ash before it hit the ground. As one of the creatures grabbed for his wounded leg, he struck again. He stabbed it in the neck, and its eyes bulged before it exploded into dust. As he fought to keep the creatures off him, Moros glanced toward the Patrick Ferry version of Chaos, who stood with his arms outstretched, watching with amusement. The minions were still flying from his hands, and now some of them were running down the block toward Psychopomps, where all the Ferrys and their Lucinae allies were fighting.
Leaving Moros here, alone. He stabbed and slashed, afraid to stop moving or attacking lest they overcome him with their sheer numbers and weight. The air filled with the rotten-egg smell of brimstone as he cut through arms and legs and throats, ignoring the pain in his chest and leg. He’d fight until the absolute end.
But there were too many, and they began to land blows, their fingers tearing at his sleeves and raking down his back, their teeth snapping near his face. The distance between him and his enemy was growing—they were pushing him back, trying to hem him in against a building. Just as he felt his back hit a wall, though, some of the creatures shrieked and fell as Eli, Trevor, Hai, Parinda, and a horde of his Kere materialized around him. Reading his need, they grabbed creatures and held them so Moros could deliver the deathblow. “The others are coming this way,” Trevor shouted.
The Ferrys and the Lucinae. None of them were really warriors, but all of them were armed with deadly glowing blades that might easily destroy a Ker. “Help them kill these things,” Moros commanded. “But be careful of the blades.”
Trevor vanished as the fight continued, and Moros began to cut a path toward Chaos, whose appearance had begun to shift again. He undulated in the flashing lights of hovering drone cams that had begun to gather over the catastrophe, capturing images of unimaginable carnage. As one of them swooped low, Chaos looked up at it, then waved his hand through the air as if swatting a fly.
The machines began to fall from the sky, crashing down onto the sidewalks, colliding with buildings, falling into the canals, some of them sparking and catching fire. Moros shielded his face as one shattered at his feet, and continued to slice his way toward
Chaos. The Ferrys and Kere were fighting all around him, but with every second, the number of minions was growing. He had to get to the source, or they would be overwhelmed. Meanwhile, the buildings on either side of them swayed precariously, bowing to the disorienting, scattering vibrations emanating from the being who stood calmly on the corner, watching the mayhem with a pleased smile on his ever-shifting face.
As Moros fought his way forward, paying for inches with his own sweat and blood, the creature was hidden behind the wall of his minions. Pushing his growing exhaustion aside, Moros lunged through them, desperate not to lose sight of his foe. But when he managed to thin the group, he blinked in confusion and horror.
Patrick Ferry stood before him—holding Aislin by the throat. Moros froze in confusion as the battle raged behind him. Patrick had his struggling daughter against his chest, his other arm wrapped around her waist. Aislin’s feet were bare and bleeding, kicking frantically inches from the pavement.
“Is this what you’re fighting for?” Chaos asked, staring out at him through Patrick’s blue eyes. His fingers tightened over Aislin’s throat. She was staring at Moros, her expression pleading. “I’ve been informed that she’s important to you.”
Moros’s hand tightened on the hilt of his blade. “This is an illusion,” he muttered. But just as he raised his arm to attack, he was hit from behind. Declan and Cacia had fought their way to the front, aided by Trevor and Eli.
“Aislin!” shouted Cacia, her turquoise eyes full of horror as she watched her father jerk her sister back a few feet.
Moros tried to shove Cacia away, but Declan grabbed him as he charged forward. “He’ll break her neck if you don’t stop,” Declan yelled, and when Moros tried to shake him off, the Ferry raised the knife he’d been using to cut through the minions. “Don’t you fucking dare do anything to endanger my sister.”
Aislin’s arm rose from her side, reaching for Moros, and as her fingers grasped at the air, it felt like she’d closed them around his heart. She looked exactly as she had in those last moments of her life, as the Keeper of Hell had drained the vitality from her limbs and the spark from her eyes. “Moros,” she said in a choked voice.
Patrick smiled in triumph as he began to squeeze the life out of her. Declan and Cacia screamed her name and lunged forward. “Trevor and Eli, hold them back,” Moros shouted as he raised his blade. The two younger Ferrys cried out in horror as he plunged it into Aislin’s chest, twisting as Patrick fell backward, a look of shock on his face. Moros landed on top of Aislin as her body convulsed, blood streaming from her nose and mouth. He watched her, expecting her to change shape, to reveal the true face of Chaos, but she remained beautiful and dying beneath him.
Eli fell back, hissing in pain, his arm bleeding, as Cacia stalked forward with murder in her eyes. Moros barely had time to flip onto his back and catch her before she tried to plunge her blade through his chest. Her face was contorted with rage and grief as she screamed, “You bastard! You killed her!”
“It wasn’t her!” shouted Moros, but he could hear the choked gurgles as Aislin tried to draw breath, and it sent doubt and fear and confusion coursing through him. Had the Keepers betrayed him somehow? Had Chaos managed to get to her? As he wrestled with Cacia, the thoughts flew through his mind like a sandstorm, scraping the inside of his head raw, blurring his vision. With a forceful push, he threw Cacia to the side just in time to roll away as Declan attacked him, his arm arcing back and his blade flashing. Trevor, hard on his heels, managed to grab Declan just in time to prevent him from burying his blade in Moros’s gut, but the movements of both men were growing uncoordinated and jerky.
Moros swiped at a trickle of liquid on his upper lip and found his fingers smeared with blood. It felt like the storm in his mind was tearing his brain apart, and by the look of Cacia and Declan, it was doing the same to them. They’d all gotten close enough to stop Chaos, but his mere presence was going to kill them quickly at this rate. Dizzy and weakening, Moros spun around to where Patrick had been, only to find him shifting and growing, sprouting arms and eyes as he loomed over the battle. Scrambling away from the clumsy slash of Declan’s blade, Moros gripped his own dagger and lunged, but the creature kicked him in the chest, sending him flying. His panic grew as he watched Cacia and Declan collapse, twitching on the pavement. Aislin’s beloved siblings were suffering and dying because their love for her had been used against them. Moros summoned all his strength.
Her strength. Theirs. He couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, but knowing she was with him pulled him from the ground. Chaos stomped toward him, his many arms reaching, and Moros jabbed and parried, chopping off a few. For the first time, the monster’s face twisted in clear frustration. He tried to kick Moros again, but Moros dove between his tree-trunk legs and sliced at his calves before rolling away in time to avoid Chaos’s feet. Then the monster turned, with surprising quickness for something so huge, and before Moros could escape, the god had him in his grip. Moros’s fingers clutched at his dagger, barely able to hold on as Chaos lifted him into the air.
The monster pulled him toward his gaping mouth. “You can’t destroy me,” he rumbled. “Everything falls apart. No order lasts forever.”
At those words, Moros’s thoughts suddenly cleared, and Aislin’s face appeared in his memory. “But it doesn’t have to end today,” he said.
Then he shoved the blade upward, the point penetrating one of the creature’s armpits. With a shrieking howl, he released Moros, but instead of letting himself fall, Moros looped his arm around one of Chaos’s flailing limbs and plunged the dagger into the god’s flesh again. Black blood spurted from the wound, a bitter-smelling liquid that burned as it splashed over Moros’s legs.
Not today. Not today. Aislin’s voice powered every thrust of his blade until the creature fell, landing with Moros’s dagger buried in his chest. His massive arms twitched as his six eyes sought Moros’s. “Someday,” he rasped before going still.
Moros scrambled back as the beast began to crumble, and he turned to see the minions doing the same, collapsing in on themselves as shocked Ferrys and Kere watched. The air around him swirled with cinders and dust as he got to his feet. It was more destruction than he’d witnessed in millennia. The dead and injured were everywhere. The Veil would be crowded with souls waiting for their eternal reward—or punishment. The city was in ruins. But the survivors were looking around as if their thoughts had suddenly cleared. It gave Moros hope.
Cacia was stirring weakly in Eli’s arms. The Ker looked up at him as he held his beloved close. “She was ready to stab me to get to Aislin,” he said, nodding toward the false version of the Charon that lay crumbling on the sidewalk a few feet away. “So was Dec. How did you know it wasn’t actually her?”
Moros glanced at Declan, who was leaning against Trevor, looking like he had a massive headache. “I’d like to know that, too,” Declan muttered.
Moros tossed his blade to the ground and began to dust himself off. “She never calls me Moros.”
Declan’s eyebrows rose. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Do you happen to know where the real deal is, then?”
Moros nodded, his heart taking on a new, urgent beat. He’d won. And that meant these were his last moments on Earth. “I’m going to get her now.” He met Declan’s eyes. “She’ll be with you soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Keeper of Heaven looked down at the three glowing balls that floated an inch or so above her upturned palm. She’d been staring at them as she awaited the outcome of the great battle being waged in the earthly realm. The Keeper of Hell stood at her side. Their murmured conversation was so quiet that Aislin couldn’t catch what they were saying.
She’d long since sunk to the floor, too tired to hold herself up. It was better than being chained to the wall, though, so she didn’t bother asking for a chair. Clotho and Lachesis had gone quiet, but Aislin knew they expected good news soon.
Not if she had anything to do with it. Sh
e’d been very specific in the voice mail she’d left for Cavan before she’d headed for the summit. The Ferrys would double the quarterly gold allowance for the Lucinae, if only they put Magda on the throne. She’d basically incited a coup, but she’d known the Lucinae were on the verge of rejecting Baheera anyway. Aislin had simply wanted to speed the process along, because Moros needed those blades.
She hoped the plan had worked, that Cavan had succeeded and Declan and Cacia had made it to the realm before it moved to another hidden location. Misgiving pricked at her silent heart. Even if everything went perfectly, Moros was going to come back and try to give himself up. His reward for victory would be eternal torture. The more she pondered that, the more insane it seemed, and the more determined she was not to let it happen. Slowly, she rose to her feet, shuddering as she caught sight of the black veins spidering across the back of her hands. “I’d like to discuss what happens next,” she said to the Keepers.
The two of them turned to look at her. “Funnily enough, that’s what we were just doing,” the Keeper of Hell said to her. He gave her a speculative look. “Let me guess. You’re about to offer yourself permanently, to save the Lord of the Kere from eternal torment.” He yawned, an exaggerated, teasingly human affectation. “Mortals are so predictable. And selfish. We have bigger things to worry about, Charon.”