Marked (Servants of Fate Book 1)

Len pushed away from the bar when he saw her, the eager, horny look on his wide face making her stomach hurt. She looked past him, searching for the one face she actually wanted to see. Eli wasn’t here. She wondered if he would come at all—and wouldn’t blame him if he no-showed. But this morning, when she’d seen him standing in the pew, looking so out of place and yet so perfect, it was like warm honey had been poured over her soul. He’d come to a funeral, dressed in what Cacy was sure were the nicest clothes he owned. On his day off, too. Maybe he’d come to honor her father’s memory, or out of misplaced guilt for not being able to save a patient. But when her eyes had locked with Eli’s, Cacy had been sure he’d come to the funeral for her and her alone.

  After dealing with all the wrenching pain of the day, and Len, and Moros . . . she’d practically wrapped herself around Eli and begged him to carry her away. She hadn’t been able to hold back any longer. She hadn’t been able to think about the risks. She had completely given in to the need that had been building in her for the last few days. The need to hold on to him, to feel the solid beat of his heart against her chest, like it was strong enough to keep hers going. She hadn’t cared that everyone was staring. In that moment, Eli had been the only other person in the cathedral.

  Oh God. Len was approaching her, arms open. Cacy stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “Hey. You’re early,” she said, trying to sound friendly . . . but not too friendly.

  His arms dropped to his sides. “So are you. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No. I’m meeting someone in the back. I’ll be out in a little while.”

  Len frowned. “In the back?” It was obvious where his thoughts were going. He looked her up and down like she’d walked in here naked instead of in a skirt and a tank top.

  Cacy flipped him off. “A business associate of my father’s, Len. What’s wrong with you?”

  Len’s frown deepened to a scowl. “I thought maybe—”

  “Yeah? Well, as usual, you thought wrong.” She gave him a thoroughly disgusted look before turning toward the hallway. “Not that it’s any of your business, but don’t worry about it. I’ll be right out.”

  The corridor leading to the back room smelled of booze and cigarettes. She ran her fingers along the dark wood paneling as she walked, wondering how many times her father had walked this path, if his hands had skimmed over the same places.

  Moros was waiting for her in the last room on the left. The small room contained a liquor cabinet and a desk surrounded by antique wooden chairs. The Lord of the Kere lounged in one of them, a low tumbler of amber liquid in his gloved hand, his feet propped up on the desk.

  Cacy walked in, knocked Moros’s legs to the floor, and seated herself behind the desk. He was thousands of years old, so she figured he should know better than to put his feet on the furniture.

  “Have some respect,” she said calmly, and turned to pour herself a few fingers of Scotch from a heavy cut-crystal decanter.

  When she looked back at Moros, he was giving her a lazy smile, but Cacy read the sharp admiration in his eyes. “No disrespect intended, Cacia.”

  Cacy took a sip of the deep, smoky liquid and closed her eyes as it burned all the way to her belly. She sat back down. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  Moros shrugged. He’d changed from his designer suit and was now wearing black slacks and a tailored gray silk shirt that matched the steely color of his eyes. The diamond in his ear had been replaced by a small silver hoop, and his hair was stylishly disheveled. He was pretty sexy for an ancient guy. Of course, he looked no older than Rylan, but even so, he wasn’t really her type. He returned her appraising look with one of his own. “How could I say no? Anything to honor the memory of my good friend.” His eyes slid down her body. “And such charming company. Your request intrigued me.”

  Cacy lowered her gaze to her glass, watching the liquid sparkle in the warm light of the Tiffany lamp on the desk. “I want to know why he was killed.”

  Moros sighed. “My dear, you should know better than to ask me that. Your father would never have asked me such a question.”

  Her head snapped up, and she met his metal-gray eyes. “He hadn’t been retired for twelve hours before he was Marked by one of your Kere. Father trusted you to be just.”

  “Our ways are not your ways, Cacia. But believe me when I say there is justice in what we do.” He shifted in his chair. “And in what I intend to do,” he muttered, then took a sip of Scotch. “We were friends, you know. Not merely business associates. I’d known him for over a century. After Rylan and Aislin’s mother died, I was the one who introduced him to Mara. She was my chief archivist’s daughter. Did you know that?” He leaned back in his chair again and hooked an ankle over his knee.

  “No,” Cacy said quietly, gazing into her glass.

  “You look just like her,” Moros said, his voice betraying his sadness. “I think your father never recovered from her loss. He was lucky to have you, though. It kept him going when he needed it most.”

  Cacy stared at the desk and blinked. “Were you that close?” Had their midnight meeting been a social call? Somehow, Cacy doubted it. Final Decision didn’t sound very social.

  “What do you know of our ancient history, my dear? What did he tell you of your heritage?”

  It was obvious he wanted to take the long way around answering her questions, but since she’d called this meeting, she would indulge him for the moment. She downed her Scotch, feeling it burn all the way down her throat, then said, “I know that, centuries ago, there was no buffer between death and the Afterlife. The Kere delivered the souls to Heaven or Hell themselves.”

  “Thousands of years ago. Almost two thousand years ago now.” He frowned, like he remembered it well, like it still hurt him. “We were slaves then, my Kere and I. Like dogs. Roaming the Earth like beggars.” He was gripping his glass so tightly that Cacy was surprised it didn’t shatter.

  “You rebelled.”

  Moros nodded and took a slow sip of his drink. “What do you think happens when death does not come for those who should die? And I know you are familiar with the Shades, so you know what happens when those who have died are not delivered into the warm embrace of their final fate.” He closed his eyes as if savoring, but Cacy wasn’t sure of the source of his pleasure—thoughts of zombies wreaking havoc, or the fine alcohol. “It was chaos on Earth and in the Veil. No balance anywhere. Those fated to live were dying too soon, and those fated to die lived on as undead monsters. The Keepers of Heaven and Hell tried to compel us, of course—to rule us with threats and torture as they had for so long. But we’d had enough. They showed a remarkable lack of foresight when they refused to treat us as their equals.”

  “They agreed to a treaty. To pay for your services, to reward you for delivering the souls to them. But they insisted on an intermediary.”

  “Those were but a few of the terms, and the only ones that need concern you.” He stood and leaned over the desk, helping himself to another few fingers before waving the bottle in her direction. She held up her glass, and he poured as he spoke. “They did not trust us to show restraint if there was money to be made from human death. They never believed we had any good in us, you see. They thought we were a necessary evil.” His voice had taken on a dangerous edge, but then he chuckled again. “So the Charon was created as an intermediary, as a watcher, and, I suspect, so that the Keepers did not ever have to behold my face again. Thus your proud race began, my dear. I have worked with twenty Charons since that time, some peacefully, and some . . . not so much. But I have dealt with all of them justly.”

  Cacy swirled the Scotch in her glass as Moros sat down again. Had Moros veered from his sense of justice to have her father killed before his time? The list of those fated to die was generated by Moros’s ancient sisters, the Fates themselves, who were said to live in complete seclusion and isolation within the Veil. Cacy’s
father had told her no one but Moros knew where they were. There were even stories that they didn’t exist, that Moros himself made the list and used the Fates as a cover for his own actions. That he alone decided which humans to doom and which to spare.

  That had been why the Mark of the Ferry had been created, so Ferrys could operate without fear of reprisal from Moros and the Kere. It was forbidden for a Ker to kill a Ferry who was still in service—only the Charon himself could sentence a Ferry to death, and it hadn’t happened in over a century. Moros had been religious in upholding that part of the treaty, probably because the Keeper of Hell himself would hunt him down if he didn’t. No Ferry had ever been killed in the line of duty, though some had been roughed up by the Kere or permanently maimed by Shades. When Ferrys retired from duty and gave up the raven mark and their Scope, though, they became regular mortals again, as vulnerable to death—and the Kere—as the next person. But with as much of a chance at life, too. Or, at least, that was the way it was supposed to be.

  “I guess I’m wondering if everyone’s still honoring the treaty. No one came to collect the commission on my father.”

  Moros’s eyes glinted.

  Cacy smiled innocently and dropped her bomb. “You were planning to meet with my father the night he died. You were negotiating about something.”

  He gave her a small, cold smile. “What a clever little thing you are,” he said. “He never made it to our meeting. I never saw him that night. And if you’re wondering, no, I did not Mark him myself.”

  Cacy’s eyes narrowed. “But you know who did?”

  Moros stared back at her, then stood abruptly. “It has been lovely spending time with you, Cacia. Thank you for the drink.” He set his glass down on the desk.

  Cacy stood as well. She wasn’t done yet. “What’s in Cambridge?”

  For the first time, she seemed to have truly caught the Lord of the Kere off guard. He turned stiffly to face her. “What did you say?”

  She swore she could see the faintest of red flames in his eyes.

  “I think you heard me.” Her mind was spinning. She was desperate to know why her father had been there but had no desire to draw any attention to Eli. A Ker had been looking through his bedroom window that night, but it hadn’t Marked him. And yet Cacy doubted it was a coincidence.

  Moros leaned across the desk toward her, no longer trying to hide the inhuman red glow in his eyes. “I don’t play games, little girl, so stop being coy. If you want anything from me, you will pay me . . . in information, or through another method of my choosing. I think we have established that I do not work for free.” He did not break eye contact with her as he took his gloves off and set them on the desk in front of him.

  Cacy fought the urge to back herself up against the wall. The danger of Moros’s touch was the stuff of myth and nightmares, and his threat was clear as he laid his palms flat on the deeply grained wood and spread his fingers.

  “I’ll tell you this,” she said, her words tumbling out in a breathless flow. “Father was in Cambridge that night. After he died. It’s where we found him when we entered the Veil to guide his soul.”

  Moros seemed to be trying to look straight into her mind. The intensity of his gaze nearly burned her, but she didn’t look away. He leaned forward even further, his body now halfway across the desk, his face only inches from hers. “Cacia, why do you think your father made you executor? It was a shock to your family. I heard them talking about it at his funeral.”

  She stood her ground. “I think . . . I think he trusted me. He trusted that I would take care of his affairs.”

  The red glow faded to smoldering cinders within the steely gray. “You don’t think he trusted your older siblings?”

  Cacy’s brow furrowed. “I-I’m sure he did. But it was just the two of us in that house for so long after my mother died. We were close.”

  “He worked with Rylan and Aislin every day. He wasn’t close to them?”

  She shrugged. She wasn’t about to air her family’s dirty laundry, but it was an open family secret that Rylan and Aislin had been at each other’s throats for years. “He did work with them every day. But maybe that’s why he thought I would be the better choice.”

  Moros paused, then said, “Well, I shall consider trusting you, too.”

  Cacy looked up to see Moros pulling his gloves on and tried to make her sigh of relief as subtle as possible. But he was leaving, and she hadn’t yet gotten what she needed. She opened her mouth to stop him, but he shook his head and said, “As stimulating as this has been, I have other things to attend to. But believe me, we will meet again. Soon.” He turned in place and was gone.

  Cacy fell into the chair behind her like someone had kicked her legs out from under her. She reached forward and chugged the remaining Scotch, relishing the painful pleasure as it scorched her throat. She had spent all her courage facing down the Lord of the Kere. While she had no real answers, she had gotten something useful out of him. He had planned to meet her father that night to make some sort of major decision. And he obviously knew what was important about her father’s presence in Cambridge, but he didn’t trust her enough yet to tell her what it was.

  Something about the whole conversation bothered her, though: he was supposed to know just about everything, but he seemed to want information about the circumstances surrounding her father’s death as badly as she did.

  At least he would contact her again soon. Moros was known for keeping his promises. It was one of the reasons people were afraid of him. One of the reasons.

  Cacy stood on wobbly legs, opened the door to the meeting room, and walked down the hall toward the noise of a party in full swing. This would not be a solemn memorial to Patrick Ferry. This would be a balls-out send-off. Cacy wasn’t sure she was up to it, but she owed it to the guys. She put a hand to her stomach, which was empty except for the warm curl of Scotch steadily winding into her bloodstream. She knew she should eat something soon, or she wouldn’t last long.

  She threaded her way through the crowd and was immediately spotted by Dec, who waved a half-empty bottle of whiskey at her. “Cacy!” he shouted. Everyone else turned toward her and whooped.

  “Thanks for coming, guys. Here I am,” she called, raising her arms. Someone pressed a beer bottle into her hand, and she put it to her lips and downed it in one long chug while everyone cheered. She lifted the empty bottle and shouted, “To Patrick Ferry!”

  Everyone went nuts. Cacy accepted another beer and listened to a few other guys toast her father and his memory, cheering raucously in all the right places. But her eyes searched the crowd. Where was Eli? Had he decided not to come? Her heart sank, and she realized how much she’d wanted to see him.

  “Hey, Cace.”

  She looked up to see Trevor standing next to her. Every muscle in her body tensed, and his relaxed smile disappeared. “Looks like I’m guilty until proven innocent,” he said as he clinked his beer bottle against hers and took a drink.

  She leaned close to him, feeling the incredible heat emanating from his immense body. “Did you Mark him? You said you’d gotten a last-minute assignment. Was it him?”

  Trevor looked down at her, his eyes so brown they looked black in the dim light of the bar. “You think I would do that? Mark your father without a heads-up? We’re friends, Cacy.”

  “You’re a Ker,” she blurted out.

  His lips formed a tight line. “Now I see how it is with you. I thought you saw me as a person, but I’m thinking you see me as something less than that. Well, here’s some news for you. I Marked your father’s killer that night. He had a nasty run-in with a tree branch deep in the Common. He was just a street punk, Cacy. Not much more than a kid. I found three Afterlife coins in his pocket, if that tells you anything.” When he saw her mouth open, he snapped, “I didn’t know he was going to kill your father, if that’s what you’re going to accuse me of
next.”

  Her cheeks burned as she looked away, picking at the label on her beer bottle. Trevor was right; she did have some prejudice against the Kere. But Trevor had never been anything but a friend to her. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

  He lifted her face with gentle fingers. “Listen, Cace, I know how much this hurt you. If I can find out more about it, I will. I’ve already told Dec that. I turned the Afterlife coins over to him, but we all know it’s impossible to trace them. So we only know one thing for sure—the human who killed your dad was someone else’s puppet.”

  Something occurred to her, and she was just tipsy enough to say it out loud. “Does Moros know who Marked my father? Did he give the go-ahead personally?”

  “Moros gives all the assignments. Why would you doubt that?”

  “I’m wondering if he’s as much in control of his empire as he wants people to think.”

  “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

  She forced herself to stand tall. “Even more so if it’s true.”

  “Everything all right here?” Eli appeared behind Cacy, and in the close-packed space of the bar, he and Trevor formed a Cacy sandwich. Eli put his hands on her shoulders, and she automatically sank backward into his solid warmth.

  “Everything is completely all right,” she said as she stared up at Trevor, who was looking at Eli with frank curiosity, like he couldn’t believe someone would challenge him like this. “We were wondering who would suck more this year in interleague soccer—Fire or Police.”

  Trevor smiled, though Cacy caught the flash of red in his eyes. She’d struck a nerve with her concerns about Moros. “Police,” he said. “They’re barely hanging on. Catch you later, Cace. Eli.” He nodded at them and turned to wave at some paramedics who’d just come through the door.

  Cacy twisted to look up at Eli, amazed at the ecstatic, skipping beat of her heart. “You’re here,” she said.

  He grinned as his eyes searched her face. “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today. You always seem so surprised.”