Marked (Servants of Fate Book 1)

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.” He looked down at his soaked clothes. “I’ve got to learn to control myself.”

  Her hands were tugging off his shirt, and he raised his arms to accommodate her. It landed with a wet slap on the floor of the stall.

  “I take it you don’t mind?” he asked.

  She kissed his chest and nipped the tight nub of his nipple, drawing a deep groan from him. “Are you kidding?” She raised her head and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him fiercely, letting him know she’d been worried sick but was trying to cover it. She stood on her tiptoes to press her forehead to his. “You’re here,” she whispered, the smile on her face piercingly beautiful.

  He wrapped his arms around her slick body and relished the feel of her breasts pressed against him. That increasingly familiar feeling—the one he’d only known since meeting Cacy—rose within him. Happiness. It rolled through his chest where his soulless heart beat, washed over the past he’d tried to keep hidden, and filled his mind with hopes of a future spent protecting and loving her.

  “Oh, yes,” he said as he leaned in to kiss her again. “I’m here.”

  EPILOGUE

  Jason Moros allowed himself one last look at the city. The view from this penthouse had long been one of his favorites. Boston spread out before him in all its messy, unseemly glory—and the Psychopomps skyscraper was only a block away, its sleek facade kissed by the mist that rose off the canals. He stared at it, wishing that the simple act of staring could give him the answers he so desperately needed now. But nothing could, it seemed. In fact, with every day that passed, he appeared to be losing his grasp, even on things he’d thought he understood.

  His fingers slid over the engraved metal case in his pocket. The surface was warm to the touch, heated by the human soul trapped inside. A small, bitter smile crept onto his face. His newest Ker was complicated to say the least. Inextricably tied by the heart to a Ferry, of all creatures. The choice to change Eli had been an impulsive one, but for now, their interests were aligned.

  Moros closed his eyes. A visit to his sisters was long overdue, and perhaps they could help him puzzle out how one of his Kere had operated without his direction and knowledge. He shed the warmth of the physical world and entered the Veil. This world between worlds was his true home, his birthplace. He bowed his head and allowed the faint rustling whispers to tug him along.

  “We were wondering when you’d show up.”

  Moros opened his eyes. He was in a vast space made of polished travertine. Atropos stood in front of him, a sickle in her hand, the curved blade ending in a razor-sharp point. Her heels were almost as sharp, and her simple black dress fit her like a second skin. Like his other sisters, she looked no older than midtwenties, but she was as ancient as Moros. Her thick black hair was held away from her face by golden bands, and her brown eyes were brimming with accusation.

  “I’ve been a bit busy,” he said, offering her an embrace.

  She sniffed and turned her back. “As if we’re not busy all the time.”

  “And have you been busier than usual, darling sister?”

  She looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing at all.” He looked up at the massive gossamer tapestry a few feet above their heads, lit by the stars above. Though it looked like a jumbled, holey, chaotic mess, each stitch had been planned. Some bits of it sparkled or glowed while others had become dead and gray. Atropos reached up and sliced away one such thread, and Moros felt it in his gut, the prick of another soul to reap. Usually the feeling was fainter than a prickle of static, a sensation he’d long since learned to ignore, but whenever he was near Atropos, it stabbed him a little deeper. A face and a name flashed in his head, and he pushed that knowledge outward, into the Veil.

  Somewhere, a Ker was feeling the call of death.

  “I came for help, not to argue,” he said, weariness seeping into his voice. “I’ve been called before the Keepers, and though I did not sanction a single unauthorized Marking, they’ll still want an explanation from me. It could affect us all.”

  “But mostly you,” Atropos said, whirling the dull gray thread between her fingers. “Come. Clotho and Lachesis have missed you far more than I.”

  They walked beneath the shimmering fabric, which flexed and rippled like a living thing. Beyond the bounds of the tapestry were the lush apartments where each of the siblings, including Moros, kept their private sanctuaries, but straight ahead was the massive loom, the divine machine that churned out the endless fabric of life.

  On the other side of the almost-transparent cloth, a shadow bobbed along. Moros and Atropos made their way around the loom to greet its owner. Lachesis paced toward them, her steps precise, her back rod-straight, her blonde hair cut so close to her head that from a distance she looked bald. She had on a skirt-suit that reminded Moros of something Aislin Ferry might wear, so prim and proper, and it made him smile in spite of himself. Lachesis clutched a measuring stick tightly in her grip, as always, and her brows were drawn together. But when she saw her brother, her face split into a grin that made her blue eyes sparkle. She closed the distance between them quickly and dove into his arms. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, pressing her cheek to his.

  He released her reluctantly. She and Clotho were the only two beings in the universe who would touch him willingly. The weight of it, the warmth . . . Moros looked away as loneliness sank its teeth deep. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

  He’d opened his mouth to say more when Clotho stepped out the front door of her apartment, her loose, flowing gown fluttering around her ankles. She was still twisting her brown hair into a knot at the back of her head, preparing to sit at her wheel and spin out the thread of each soul’s life.

  “Brother!” she called out happily. “I thought you might have abandoned us.”

  “It’s not affection that drives him to visit,” muttered Atropos.

  Lachesis tapped her sister on the arm with her measuring stick. “Don’t be rude. We’re all trying to figure out what made it possible for the Ker to go rogue. Our brother’s got to face it out there, so why wouldn’t he be concerned?”

  Atropos brandished her sickle. “Then help him figure it out,” she snapped. “I have work to do.” She gave Moros one last searing look and stalked away, her heels clicking on the stone tiles.

  Clotho tsked and enveloped Moros in a hug. He stroked her face, treasuring the comfort of her soft skin against the backs of his fingers.

  “Remember the knot of uncertainty we discussed?” he asked. “I know the thread you weave sometimes contains them, but this one . . .”

  Clotho bit her lip. “The soldier? The one in Pittsburgh?” She smiled when he nodded. “You let him live.”

  Lachesis nodded knowingly. “Much to Atropos’s disgust. She’d sliced away his thread, and I had to weave it back onto its new path.”

  Moros removed the case from his pocket. “He’s mine now.”

  Lachesis pulled a shimmering thread from the pocket of her suit. “This is his. Atropos claimed it had turned gray. She sliced it from the fabric.”

  Moros watched the gossamer thread sway as it dangled from Lachesis’s grip. That was Eli’s life. It had been entwined with so many others, but now it had been pulled from the tapestry, along with Moros’s knowledge of what was meant to be. “He wasn’t supposed to die, and you know it. She knew it, too.”

  Clotho frowned. “Atropos only makes the cut. She doesn’t decide who lives or who dies.” Her eyes strayed along the path where their sister had stormed away. “It’s part of what makes her so angry.”

  “And might she have taken matters into her own hands a time or two?” Moros whispered. “Something is happening. I don’t know what, but—”

  “That something is you, unable to control your own monsters!
” Atropos peeked around the edge of the loom, her face a mask of fury. “You’re just here to find someone to blame. Create order in your own house before you lay this at my doorstep.” She waved her sickle at them and disappeared.

  A second later, Moros felt another stab, this one like a knife twisting behind his rib cage. Another face, another name, another Ker sent into action.

  Lachesis stroked his arm. “We don’t know any more than you do,” she said quietly. “The strands keep falling away, slipping loose of the tapestry all around the thread that belongs to Galena Margolis.” She gestured at a silvery strand that wound its way along, entwining with a few Moros knew quite well. But along its path in the near future, in the fabric that had emerged from the loom and hung heavy over the floor, jagged holes had begun to grow where the tapestry had once been tightly woven. The shimmering thread looked so vulnerable, so easy to slice away.

  Lachesis’s eyes shone with tears. “I’m doing my best, Jason. I monitor every knot, every joining, every stitch I make, but I can’t stop it. Someone is acting outside our authority.”

  Clotho put her arm around her sister, but her dark gaze was on Moros. “Right now it’s just a few threads, but if it gets worse . . .”

  The entire tapestry might unravel. Especially considering how many threads of life Galena’s was destined to intersect. Not just some of them. Virtually all of them. As brilliant as she was, the woman had no idea of the power of her discoveries—not just what she’d already done, but what she was meant to do in the future. And as tempting as it had been to wipe her from the Earth, as much as an enemy of death as she was, Moros had realized he’d be signing his own execution order if he hurt her. He’d made his vow to the Keepers as part of the treaty—he would not divert from the path of fate, nor would his Kere. And although he knew that a few unsanctioned Markings here or there could go unnoticed, the same was not true if Galena were Marked. If her thread was cut away, it was possible the fabric of life would fall apart completely. No more order, no more fate. Instead, randomness.

  Atropos had been right; the Keepers would come after him first. Their hatred of him was miles deep and millennia old. That didn’t mean his sisters weren’t in danger, though.

  He shook himself out of his reverie. “Who could be doing this?” he asked. “Have you seen any of the others?”

  Lachesis and Clotho shook their heads. Most of their siblings had long since faded from memory to myth, allowing themselves to bleed into abstraction. Humans were so good at causing strife they no longer needed Eris to do it for them. They were too riddled with envy to require anything more from Nemesis, and so full of lies they did not require Apate’s lessons of deceit. But could these siblings still be skulking in the Veil? They would be unaffected if the fabric of fate and destiny disintegrated. In fact, they might enjoy it. Could one of them be the cause of these problems?

  Because Moros didn’t believe for a minute that it started and ended with Rylan and Mandy.

  “Where would we have seen them? You know we never leave our domain—and we rarely have visitors,” Clotho said, tucking a stray brown lock behind her ear. “Have you checked your trunk? Are all the souls of your Kere present and accounted for?”

  Lachesis tapped the case in his hand. “Aren’t they the ones causing the problems? Money is nothing to us, nothing to our siblings, but for your death-bringers, it matters quite a lot.”

  His sisters’ voices had been gentle, but their doubt made his teeth clench. Everyone believed he and his Kere were evil. The Keepers had always looked on them with contempt. Hearing that his sisters believed the same was too much. He took a step away from them, certain his anger was making his eyes glow with ruby fire. His hands fisted over his clawed fingertips. The frustration made him want to tear the cloth from the loom and toss it onto a fire, heedless to the consequences.

  “I’ll be in my apartment,” he said quickly, then strode toward the building that rose up from the vast island of travertine tile. He strode into his sanctuary, the home that held his favorite possessions, mostly gifts and mementos from true friends and comrades long since dead. A soft sofa sat in the corner, a book lying pages-down on one of the cushions. And along the back wall, the trunk that contained every single soul he’d ever taken.

  Minus the ones he’d destroyed, of course.

  Still holding the case containing Eli’s soul, Moros pulled his key from his pocket and slid it into the heavy lock. He opened the trunk and peered inside. The souls oozed along like translucent multicolored serpents, each one unique. Trevor’s was a pale green shot through with shimmering threads of blue. Luke’s was a deep, bloody crimson spotted with black.

  Mandy’s lay still at the bottom of the trunk. It was yellow, glinting with pinprick dots of indigo. Moros had always found it far more exquisite than the woman herself, and perhaps he had been deceived by that beauty. Somehow, Mandy had Marked soul after soul without his knowledge. He hadn’t felt it at all. Could she have done that of her own free will? He hadn’t thought it possible.

  But if it were, it meant the Kere could rebel. It meant he wasn’t in control. And if that were true, and if the Keepers of the Afterlife realized it, Moros knew that the deepest pit of Hell awaited him. He reached into the trunk, and the souls wriggled away from the intrusion. He grabbed the limp soul of Mandy, and it turned to dust in his grasp, just as her body had.

  Then he opened the case. Eli’s soul nestled inside, sapphire blue. No spots. No streaks. Just vibrant, solid color. He gently lifted the soul from the case and placed it inside the trunk, where it slithered along like the rest, testing the boundaries of its new forever home. He stared down at the animated pieces of all the Kere at his command. He had chosen each and every one of them, and it didn’t matter that there were several thousand in the trunk—Moros knew they were all accounted for.

  So either the rogue element was within his very ranks, or one of his siblings was acting outside the bounds of fate, which Moros and his three sisters served as a matter of survival. The rage roiled inside him, millennia of slavery winding their way through his unforgiving memory. He had come so far. Enough to taste a certain kind of freedom. Not pure, but delicious nonetheless. And now everything he’d fought for was threatened.

  He leaned over the trunk. “Behave,” he growled. As if they sensed his presence, his voice, the writhing souls went still, some of them trembling slightly. He smiled, running his tongue along his fangs.

  The Lord of the Kere closed the trunk and willed himself out of the Veil.

  AN EXCERPT FROM SARAH FINE’S CLAIMED

  Dec leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. He could hear the other paramedics laughing and joking in the locker room down the hall, but he was glad to have his own office. He was used to taking care of other people, always being the one responsible for solving everyone else’s problems, but he needed to be alone to unwind. No demands. No pressure. No expectations.

  It had been a long shift. Trevor had stormed out of Dec’s office half an hour ago, ranting about how his new partner couldn’t navigate his way out of an insta-cold limbsack, let alone the narrow canals near the edges of Chinatown. Dec had suggested maybe Trev needed a vacation, but he’d just flipped Dec off and left. Dec grunted. He felt ready to do the same thing. Five calls, three casualties, two souls shuttled to Heaven while his partner, Carol, cleaned their rig. As for the third soul . . . well, that one had been destined for Hell, and the guy had figured it out before Dec even had a chance to pull his Scope open and loop it over the guy’s head. He’d run. But there was no way Dec would be responsible for yet another Shade in the Veil.

  Dec had tackled the guy right before he’d reached the edge of the canal, probably thinking he could jump in and swim away. He’d been pretty speedy for a recently dead soul. Already annoyed, Dec had zero patience for the man’s frantic bargaining and semicoherent snarls—a signal that this dead soul was already becoming rabid
. Dec had punched him into submission and shoved him through the portal to Hell in less than a minute. The gold coin, payment for his hard work, had flown out a moment later, and Dec, winded and distracted, had reflexively caught the red-hot hunk of metal still blazing from the fires of Hell. The burn on his palm was already nearly healed, along with his bloody knuckles—thank God all Ferrys healed ridiculously fast.

  But the fatigue remained. It was a bone-deep tiredness mixed with boredom. Same routine, different day. Every day. Every fucking day.

  Well, maybe not every day. For a brief time the previous evening, he’d felt himself waking up, coming alive. The drudgery of today had pretty much erased his excellent mood, though.

  Once again, he considered retiring. He’d fantasized about it for years, but he had never pulled the trigger. He never spent his money, so he had plenty of it. He could hand over his paramedic badge and his Scope. He could move to his little cabin on Baffin Island, surrounded by mountains on all sides, where everyone would leave him the fuck alone, where no one knew who his family was. Where he could live a normal human life.

  It was pretty damn tempting.

  His computer screen lit up, and Dec leaned forward.

  “One EMS unit to number three West Street, apartment twenty-

  four,” droned the dispatcher, her words simultaneously appearing as text on his screen. “Suspected assault. Number of casualties unknown. Injuries unknown. Police and fire notified. They have advised that it’ll be a minimum of thirty until they’re on scene.” Her voice echoed down the hall, where the rest of the crew was probably listening from the garage.

  Dec sighed. Most of his guys had just come off a hard shift, and the new shift had barely started. They were probably still cataloging supplies and getting their rigs ready for a long night. He got to his feet. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform yet. He had nobody waiting for him at home. And it wasn’t like he could show up at Galena’s lab for a second night in a row without a pretty damn good excuse. He paused, realizing he’d actually been considering it. “Answer the damn call, Dec,” he muttered, entering the garage and looking over at Paula, the new night shift supervisor. A solidly built woman with steel-gray hair and dark-brown skin, she was standing with her arms folded, staring at the videowall. Earlier this week, he’d quietly transferred Len, the former night shift supervisor, to the Jamaica Plain EMS. He couldn’t stomach keeping the man around after what he’d said about Cacy—and the fact that he’d tossed Eli into the disease-infested canal. Paula was a veteran paramedic, and Dec trusted her to take a more professional approach. “I’ll take this one,” Dec said to her.