Fated by Sarah Fine

show me her thread.”
    “You don’t know which one it is?” Atropos asked, her tone mocking.
    Moros’s fists clenched. Usually, he could easily feel which thread went with a particular soul, but none of the threads brought her beautiful face to mind, no matter how closely he looked at them. He recognized Galena’s, and Declan’s, and Cacia’s, and so many of the other Ferrys’, but not the Charon herself, when she should have been prominent and shimmering and easy to spot. “I feel nothing.” How he wished that were true.
    “You sound like it matters to you,” Atropos replied.
    “Of course it matters,” he barked. “She’s the Charon. And she’s—” He gritted his teeth. Necessary. When had she become so necessary? He could work with any Charon, couldn’t he? “I just need to see where she is.”
    Lachesis leaned into him. “You don’t usually care so much,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. “But I can tell something has changed.”
    “Nothing has changed.” He blinked. If that were true, why was the thought of Aislin’s death eating at him this way? He’d spent only a handful of hours alone with her over the last eighty years, and though he’d always been amused by her, always admiring, and definitely intrigued, that didn’t explain this need he had to see a future for her, this inability to accept that she didn’t have one. “We’re meeting with the Keepers in less than three days, and I wanted to examine her thread before we appear in front of them together.”
    “Spare us your excuses. The current Charon is right—” Atropos’s mouth dropped open. “She was here.” She slid her finger along a split in the fabric, not that far from Galena Margolis’s sparkling tangled thread. Many of the threads that had been connected to the scientist’s were now separated from it by that long tear, which looked like it had been made with a scalpel . . . or a sickle.
    “What have you done?” Lachesis asked her sister, gaping at the neat slice, which traveled from the base of the loom, up onto the frame, and into the far distance. “Her thread is gone. Did you cut it from the cloth?”
    “N-no,” stammered Atropos. “Why would I do such a thing?”
    “I don’t know,” said Lachesis, her voice taking on an edge. “But I’d love to hear an explanation.”
    The accusation was clear, but Moros could see the shock on Atropos’s face. It looked genuine. “The thread disappeared?” he asked, staring at the tapestry and willing Aislin’s thread to appear again. “How is that possible if it wasn’t cut?”
    “It’s not possible,” croaked Atropos, looking ill. Her usually neat black hair tumbled over her face as she looked down at her sickle.
    He glanced around, a terrible possibility dawning on him. “What happened to Rylan Ferry’s thread when someone took possession of his soul? Did it disappear like this?” He imagined Aislin with glowing red eyes, glaring at him with hatred, eager for his destruction. Was that her destiny now?
    Atropos shook her head. “It turned gray, and I cut it from the fabric, just like all those you turn into Kere.”
    “I didn’t turn him, though.”
    “Then who did?” asked Lachesis. “Could one of our other siblings have done it?”
    “They don’t serve fate,” said Atropos. “They couldn’t create something like a Ker, that wields the power of death.”
    Moros wasn’t actually sure Rylan could Mark humans for death. “He was killed before his soul was taken—you’re sure?”
    Atropos nodded, her dark gaze on him defiant and sullen. Moros stared back, wondering if she was lying. He cut his eyes toward Lachesis, who was glowering at their sister with clear suspicion. “I would have thought you’d have mentioned slicing away someone so important,” Lachesis said quietly. “But you didn’t. I learned of Rylan Ferry’s demise from our brother.”
    Atropos waved her sickle between them, looking like she wanted to cut their