Page 1 of Love and Death (Tempting the Fates #4)

LACHESIS

Some say the realms were borne of stories.

Some of longing and hope.

And still others believe in nothing …

In chance.

But we know better.

The realms were borne of Fate.

Fate brought to heel by our hands.

For we are the Fates, and by us,

The Universe is bound.

D eep within the Underworld, in a place where even the gods do not wish to travel, lies a room almost as old as time itself.

It is not grand.

It does not boast.

It simply is .

A single, circular loom sits at its center, nearly as ancient as life itself. Threads of all kinds and colors dance across it—golden, silver, tarnished, and bright. Some shimmer even in darkness, while others turn to ash at a single touch.

Together, my sisters and I sit before the loom, our fingers but a blur as we work tirelessly to spin, measure, snip, and intertwine the threads of fate as we see fit.

No, not threads.

Souls, mortal and god alike.

I sit back, the thought—as much my own as it is entirely foreign—causing uneasy ripples to flow through my very being.

I dare not voice it to my sisters out of worry for what they might say. I dare not even allow myself to think it, should they turn to peer into my mind.

“Lachesis, pay attention,” snaps Atropos, startling the thread I was measuring from my fingers, “you almost spoiled the pattern.”

She snatches the thin, glowing thread from where it fell and snips it before I have a chance to react. Now nearly imperceptible, I watch as the thread disappears into the woven pattern.

A strand that short could only mean one thing, a child, little more than a babe. For possibly the first time in my existence, I feel something curious tug at me.

Emotion.

And yet, I should not feel anything for these threads.

Something is coming undone in me, and I do not know what it is.

“Sisters, look,” Clotho says, interrupting the privacy of my thoughts once again as her voice rings out in my head.

My sister and I turn to look as one of the threads— thin and crystalline in nature, shimmering like starlight and impossible in color—trembles violently beneath her fingers, defying our chosen pattern to slip free of the weave time and again.

“She should not exist,” Atropos says bitterly. “Her soul was never meant to be woven.”

“I spun no thread for her,” Clotho reminds us, nervously. “Our pattern was not designed to hold her.”

“A thread to be snipped, borne of accident from nothing more than the broken plies of two others,” our eldest sister sneers.

“No, not of accident, of love,” I correct, my thoughts wandering, “nevertheless, fated for death.”

Love.

We do not speak of love here. It is not measurable.

Not countable.

It is chaos itself.

Atropos shoots a scathing look my way, meant to wither. And, perhaps, I would have, if I did not feel so curiously as I do now.

“Fated to die, not for Death,” she corrects, misinterpreting my choice of words.

Silence falls upon us, the loom thrumming away beneath our fingers, even as we continue to watch the girl’s thread twist and reach for another.

A filament darker than the void itself. A thread so long and so intertwined with the others that it has no beginning and, as of yet, no end.

Yet again, I am disturbed by my own thoughts.

How is it possible for a thread spun by our own hands to have no beginning ?

Why can I not remember?

“Something has happened,” Clotho gasps, drawing my attention back to the present.

The loom tremors beneath our hands as I follow her gaze, watching in astonishment as the thread, once as dark as nightmares, becomes streaked with pale lines.

In nearly the same instant, the mortal’s writhes, thrashing wildly and wriggling its way out of Clotho’s fingers, in a desperate attempt to loop itself around the fading thread.

“She loves him,” I murmur.

“No, she was not made for love ,” Atropos spits, the last word twisting her features as she catches the crystalline thread between her fingers to stop it from knotting itself to Death’s. “We have allowed this to go on far too long.”

Clotho agrees solemnly, “She was made to unravel.”

“She chooses him,” I try again, my voice trembling with something I dare not name.

“Then we take away her choice,” my sister hisses, her eyes flashing.

Her fingers pluck out another thread, this one primal and older than the gods themselves.

“No, not him,” Clotho warns. “He—”

“He is bound by duty.” Atropos grins, choosing Clotho’s words for her. “Sworn to loyalty. Blinded by hope. Let him be the one to finally break her.”

“But what of Hades’ deal?”

“It is nearly finished. Now, let us ensure its success.”

I watch as Atropos ties the mortal’s thread to the other with cruel precision. For a moment, it dims as the knot tightens around it.

Her fate sealed by my sister’s hand .

And to him , no less.

After we had sworn not to.

The knot settles into the pattern, but even now, her thread still reaches. Still searches for the one we have denied her … and something grows colder within me.

“Sisters,” I gasp, my eyes darting about the loom.

“What is it now?” Atropos groans.

“There is a thread missing.”

A dark shadow falls over the room, as all three of us turn to look.

“Impossible.”

“And yet, it is true,” Clotho murmurs.

Once again, that something that I dared not name before rises up, but this time, it bites, sinking its icy fangs into the very depths of my being.

And I suddenly know its name ...

Fear .