As they neared the end of the wing, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Patrick turned his head, staring at the bright golden thread a beautiful woman was weaving from a drop spindle.
She sat on a tall stool, her white gown like starshine in a night sky and as nebulous as moonlight. Her white-blonde hair fell straight to her hips, so thick it looked as if it should weigh her head down. But she held herself tall and proud, shoulders thrown back, staring right at Patrick with eyes the color of a freshwater lake never touched by man—deep and fathomless and filled with endless shadows.
She smiled, pale pink lips quirking at the corners as she dropped the spindle once again, fingers coaxing the golden thread straight and true. The pile of coarse thread resembled a cloud of gold on her lap and it glittered brightly beneath the lights.
Patrick couldn’t look away. All of his hair stood on end, the taste of ozone thick on his tongue.
“Well met, Patrick,” the goddess said, her voice echoing as if from a great distance.
Time seemed frozen around them, the clusters of buyers caught midstep, midword. Spencer was a rigid statue beside him, gaze unseeing. Patrick swallowed thickly before easing around his friend and sidling between two vampires to get to the display.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“A cousin of the Norns.”
He couldn’t hide his flinch at the realization one of the Fates sat before him, weaving a future he knew wasn’t a sure thing. “I don’t know your name.”
“You may call me Srecha.”
An old god, from an old religion whose worshippers had mostly faded into history long ago. Those who remembered the Slavic pantheon were few and far between these days. The Fates in all their multitudes had chosen their sides in this fight. Patrick just wasn’t sure whose side Srecha was on, especially since she had faces for both.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Srecha added more of the raw material to the thread she was spinning, fingers smoothing out the thickness of the strand. “I want what my cousins want. What we all desire in this day and age. An end to mortal arrogance.”
“If you mean Ethan, I’ve already got my marching orders.”
“Your paths will cross eventually.”
“They already have. More than enough times for my liking.”
Srecha smiled slightly, hands gliding over the golden thread she’d spun. She twisted her fingers around it, raising it to her mouth as the spindle came to rest against her chest. She cut it with teeth that glittered like diamonds, severing the thread in two. The golden strands fluttered between her hands, and she unwound the end of it from the spindle. What remained was an unfinished thread, cut sharply at one end, tufted slightly at the other.
“Prayers are our livelihood. Some of us forget they should be given freely,” Srecha said. “Give me your hand.”
Patrick made a fist, not wanting to give her anything, but he found himself obeying anyway. Leaning over the counter draped in velvet, he extended his arm toward Fate, and she took his hand with an implacable grip he’d never been able to break.
“We gods are never truly forgotten as long as one person speaks our name and remembers us.” Srecha traced the lines on his palm with cold fingers, the golden thread tickling his skin. “Memory can be long-lived, so long as itlives.”
“Is that what you want?”
Srecha smiled, and Patrick could see eternity in her eyes. “We live because you mortals do not forget. We are not gone when our names fall from your lips. Take my blessing and remember us when it matters.”
Patrick blinked, and before his eyes fully closed, her face changed. A flicker of the light maybe, or a trick of the mind, but Srecha’s beautiful face aged a lifetime in an instant, becoming wrinkled and old, with bloodshot eyes and crooked teeth.
The thread burned white-hot against his palm, and Patrick yanked his hand free of the goddess’ grip, taking a step back. As soon as contact was broken, his ears popped, and everyone started moving again. The display area he stood in front of was empty.
Patrick blinked at where Srecha had once sat, spinning a future only Fate could weave, the only warm spot on his body the line where her golden thread had touched his skin. When he looked at his palm, the skin in that area was an angry red color, and it hurt like a burn.
“Hey,” Spencer said, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “There you are. The auction is going to start in ten minutes.”
Patrick jerked his head around, noticing that the auction staff in the nearby display areas were beginning to pack up their items in warded boxes. Lucien and Carmen were a few meters away, staring at him expectantly. He didn’t think he’d been taken beyond the veil, but the goddess had donesomethingto shift everyone’s attention and sense of time so their conversation could happen.
Spencer hauled him around, and Patrick went. “You wandered off. You know Lucien doesn’t like that.”
Patrick curled his fingers over the burn on his palm. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
They stepped back inside the circle of vampires. Carmen raised an eyebrow at him in a silent question, but Patrick only shook his head. His conversations with the gods weren’t something they needed to know about.
