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A secret rendezvous that had transformed into her beloved’s death at the hands of a terrifying old woman. But Nina hadn’t been a target—she had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Part certificate of birth, part medical records, part court-evaluated mental health status, and almost entirely badge of shame, other-born papers stated the nature of their powers and their known relatives.
Other-born always came in a package: in two or three or more siblings descended from sibling gods. Myths talked of the existence of other gods, too, but only twin, sister, or brother divinities bestowed their progenies with power.
her parents already had two daughters who could see the Quilt, which could only mean a third was on the way. The moira-born always came in three, like the Moirae, the goddesses of Fate, themselves. The firstborn was the spinner, who could weave new threads. The second was the drawer; she could elongate or shorten a thread, intensifying or weakening the corresponding feeling. And the youngest was the cutter, able to cut whatever thread she desired, even life-threads.
“These women are using threads to kill, and you’re the only private eye in Alante who can see the Quilt. So, yeah, I think you’re exactly the right person for the job.
He’s Sumazi, worked construction for a while, then Bianca poached him. He’s not on the front lines, I rarely ever see him at the club, but word is he does stealth work for her, spying, keeping tabs on rivals, tracking skirmishes on their turf. He’s kind of Bianca’s second, I guess.
Legend said that the gods died out long before the old world Collapsed, the Moirae among them. But their powers survived in their descendants: whenever three children were birthed in their family line, they inherited their powers.
The Nine sisters, descendants of the Muses, held court at a massive mansion in the heart of the Artisti District.
Once a thread was cut, the connection, love—or in this case, enjoyment—you once felt was gone. Something . . . meh was left in its place. Éclairs were Io’s favorite, and Monsieur Poire’s were beyond divine. But when once Io’s mouth had watered at the thought of them, now there was nothing special. The thread might grow back over time, but most likely it would not; such was the risk of cutting it.
But Ava always refused. It wasn’t her place to decide what or how much others loved, she said. Which Io found very noble, and very useless.
In the last dregs of sunlight shifting through the high windows, he looked like a painting, both faded and vibrant, ancient and timeless.
“A chernobog-born?” asked Io. The descendants of the Rossk god of darkness could create invisible walls that no one could cross; their twins, the belobog-born, could wield light as a shield.
Also known as Gemini, the Dioscuri were the twin gods Castor and Pollux, patrons of sailors and travelers. Their descendants, the dioscuri-born, were twins with the ability to track both the paths one had traveled and those one would travel. Much like moira-born, they used something akin to the Quilt, but instead of threads they saw pathways on the ground, alit in bronze. The eldest saw the paths taken in the past, the youngest the paths to be taken in the future.
At the end of the month-long Kinship Treaty negotiations sixty years ago, the other-born delegation, led by the Agora of the horae-born, had conceded to a compromise: they would receive citizenship rights in all city-nations in exchange for several precautions, such as lower wages, special restrictions to rent and own property, as well as their private information made public. Their names, affiliations, and powers would be listed in public records for everyone to see.
Io’s breath caught in her lungs, like his laugh was a hook and she a starving fish.
There is violence in kindness, and kindness in violence.”
“My father’s beliefs,” Edei went on, “are part of the reason we had to leave Sumi. His sect wanted Samiya to stop performing abortions. She refused.”
Each historian and scientist seemed to have a different theory about what had brought on the Collapse, but they all agreed on its major turning point: the once singular moon split into three—Pandia, Nemea, and Ersa—causing the sea level to rise globally. Whole nations were swallowed by dark waters, and the few remaining coastal cities faced a tide that sank them half underwater every night. At first, people took refuge at higher altitudes, waiting for the tide to settle. But despite every scientist’s prediction, despite the very laws of nature, the shifting earth and sea never calmed. Instead
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Horae-born who could alter the passage of time, muse-born who could see past and future in the arts, moira-born who could create and sever bonds.
The well-known phrase had been inspired by the muse-born’s actual powers. Through the art their protégés produced, they could interpret truths about the past and future, about social conflicts, natural disasters, technological developments—even murders.
Her cheeks warmed. “What does it mean?” “Boss? We use it to show respect. I used to call my horse in Sumi boss.” She snorted; this little irrelevant detail was perfectly endearing. “Always nice to be equated to a horse.” He glanced down at her, eyes wide with apprehension. “No, I didn’t mean—” He halted at the sight of her grin. “You’re joking.” “Unsuccessfully, from the looks of it.” “No, I’m not saying that—oh. You’re doing it again.” “Hm. We’re not great at this.” He nodded severely. “It does appear to be the only dissonance in our partnership.” “We’ll figure it out, I’m sure.” “With hard
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The whole place was dressed in indigo, from the walls to the carpet to the cushions, as though a blueberry jam factory had exploded.
Io and Edei shared a glance, each of them connecting the dots. On the same day, twelve years ago, Horatio Long kidnapped and attempted to kill Emmeline Segal, Drina Savva, and Raina—other women, too. The Nine had seen a tale in their artists’ creations, one that demanded the women’s deaths in order to save the city from burning to the ground. Twelve years ago, the city had burned because of the Moonset Riots. Hundreds fell victim to the turf war the anonymous rogue gang ignited, culminating in the loss of the entire Order of the Furies. If not for Bianca Rossi, the Riots would have annihilated
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“You might survive,” Io told Edei, “but tolerating wickedness seems to me just a slow kind of death.”
He was phobos-born, a descendant of Phobos and Deimos, the twin gods of terror and panic. He induced fear in his victims as long as he could ensnare them with his eyes, which reflected black like Io’s reflected silver when she was in the Quilt.
“The murderers had been targeted by the Nine during the Moonset Riots.” “Targeted how?” “The Nine hired someone to kill them—”
The Teatro Blanco, as was its proper name, was a massive structure of white marble, ten tall columns supporting the roof, each decorated with figures of major deities. The Furies, depicted as ugly crones with serpentine hair; the Graces, young, beautiful, and naked; the Muses, each with their instrument; the Dioscuri, solemn and identical; the Fates, weaving their tapestry; the Erotes, seven winged brothers of love; the Horae, three sisters who controlled the passing of time, long-haired and holding hands; the Keres, the three dark sisters of death; the Oneiroi, three brothers of sleep and
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Rosa was oneiroi-born, descended from the gods of dreams; a single touch from her at a person’s sleep cords and they dropped like a fly.
And second, because it reverberated deep into Io’s core to the numbing, inescapable fear that even if she did risk it all, if she did tell him about the fate-thread and how she felt, then the love would turn sour, soiled and corrupted, like Thais’s love had. Thais: the first, the deepest, the most important of all of Io’s unrequited love stories.
“The victims are cases he failed to prosecute. The wraiths are volunteers in his Initiative. And his head of security was sent after us,” answered Edei. “The Nine confirmed they hired Horatio to kill those women, claiming their artists foresaw they would be dangerous somehow, during the Moonset Riots.”
And life could be hard and happy at the same time, couldn’t it?
You know what she replied? Why be a councilor when you can be a queen?
The Nine had hired Horatio to kill the women who were now becoming wraiths, and whoever was behind them knew enough about the muse-born to hide from their powers.
Io’s first suspect, Horatio, had turned out to be another victim, punished for his involvement in the wraiths’ abductions during the Riots. Her second suspect had been Saint-Yves, who concealed the wraiths’ identities from the public and failed to prosecute the victims in the past. But he, too, could be ruled out: firstly, because he seemed loyal to the proper justice systems, secondly, because he had offered a partnership to Bianca Rossi, and thirdly—and most importantly—because the newest wraith had just attempted to kill him. The whole attack could be a ruse, but Io didn’t think so.
And now Io’s third suspect was . . . Gods, she couldn’t even think it without a shiver of dread running down her spine. Bianca Rossi. The mob queen had hired Io to solve these murders and pulled the plug on the investigation the moment their suspicions turned to her most powerful enemy. A few hours later, a wraith was sent to kill Saint-Yves, carrying the Fortuna knuckles. What a victory it would be, if the mob queen exposed the Police Commissioner as the mastermind behind the Silts Stranglings, then quickly saved Alante from his evil.
“Unfortunately for us,” Chimdi said, her tone flat, “we’re not snitches.” “Hence the stitches,” Nico added.
When I didn’t behave the way she thought was appropriate, her reaction was cruel. She wouldn’t talk to me for days. She would criticize everything I did, often infusing it with exaggerations or lies. And she would shame me, every chance she got.
I nibbled at Thais’s home-thread, fraying it inch by inch. When it finally snapped, all the love that Thais felt for Alante, the reason she would never leave the city, disappeared. I asked Rosa to send her dreams of traveling so intense that she wouldn’t be able to resist. When Thais packed up her things and left, it wasn’t a surprise. I had wished it. I had planned it.” It was intentional, it was premeditated, it was slow and meticulous. It was malicious, she was malicious, and she knew it.
Now that she had heard it spoken aloud, her story was one of unhappiness. She felt sad for herself, for Ava. For Thais, too.
“With Saint-Yves. She was calm and kind and happy. And I just kept thinking, what if she just needed someone to fight for her? I didn’t even try.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility to try. You were what? Sixteen? You were in pain, for years, and you chose to protect yourself.” After a moment, Edei said, “Someone wise told me once that tolerating wickedness is just a slow kind of death.”
Tenderly, she added, “I think the people we love can be cruel. Our love doesn’t absolve them. Nor should it.” “What kind of person are you,” Edei whispered, “if you love someone who is cruel?” It was a question Io had often asked herself. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.”
Some other-born, like the moira-born and keres-born, were demonized by the general public, and others, like the Agora of the horae-born or the Nine, were equated to deities. But oneiroi-born and grace-born were fetishized in the public media, always depicted as overtly sexual, or manipulative. In most dream palaces, oneiroi-born were obligated to work clad in nightdresses and robes.
Bianca Rossi, mob queen of the Silts, was a keres-born hiding in plain sight. She had ended the Riots with the help of Fyodorov’s borders, Minos’s tracking, Jarl’s thrall, and her own, dark violence. She had raised an army of teenagers to slaughter the rogue gang that was terrorizing the Silts. And when that army began to fail, she started making dying soldiers out of them. She started making wraiths. In horror, Io watched as the girl marched back into battle. Dying from the inside out.
Io found herself wishing the woman would look at her, with defeat or remorse or even hatred. But Bianca Rossi was a queen to her fall.
Bianca had the power to turn the women into bloodthirsty wraiths. She had reason to want the victims dead—to guarantee their silence on the Riots. Except Horatio Long: she had no knowledge of his part in the Riots, as far as Io and Edei knew. And the second wraith, Drina Savva, had attempted to kill her. Edei was right: If she wanted her collaborators dead, why act now, twelve years later? And why turn the women into wraiths? Why these women in particular, who the Nine had claimed would be dangerous during the Riots? Could they have made a mistake? Was Bianca innocent?
Thais’s punishments were always like that: subtle. Shaped as a surrender, dressed as assistance. In truth they were a challenge you would fail, again and again, until you learned to forfeit from the get-go. And that was your lesson: you were a coward.
The wraiths are taking vengeance for the genocide of their line, Edei.” His voice was small, barely a whisper. “The wraiths are fury-born.”
“Twelve years too late. They’ll kill us all, you told me. End this, end them. So I did. I sent my kids to the slaughter, and I killed every last one of the Furies.” “Don’t pretend innocence!” cried Clio. “You knew about the plan from the get-go. You and every influential other-born in the city agreed. We would let the next gang skirmish in the Silts escalate to a riot. We would ask for the help of the Order of the Furies, and when they arrived, we would use the riot to end their reign of terror.”
That was why Raina had attacked them with her hands and not her whip-thread.
