At the center of the room was a shiny black globe where millions of threads had been woven into the surface like a tapestry. Each thread represented a person—a fate—that the Moirai had spun into existence. Usually, the three sisters sat in an arc around the globe. Clotho would start the Thread of Life, weaving it into the surface of the map, and when it was long enough, Lachesis would begin her work, weaving into it a destiny, while Atropos plucked and unraveled threads, determining the deaths of all souls, cutting their lifelines with her shears.
Except when Hades appeared, Clotho and Lachesis were consoling Atropos, who wailed and sobbed into her hands.
“You must fix this, Hades!” Lachesis demanded when she noticed him.
“Yes, you must!” Clotho cried.
“My shears! My beautiful shears!” Atropos cried.
“I cannot help if I do not know what happened,” Hades said, already frustrated with the three.
“Did you not hear?” Lachesis spat.
“Atropos’ shears have broken!” Clotho seethed.
“How?” Hades asked through his teeth, fingers tightening into fists. He was losing his patience, a dangerous quality when it came to the Fates. Hades knew he would have to handle this carefully, or he would find himself at their mercy.
“Atropos?” Hades asked.
It took a moment for the Fate to calm herself. Then, she spoke, her dark eyes red from crying.
“I picked a thread from the globe, chose and wove a death, and when I went to cut the thread, it would not sever. I tried again, and again, and again, and again, until my sheers broke apart.”
Her voice quivered, and she began howling again, a horrible keening that pierced Hades’ ears and made him feel violent. He took a breath and held it until he felt a little less murderous.
“Whose thread?” Hades asked next.
Breathing hard and sniveling, Atropos looked at Hades again, gaze fierce and wild. He recognized the feral look—it was the look of a goddess, ready for vengeance.
“It is a mortal who seeks to cheat death!” she fumed. “Sisyphus de Ephyra.”
Hades scowled at the name, and a dark feeling crept into his chest. The mortal from the fish yard. It was not completely surprising that the man had somehow managed to find a way to defy the Fates. He had connections in the criminal underworld of New Greece, as well as to Triad. He probably tried a number of options—magical potions and spells cast by Magi, mortals who practiced dark magic, even relics—until he found something that worked.
“Fix this, Hades!” Clotho exclaimed.
“Find him!” Lachesis shrieked.
“Fix this, find him, Hades,” said Atropos. “Or we will unweave the Goddess of Spring from your life!”
“Yes,” they all hissed in unison. “Or we will unweave the Goddess of Spring from your life!”
Then you will invite a war.
Hades eyes flashed, and he almost verbalized the threat—the promise—he was now making, when the sisters began to scream.
It took Hades a moment to discover why, but he finally spotted the source of their agony. A thread had risen to the surface of the globe between them and disintegrated—and it was not due to the Fates’ will.
A soul for a soul, Hades thought. The universe would have balance, even against the will of the gods.
“Thanatos,” Hades said, turning to the God of Death. It was an order—take us to that dying soul.
The god obeyed, and the two found themselves in the upperworld outside a dilapidated apartment in the Macedonia District.
Hades recognized the smell of death immediately—sharp and foul and tangible. It was an odor he never got used to, one that seized his mind and sent him back to his early and ancient days on the bloody battlefield, where he had come to know the varying scents of decay.
He exchanged a glance with Thanatos. They had come too late.
Hades touched the door, and it opened. Inside, lay a man. He was sprawled on the floor, face down with his arms fanned out. It was as if he had just entered his home and collapsed, lifeless.
“He wasn’t due to die for another year,” Thanatos said. While it was not uncommon for mortals to die unexpectedly, those deaths were still orchestrated by Atropos.
And someone had denied her that right.
Hades stared down at the lifeless corpse for a long moment. The man was young, but his face was scarred and scabbed, and there were track marks and bruises in the crook of his arm.
Evangeline, the god thought grimly.
“Name?” Hades asked.
“Alexander Sotir,” Thanatos said. “Thirty-three.”