by Lucy Auburn
"Omar," she calls out, voice somewhat scolding, "you forgot your scarf. Go on." She pushes the back of the little girl's back, and I see the long length of hand knit scarf held between her hands. "Give it to Papa."
Turning, Omar crouches down and smiles as the girl, who couldn't be older than four or five, walks to him gingerly and holds up the scarf. Her dark eyes keep darting in my direction, loose bits of her long hair escaping the delicate fishtail braid that lies against her back.
She looks so much like her mother, but there's much of her father in there too.
My heart splits wide open at the sight of it, and for a moment I have to take a breath to settle myself. The truth is, while I may act scornful and dismissive about human lifespans, there are things they have that make me green with envy, that gnaw at me like a hunger deep in my belly.
Family.
Love.
Devotion.
These are things the daughter of Death is not allowed to have. Things that matter, that change you for the better, give you purpose. While I stumble from dive bar to drunken fight to food cart, humans like Omar and his wife have home. They have not just a short life, but a reason to live.
My life is a curse in comparison. A cold thing, as empty and dark as my mother's heart. I could live another two centuries and never hold onto anything as vital as what Omar has right here, right now, as he takes the scarf with a smile on his face, and brushes his little girl's hair out of her face.
"Thank you, my love. Now, go to bed. And brush your teeth when Mama tells you."
"Yes, Baba."
I watch the little girl turn and head back towards the doorway. It takes everything I have to tear my eyes away. When I look at her I feel a hunger that I like to ignore—the hunger, the one that makes me get so drunk I'm almost blind, the one that I'll be forced to give into, if not today then soon.
The hunger to eat death. To consume life force as the soul leaves the body. I've snacked here and there, found little bits of mediocre meals from hanging out near vet's offices and eating metaphorical deaths: the death of hope, the death of joy, even the death of a relationship. My favorite death-that-isn't is la petite mort, the little death that is an orgasm, when a human's mind and body briefly flirts with the never-ending.
But none of them are true deaths. And when I look at the life I can't have—a human life, with happiness and a legacy left behind—I feel the hunger quicken. It's not that I want the little girl to die, but rather that I'm so empty inside I need to fill myself with something.
So I take another bite of falafel and cast my eyes towards the darkness.
I'm a monster, and I know it. I wish often that I were mortal, even though it would mean being long dead. I'd give up my powers—useless as they are—in exchange for something meaningful. Instead all I get is booze and chickpeas.
Maybe it's because I'm hungry. Or maybe the mortal half of me is drunk from all that liquor, as improbable as it seems. But I can feel how dull my senses are as a moment in time surges to the forefront, luck sharp in the atmosphere, the scent of a deity's influence in the air.
A strange and ominous wind picks up.
It's strong enough to whip a scarf out of a grown man's hands.
Omar makes a noise of distress as the breeze yanks and grabs onto his daughter's scarf churlishly, pulling it towards the dirty overpass in the distance, where rats dine on human waste and humans waste away.
I feel a cough coming on, the falafel sticking in my throat like concrete. Like blood.
Omar dashes into the street, and I find myself reaching towards him, not quite knowing why.
They say our godblood gives us gifts, but the mortality in us demigods drags us down, as if our feet were filled with concrete, our veins sluggish with the weakness of humanity.
I'm not fast enough to stop Omar. So he's standing in the street as the car comes out of nowhere.
Not nowhere as in around a street corner, or some other predictable place. It comes out of nowhere the way a miracle does. And only gods cause miracles. What humans rarely realize is how many of them are acts of great cruelty.
The car hits Omar straight on in the chest. He flips over onto the hood. The vehicle picks up speed. He falls off the other side, onto the ground, as the tires squeal.
I hear the little girl scream.
I run into the street, my plate dropping on the sidewalk, everything quickening as my godblood heats inside me, flaring to life and clawing at my skin.
Fast, fast, as fast as I can. As the car speeds down the corner and disappears—literally. As Omar's wife makes a sound like an animal being skinned alive.
I drop down beside the only friend I really have, the first mortal to look at me and see—if not the truth, then something worth believing in.
And I know, somehow, what's going to happen next.
It's not a surprise to look deep into the darkness of the overpass and see my mother's glowing golden eyes staring back at me.
Chapter Two
Death leaves quickly. No doubt she's eager to get to that party in Yemen. She's made her point: I disobeyed. I displeased. But I won't be the one to suffer for it.
Omar stares up at me. He tries to make words. Blood trickles from his mouth.
There are things I want to say, desperate things that I would beg and plead of him, but I know better. I know my mother, and I know her calling. I can see my own reflection in his gaze. You cannot cheat Death.
Overhead, dark clouds begin to let out a drizzle, which will soon be a heavy rain. I want to believe the world is mourning the death of this one man, but I'm not a fool. The world is careless to grief and tragedy. It rains because the clouds are full to burst.
I'm the one who grieves Omar even as he dies beneath my half-immortal touch.
I watch as the light leaves his eyes before he manages to form a single word.
His wife and daughter are standing at the curb, screaming and wailing. His body was thrown a few hundred feet; the little girl is desperate to get to him. I have my back to her, but I can feel it: her raw grief, her confusion, her mother's fear, how they want to come to his side, how afraid they are of what they'll see.
My senses are always sharpened to the point of impossible strength when a mortal reaches their inevitable end. Once, when I feasted with my mother every day, dining on course after course of misery and grief, I felt so sharply powerful that I truly thought I might one day become more than a simple demigod. I thought I might ascend to the height of the celestials themselves.
His soul begins to detach from his body, and the moment stretches on beneath me. I inhale, and my mouth fills with saliva. My eyes narrow as I stare at his lifeless face, and I have to swallow to keep from opening my mouth and taking all of what's left of him.
I am so very hungry.
There are certain spots that chickpeas and basmati rice just don't hit.
"Baba." The little voice is sobbing.
His wife is muttering, "No, no, no."
"Babaaaa!"
They will come. They will see him in the street, dead like a gutter rat dies, no kindness left in eyes that once saw me. I can't stop it. I know how these things work. I might as well get my meal in. He'll be dead either way—it's not as if I killed him.
Except that I did.
By accepting his kindness and his warmth.
And by coming here on a night when my mother wanted me at her side.
He's paying my price.
But I'm still so hungry.
I lean down, lick my lips, and let my eyes fall closed.
It shocks me to feel two tears drip down my cheeks. I didn't think I did such things anymore. Grief is for mortals. The last time I indulged in it I thought I would die myself. I cried so long and so hard once that I thought all my tears were gone.
My lips part, and I feel the hunger waken. His life force is there in the air. The stench of death is like warm bacon sizzling on the grill, nearly perfectly crisp. I put my hand behind his head, rais
e it up from the pavement, and lean closer.
The wife stumbles into the street. I feel her nearness. I must be quick.
I taste his death. As his life pours into my body, my godblood quickens and settles, no longer burning in my veins from hunger. I feel the wretched pull of my two sides. Mortal and god. I remember what Omar called me: a hero.
I wonder how someone could be so wrong.
Dipping all the way down, I press my lips to his lifeless body.
Two more tears fall, undeniable and shocking. I breathe out, hunger hallowing me inside out. My godblood burns.
I let his life force slip back into him. As it fights to get out, I force it back. Pressing my half-celestial hands to his mortal body, I cup broken ribs and push my will into him like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill for eternity. I make it happen. I will it so. Like my mother before me, I pull on a string that must not be unraveled from the weaving of this world, and ring a bell that cannot be un-rung.
I bring him back.
I deny his death.
I feel him take a breath.
Everything inside me burns and screams. The world seems to shiver all at once. An ominous feeling fills the air. Something cracks, like lightning tearing the sky in two.
Pulling back, I stare down into Omar's eyes as they open, his expression confused. I wonder what he sees when he looks up at me. No doubt my cheekbones are sharper than before, my cheeks sunken in. Giving him back his life cost me age and hunger—and much more than that, if the acrid scent in the air is anything to go by.
Ares will sense what I did. Especially if my mother tells him where to find me. And she will, if it keeps the tentative peace between them, so hard-won and fragile.
Omar is alive, and that makes it all worthwhile.
"Mora." He blinks. "For a moment there, your eyes shone with gold. You looked like an angel. As if you were meant to save me. It must have been a trick of the light."
"Yes," I agree, as his wife falls to her knees beside him, cradling their child close. "It must have been. C'mon—we've got to get you out of the street. You'll cause a traffic jam so big the mayor will be forced to call a press conference about it."
"You're always so kind."
"No, I'm terrible."
"Not true at all. You're a wonderful girl, Mora. One day you'll see."
There's confusion as I pull him to his feet. As his wife hugs him close and cries into his chest. As I escort them to their home, fast as the child can go, urging him to forget the food cart for now.
The mortals can barely feel it, but there's danger in the air. Enough to make their hair stand on end. Enough to make them feel just a little like they should be inside.
Omar asks me if I got the car's license plate. I smile apologetically and shake my head. Then take his hand and tell him, "Go get some sleep. You deserve it."
"I suppose I do." His brows wrinkle, and he smiles at me, just a little. "Oh, Mora. What are we going to do with you? Always jumping into trouble. You could've gotten hit by that car, too."
Better me than him.
I let his wife shut the door behind them.
Then I take a deep breath, try to settle my jangling nerves, and turn to face my fate. My doom, even. In a way, it was only a matter of time.
Death's daughter isn't very good at playing by the rules.
Looking back into the shadows of the overpass, I see them. Glowing in the dark to my godblood eyes. Circular runic tattoos set into human foreheads. Godmarks.
Marks that denote Ares' god hunters.
Mortals given celestial powers so they can fight demigods—and keep us in line when the need arises.
The sensible thing to do would be to hold out my arms, put my wrists together, and go to them. Let them do the part that happens next. It would be more dignified, after all. And I'm not like any demigod they've taken before. Just because they can fight celestials doesn't mean they can take me.
Dignity. Sensibility. Not my strong suits.
Knowing the god hunters are coming for me, I turn around and flee into the darkness, hoping to get a head start on them.
I may be weakened, but I am still a demigod. I can outrun even the godmarked mortals. I just have to put a little effort into it.
Knowing the streets of Queens, I take sharp turns and corners down alleyways, running past sewer grates and open dumpsters, my feet slipping on the slick asphalt. I can feel them on my heels. Their footfalls are steady and slow. They don't waste any energy on the hunt.
Unlike me, they're fresh enough that all they have to do is wait for their quarry to stumble or make a mistake.
Normally they wouldn't be able to catch me at all.
But I'm so hungry...
As my pace quickens, and I reach a corner between two buildings I don't know, I start to wonder if they're playing with me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see one of them, close enough now to make out more than just his godmark.
Tall and muscular, he has short black hair shaved on the side and menacing ice blue eyes. The black leather uniform he wears has a stiff collar and long sleeves that hide nothing of his physique. Gloved hands hold a long stun baton that crackles at the end with electricity, and one of his ears has a small earpiece that curls around the shell and runs towards a wire behind his collar.
He twitches just slightly, and I can hear the tinny faraway sound of a voice coming through the two-way communication device. "Bring her in. The boss won't let a transgression like this slide, and the mother has given her blessing."
"Yes, sir."
The god hunter prowls towards me, charging his weapon. I back up one step, then two, frantically considering my options. I'm strong and fast—but the godmark makes him just as powerful as me in my weakened state, if not more so. I can kill spells and abilities sometimes, just like I can siphon life force at the moment of death, but god hunters rarely use magic.
They prefer pure brute force and technology, courtesy of Ares' connections with human warfare development.
He didn't get a kill order, though. That weakens him. As I've learned from my mother, those who refuse to get their hands dirty with death rarely come out on top. I've seen enough wars to know that pacifists get ground into little bloody pieces.
Flashing the hunter a smile, I try not to panic as my back hits a wall. He's cornered me. And unlike my mother, I can't vanish in a cloud of black smoke.
"So," I murmur, watching him, "what comes next? Are you going to get the handcuffs out and call me a bad, bad girl? Maybe spank me a little?"
"No." His voice is firm and unyielding. "I'm going to subdue you for transport to Godblood Prison."
I knew that was where they'd take me for saving Omar, but it doesn't stop the panic that rises in my throat and makes my eyes dart around for an escape route.
Jokingly, I tell him, "I hear that's where all the best BDSM parties are held these days. Chains, bars, and strict rules—can you say yes please?"
"Come quietly, and I won't have to hurt you."
He really sounds convincing. Like he doesn't want to hurt me at all. I spare a look all around me; an apartment building curves four stories above my head. Scaling the fire escape would be impractical. And though there's an emergency exit to my left, when I slide my hand across the door handle, I find it predictably locked from the outside.
This hunter has me cornered like a rat in a cage. Taking another step towards me, he reaches into the utilities pack strapped across his back and pulls out a long length of glowing golden chain.
Ares spelled that chain. Once it's on me, I won't be able to use my powers. More than that, I'll be exactly what I just wished I was: mortal. Human. Not a god at all.
Suddenly the very thing I wanted is the last thing I could ever endure. To live, rot, and die in Godblood Prison—I'd rather die in the streets like a dog.
My eyes dart to the darkness of the alleyway behind the hunter. There's room for me to run past him. I don't see the other god hunter; no doubt they're scaling to the ro
of above us to jump down like some action star, or waiting around the corner of the alley's mouth in case I escape. My chances of getting out of this are pretty slim.
Fuck it. I'm doing it anyway.
Putting the fear of, well, Death into my legs, I run as fast as a demigod can, darting past the god hunter and nimbly avoiding the reach of his electric baton. I can hear him curse behind me as I slip away.
The mouth of the alley is a potential danger, though, so instead of going straight out I turn and climb on top of a dumpster. New York City and its trash—you can't deny the usefulness.
Scrambling up the brick wall of the building, I stretch for a nearby fire escape, my boots digging into scarce footholds, pushing my strength. The fire escape is so close I can almost taste it.
I'm a Deathdamned demigod. I should be able to do this. I've lived for centuries.
But I haven't fed properly for years.
And I just gave Omar back his life.
My hand trembles weakly as I reach upwards. I feel one of my feet give way. Almost there... almost...
The god hunter leaps onto the dumpster behind me and grabs me around the knees, yanking me down. I curse and moan as I fall onto the dumpster lid. Face twisted in anger, he bends down and pushes the electric baton into my middle.
Screaming, I writhe as the lightning pulses through my body. This is no battery-run stun gun. Pure, unadulterated celestial lightning, straight from the gods themselves, turns my blood to fire and makes my muscles seize up.
My eyes roll back in my head. I hear footsteps approach—the other god hunter.
"You get her?" A woman's voice. "She's fast."
"I got her."
A grunt, and I can hazily see him pull out the god-forged chains. He kneels on top of me, leaning close until I can see the threads of dark blue in his ice eyes. There's something handsome about him, despite his casual cruelty. I can see why a vain god like Ares chose him to be one of his soldiers. Too bad he's pulling my wrists together tight in one leather-gloved hand.
As the woman approaches, he warns her, "Better be careful not to touch her. For all we know one touch could be deadly."