by Lucy Auburn
"They're still losers. Especially Ferdinand. Get attached if that's what you want, but all five of them are on the roster for next week's match, and at least one will die. Probably all of them." She raises a thin golden brow at me. "Then again, maybe death doesn't bother you much, considering..."
Considering: I brought a mortal back to life, though Portia doesn't know that, as far as I'm aware. And I just saw a half-mortal stumble through the doors, very much alive again, despite the impossibility of that. Maybe the things I thought I knew about the end of our lives were far from truthful.
My mother has more secrets than most, and I say that as one of few alive who know some of them.
Still, Portia is right. It's risky to get close to people who might be low on the totem pole. But it also might be my best way to keep out of the limelight and make everyone underestimate me. I won't escape, after all, if the guards stationed around the room, watching our every move, have any idea what I'm truly capable of.
So I tell her defensively, "They look cool. Different. Everyone else here is bland and predictable—except for you, of course," I hastily add, though she doesn't seem to quite believe me. "If I'm supposed to avoid those team leader guys, and you don't want to spend every waking moment explaining everyone to me, I should find somebody to show me the ropes. Who better than them? They may be weak, outsiders even, but they've survived this long. They have to know something they can teach me."
"Suit yourself." She sniffs, eyeing the empty chairs beside her spot at the table, and sighs forlornly. "Just don't put the twins on my side of the table. They stink. And I mean that literally. We're talking full-on unwashed funk. I don't want to lose my appetite."
Eyeing her mostly-full soup bowl, I wonder what in the world she's talking about. She's barely eaten at all. But for all I know this place serves dessert after dinner—it wouldn't shock me. Trust Ares to treat his godblood prisoners like golden calves being fattened for the slaughter. It likely suits him to feed us, since it feeds him in the end, when he sends us to the arena to watch us die. Underfed, underweight warriors don't exactly fight well in battle, after all.
As the four so-called misfits make their way to the end of the food line, I weave my way through the crowd, going around Artemis' daughters with pixie cuts, Bacchus' sons laughing uproariously, even a few sultry children of Eros with their pouty lips and stunning pink hair.
It's not hard to divide the prison up by its factions, half-siblings congregating with each other, while at the top Vesuvius and Jasper reign over their respective halves. The broad and muscular fire-born demigod is lounging on one side of the common area, bruisers and muscle around him, some Aphrodite women flirtatiously putting their hands on his arms. Opposite him, Jasper holds a kind of quorum at the center of some tables, his hands waving about theatrically in the air, surrounded by huntresses and sly-eyed children of the Goddess Nemesis.
The dividing lines are clear: the physically powerful, with athletic bodies and battle-ready powers, congregate around the demigod with firepower. On the other hand, the clever and nimble, who carefully plan and use strategy on their side, join up with Jasper.
If they try to recruit me—when they try to recruit me, if my plan to appear weak fails—it's hard to even know who I'd belong with. My power is physically overwhelming; I can drain the very life force from others if I try, not that anyone in this prison should know about that, other than Aleksander. But Death is also clever, and she taught me to patiently wait, to let others do the dirty work of fighting. Like my mother before me, I don't like committing to a losing battle. Death isn't a fan of being cheated at the last moment.
The misfits obviously don't fit with either group. The son of Wealth, like Portia, may be valuable out here in the prison, but inside the arena he just doesn't have the physical stamina. While the tall man might be a fighter, the pixie-like girl looks as if a toothpick could break her, and the twins, as interesting as their appear, are scrawny. None of them have bare wrists without cuffs, which means none of them will be capable of fighting with their powers.
At least I have broad, muscular thighs and arms that have seen more than a few brawls. If it comes to it and I wind up in the arena, I can hold my own. But I never want to get to that point—especially if it means fighting in front of Ares, who will surely be keeping a close eye on arena battles. Whenever he deigns to visit his prison, I plan on being very, very far away.
"Hey there," I say to the misfits, watching as they look at me with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. "I'm the new girl, Mora. I saw you guys and thought it might be nice to meet you."
Portia's brother Ferdinand snorts dismissively, much like her. Must be something their father passed on to them. "Did my sister send you over? If so, tell her I'm not giving the coin back. I've had it for over a century. It's mine now whether she wants it to be or not."
"Ignore him." The pixie girl elbows golden boy in the side, rolling her eyes. Her voice is a low burr that doesn't match her short stature, petite build, or multicolored pastel hair at all. She shoves her hand out at me. "I'm Garnet. This over here is Ferdinand, if you didn't know that part already, and being the son of Plutus makes him a little stuck up. I'm a daughter of Aether myself."
The God of Wind. Suddenly her light, breezy nature makes sense. "Nice to meet you."
"This is Yoric, Son of Erebus," the God of Night, explaining his pitch black skin, "and over here are Sasha and Leo, daughter and son of none other than Gemini."
As Garnet lets go of my hand and looks at me expectantly, it becomes clear what's meant to happen next. The misfits have all been introduced; they even gave me little waves hello as their breezy friend listed off their names and designations. And if the way they said hello is any indication, the whole "here's-who-my-celestial-parent-is" thing is a part of the culture around here.
It makes sense. I've never known a godblood who didn't have a little bit of puffed up pride about their divine father or mother. I just assumed that was because I mostly knew sons of Bacchus and Ares from my time with my mother, spent mostly cleaning up wars and going to parties afterwards. Apparently other demigods all fall the same way, even the offspring of minor deities.
This was going to happen eventually. I've done it plenty of times, and seen the varied reactions: repulsion, curiosity, excitement, sometimes even boredom. But for some reason it's hard to do it so many times in such a short period, or to an entire mini crowd.
"I'm Mora," I repeat, knowing I'm putting off the inevitable, fingers fidgeting as I push my hair behind my ear, "daughter of... daughter of Death."
A hand falls on my shoulder, and a deep voice rumbles into my ear, "So I've heard."
Chapter Seven
It's instinct. Before I can even really stop myself—not that I think I actually would—I grab the offending hand, spin around, and slap it away.
Then find myself staring up into a pair of grey-green eyes with glowing specks of fire in them.
Vesuvius is very, very tall up close.
And so incredibly broad. His shoulders look like they could actually hold up the world. The muscles that ripple in his arms are certainly strong enough.
There's this spicy, incredible musk that comes off of him, too. Like bergamot or amber, something I can't quite place. Maybe it's the smell of an active volcano simmering beneath the surface.
Or maybe it's just the smell of his cologne.
Whatever it is, it makes an undeniable spark start between my thighs, and I shift my weigh a little as the tingle spreads. I get the feeling that if I inhale too much of his scent I'll wind up wet enough to dampen my athletic shorts. A wild urge starts in my head: to push him up against a column, climb his incredible body, and yank what must be an amazing dick out of his shorts. Riding it to his completion would probably be enough to sate my death hunger for an entire day.
Too bad I can't do it. This is exactly the man whose attention I'm supposed to avoid. Besides, I'm pretty sure the guards would object to full-on exhibitioni
st sex in the communal area, not that I think it would be the first time it's happened.
We are the children of gods, after all.
No one is hornier than celestials.
It's the reason why they call it the Big Bang.
"You've got a grip on you," Vesuvius says to me approvingly, and I instinctively bite my lip, wanting to hear more of the deep rumble of his voice. "I'd heard that someone new and special had just arrived inside our facility. I wanted to be the first... well, one of the first, to speak to you, Mortem."
"Mora," I correct him, wondering where he got my name from. Maybe one of these half-brained sons of Bacchus around him knew it from my earlier life. I would try to figure out if I've met one of them before, but they all look the same to me. "I was actually talking to someone before you interrupted me."
When I turn towards Garnet, though, she looks dejected—and beside her, Sasha and Leo are clutching each other's hands like they're afraid.
The pixie girl says, "We were actually done with her, V. It was nice to meet you Mora. Maybe I'll see you around."
I can practically feel the warriors gathered around Vesuvius glare the misfits down. Their king has picked some fresh meat he'd like to recruit, and they'll beat up anyone who gets in their way, that much is clear. It irritates me—I've never liked a bully, least of all one who picks on those smaller than them.
So I tell Garnet, "No, hold on, wait. I wasn't done talking to you. Just let me take care of this." I motion towards Portia. "You guys are welcome to sit with my roommate over there... and no, Ferdinand, she never said anything about a ring, so don't start."
Before the Bacchus idiots can get up to anything else, I spin on my heels, put my hands on my hips, and try to look like I'm not a starved demigod with Ares gold on my wrists and ankles. It's hard with such a broadly muscular man staring down at me. Doubly hard considering how turned on he makes me.
"You." I raise a finger to point at him, then self-consciously drop it. "I'm not joining your little group or whatever. I wouldn't... fit in."
"Why not?" He raises a red-tinged brow, heat emanating off his chest. Even though he seems to have just come from some kind of workout, based on the clothing he's wearing, he's still impossibly good-smelling and not at all out of breath. "I think you'd fit in just fine."
"I'm not like you guys," I argue. "My mom is Death. You know, that thing that happens at the end of life. When you give out. She didn't exactly give me great powers. And I have little chicken arms."
Stepping back, Vesuvius looks me up and down, very slowly and deliberately. Everywhere his eyes rake heat goes up me—and not just because he's the son of the fire god. Damn he's sexy. And damn I'm in trouble.
"You look fine to me," he says. "Stunning, even. I know bodies, and yours isn't weak. I think you'd fit in perfectly."
"I wouldn't. I'm just not like you."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, you don't fit in anywhere else. And you can't hide your physical strength—it's clear you've got a body for fighting."
Beside him, a Bacchus son and an Ares son both leer at his words. I can tell which they are because one has a toga and a bottle of bourbon, while the other is wearing Ares' sun crest on his shirt, not to mention bears a sword birthmark on his neck. It occurs to me that Vesuvius must be incredibly powerful in order to keep them in line. After all, neither god is known for making compliant offspring.
He'll be hard to throw off my back. Especially since I want him there, just not in exactly this way.
"You don't understand," I insist, mind whirring at a thousand miles a minute to come up with something plausible to keep him from wanting to recruit me onto his team. "When someone punches me, I fold like a paper bag. I... it's so embarrassing to admit."
"What is?" Crossing his arms, he stares me down. "Tell me."
His voice is full of command. I do my best to look nervous, which isn't hard, because I am. Leaning in close, I try to make my next words sound like a reluctant confession.
"I have Death running through my veins. That means I'm dying—all the time. But I'm not mortal, so... I don't actually die. Instead I just slowly wither away every second of every day. These muscles? They're weak and trembling when my godblood powers run through my veins. It's only the cuffs that have beat back the death that constantly weakens me."
As I speak the words with conviction, it occurs to me that I'm not exactly lying. Especially since I was caught while starving from not feasting on any mortality for days. If I don't eat, I'm as weak as a newborn lamb, weaker even.
There is a kind of death running through my own veins.
The kind that only rests with the death of others.
Vesuvius eyes me. I raise my chin and stare him down, trying to sell the not-quite-lie. The more I do, the more I realize how very true it is. If I had to fight any of these warriors in the arena, they would beat my ass up five ways to Sunday. It's not just Ares I have to fear—it's the prison itself.
That scares me more than anything.
"Fine." Vesuvius grunts, rubbing the ginger-colored stubble of his hair. "Waste away in here if you want. Just know this: only champions get privileges. And protection. You'll regret not joining up."
The words should sound like a threat, but for some reason they seem more like a worried warning. I almost think the hot-blooded demigod cares about me. That's probably just my imagination speaking, though there is a certain softness to him not shared by his muscular brethren.
Too bad getting close to him would mean risking the attention of Ares.
"If I regret going my own way, so be it," I tell him, my stubborn pride flaring in my chest. "My mother is Death. Being part of the crowd was never really my destiny. Especially in a place like this."
Vesuvius studies me with those strange eyes of his, then nods sharply, his jawline tense. "If you change your mind, the pre-dinner training slot is ours. I'm there every day. And if I could give you some advice?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You do."
It's hard to resist his quiet steadiness. Besides, I probably need every bit of advice headed my way, no matter the source. Especially if said source is drop dead sexy.
"Tell me, then."
"Don't join up with Jasper's crew." His eyes dart behind me, and I don't have to look over my shoulder to know the multicolored, scarred demigod is watching our little conversation. "His father is Hermes, the Trickster God. Trust me when I say that's the side he takes after. There's a reason why he can't stand to wear one face for long. If you think my crew isn't the right fit for you, that goes double for him."
There's not much I can say in response, though it does interest me to find out the shapeshifting godblood is related to Hermes. Though Vesuvius called him the Trickster God, he's also the God of Thieves, among other things. His ever-shifting nature is part of what makes him such a good Trickster, and it's the reason why he's known for so many things, and in so many forms, among the mortals.
Once I wondered if he was the father of the New Gods, who fell out of favor in this land after it was turned on its head by colonialism. There's certainly a bit of the coyote and the raven in Hermes' eyes. He kept his mouth shut about my inquiries, though.
If Jasper is his son, that makes him dangerous.
And alluring.
Dangerously alluring.
I really am in very deep shit around here if these are the godbloods available to me.
"Thanks for letting me know," I tell Vesuvius, "but I wasn't planning on joining any team. Or crew, or whatever. I'm not great in battle, remember? I leave that for Ares' sons. Raping and pillaging have never been my thing."
The warmongering seed standing beside Vesuvius scowls in my direction. "War is the cleanest display of mortal spirit there is. Just because you're half celestial doesn't mean you don't have it running through you. Every mortal succumbs to the fight in the end. Warfare is within your veins no matter who your mother is, Death girl."
Whatever that means.
Sounds like someone has been worshipping at the altar of military might for a century too long. "Okay. Sure. Have a good dinner, guys. I'll be over there—with my not-a-crew."
"Be well," Vesuvius says, his eyes smoldering with intensity, the red orange specks in them seeming to flare like a living fire. "May death never find you."
"What's that?"
"Ah—what we say in the arena before our battles. I suppose it has a different meaning for you, given your mother."
"No." I consider my last moments with my mother before I was hauled away here. "It's a good saying. May Death never find you either."
Mainly because I'd still like to find out how it would feel to ride those thighs, whether it gets me in trouble or not. Maybe Ares will get busy in the Middle East again, or be distracted by a land war in New Zealand, and forget to visit his prison for a while. Stranger things have happened.
When I rejoin the misfits and Portia at our table, I'm not surprised to see that she's having an argument with her golden-skinned brother, apparently about who their father wants to give a certain ring to. When Leo, one of the twins, pipes up to suggest, "Why not just ask your father about it," he earns himself a glare that seems to sear his skin tomato red.
Of course, even the son of a minor deity like Gemini should know no one just asks the gods for things. Least of all their children. Plutus may be a more involved father than most—many of the Wall Street investors making hay while the sun shines can attest to that—but he's not the ask-me-anything-kids type.
Sasha steps in. "Ignore my brother. He's a bit of a dolt. I swear when we were born, I got most of the brains, and he just got the ability to whistle."
"It wasn't a stupid question. I actually asked Father the other day..."
I start to tune this particular argument out, not because it's boring—though it is—but because a certain someone's gaze draws my attention.
Jasper is looking right at me.
Unlike Vesuvius, he isn't approaching me to ask me to join with his crew, though I have no doubt that's the conversation he's planning on having with me. He's just staring at me, the wisps of hair around his ears turning a bright orange like the sun, then slowly fading to a dusky blue and finally a jet blue, as if that same sun is setting. His eyes are arresting, a strange and colorless blue that must change by the moment. I wonder how it is that he picks his look for any given day—it almost makes me glad I'm the same Mora no matter what happens.