by Lucy Auburn
It takes me a bit to get why he's looking at me, and then it dawns on me all at once: he'd prefer that I be the one to approach him. It's a classic power move—if I come to him, asking about his warrior team, it frames it as if he's doing me a favor. And of course he wouldn't have had the conversation until after Vesuvius went first; that gives him even more of an advantage.
What confidence he must have, to believe I'd turn the other team down. That, or he decided he'll be fine in the arena with or without me. Too bad for him it's definitely going to be without me.
I have to admit, though, I like this confidence and style. I'm also insatiably curious to know how he wound up leading a warrior team against someone as clearly powerful as Vesuvius. Son of the Trickster God or not, Jasper seems to only have the ability to change his own appearance. Unless something lurks beneath the surface, that's not a lot of power to wield in a one-on-one battle against physically powerful demigods.
Aleksander would dominate the arena.
His opponents would fall like wheat being cut down by a scythe.
My eyes instinctively go towards the cell block he was dragged towards, but of course it's not as if he's going to saunter out any minute now. Given his injuries, he has to be recuperating in there somewhere, sleeping off the bruises and wounds. It might be a day or two before he rouses enough for anyone to speak to him.
I'm not sure I can wait that long. As the conversation swells around me, vacillating between annoyance from Portia, Sasha telling tall tales, Leo cutting in with jokes, and Garnet smoothing the tension between the Plutus siblings, my eyes go to the quietest among the misfits.
Yoric has a name shared with only one mortal I know well: the court jester in Hamlet, whose rhyme is one of few bits of Shakespeare anyone can seem to quote in the modern age. It's a strange name, even among demigods, and we tend to be named after everything from dead Latin words to the natural disasters our parents caused while fucking us into existence. Shakespearean names aren't exactly the most common among our kind, but I'd be lying if I pretended like Yoric was the oddest name I've ever heard.
He's odd to go along with it, too. Not just tall, but stretched everywhere, as if his bones have an extra half inch between each joint. Yoric's fingers are thin and delicate; his yellow, glowing gaze is set deeply into an angular skull, with sharp cheekbones and small round ears.
Scooting over on the bench, I lean towards him until his eyes catch mine. "Yoric. We haven't had the chance to really get to know each other. I'm Mora."
"I remember." His voice is lighter than I expected. When he speaks, the white of his teeth flashes against his night-dark skin. "Death's daughter."
"And you're Night's son."
"One of his many," he corrects, "though the only one to end up here."
"Your siblings must be rule followers."
His mouth quirks up a little, which somehow makes him look even more alien and strange, instead of less. He's beautiful in the most delightfully strange ways. In a voice pitched low, he tells me, "Truthfully, I've never been a fan of the rules. Especially my father's rules. Why not prevent the sun from rising, or make night appear in every shadow a sinner casts? I've played tricks on mortals my whole life. It's fun to watch them squirm."
"Is that why you're here?"
"No." He sighs, the sound long-suffering. "I tried to steal something very important: godglass. Wouldn't you know, it turns out there was a line. One of Ares' little hunters caught me and put me in here."
Curiosity churns inside me. "How did they catch you? The night is so slippery, after all."
"One of them had the ability to run through walls—a gift from the godmark, no doubt. I thought I was safe inside my hiding place. It turned out that even ten inches of brick and steel couldn't stop them. Though I won in the end—apparently a few months after catching me, the hunter who ran through walls got stuck in one." His smile deepens. "Their powers, unlike ours, come with downsides. Use them too much and they run out. Apparently one day he got too ambitious and hit empty in the middle of a solid object."
I have to shudder a little at the thought of such a death, though it's far from the most gruesome one I've witnessed. To have a gift like that, only to wind up eviscerated by it—needless to say, I don't envy that god hunter, though obviously he got what was coming to him.
"I actually have something to admit..." Leaning forward, I pitch my voice low enough to seem as if I'm ashamed, but loud enough to be overheard. "The god hunters who caught me? Didn't even have to use their Ares' gifts. They just shocked me with those electric batons, grabbed me, chained me up, and I was done for. It was like I didn't even have any abilities at all."
"Really?" Yoric raises his brows; over his shoulder, I see someone tilt their head towards us subtly, and I internally cheer. "Can I ask, what are your powers anyway?"
"I don't know..." Feigning nervousness is difficult given how giddy I feel. If this works, by tomorrow no one will want me on their team in the arena. "It's kind of embarrassing compared to what other godbloods can do around here."
A surprising amount of sympathy crosses Yoric's face, and his yellow eyes crinkle at the corners. "How about this: I'll tell you mine first, so you feel less embarrassed. Even though my father is the God of Darkness, born of Chaos, alive in this world before much of anything else sprang into existence... the only thing I can do, the only gift he gave me, involves creating shadow puppets."
Now I just feel bad. "So you mean that..."
"Yes." The embarrassment on his face is crystal clear. "In order to do much of anything, I need to create shadows. If I cast the shape of a bird on the wall, I can bring its shadow to life, creating a bird out of darkness itself."
"Wait, you bring shadows to life? That's pretty cool."
"Only my own shadows." He sighs forlornly. "And trust me when I say that the arena isn't well-lit for creating shadow puppets. Ares likes to see every single splash of blood on the wall—when he shows up, that is. These days it's mostly his sons who show, especially the second and thirdborn, ever since he cast the firstborn out again. And of course all the various minor sons he barely even pays attention to are always down in the arena, seeking his approval, but they never receive it."
Now my attention is piqued. "How often does Ares come here? Once a month? Twice a week? Just... curious." And hoping that I might be able to weaken my cuffs and get out of this place without a single run in with the man in charge.
"No no." Yoric shakes his head. "I told you my embarrassingly useless power, now you tell me yours. What can you do?"
I temporarily forgot the lie I had prepared, but thankfully my moment of tongue-tied confusion just passes as nervousness. Then I remember. "I guess you earned it. It's way worse than living shadow puppets, trust me. While I might be descended from Death, I can't do much of anything compared to her. All I'm able to do is manifest the dying wishes of worthy mortals."
He blinks at me. "Wait, so you mean?"
"Yeah." I cast my eyes down and away, running a hand through my hair and screwing my mouth up to the side so I look as dejected and downcast as possible. Thankfully I seem to have gotten some curious attention from the tables around us; even Ferdinand and Portia have stopped arguing long enough to listen in. "My abilities are outside my control. Just like my mother, I'm dependent on mortals for all my power—there isn't any Death without mortality, after all. And I can't even manifest every dying wish. Just certain ones. So in here..."
Sasha finishes the sentence. "You're basically powerless, cuffs or no."
It's a devastating claim to make—and thankfully, one I could backup if I had to. My mother does grant the wishes of the dying, or at least she can, and I can too if the mortal in question has enough life force. Few do; the more a human sins and harms others, the more of their precious soul they lose, making it harder to spin the stuff into great magic.
Death hasn't performed miracles in centuries, though, and the best I've ever managed to do are the equivalent of minor favor
s. I've made sure a dying nurse's cat was taken care of after she passed, and was able to use my powers to alter a man's will in order to write his illegitimate son into it. Little regrets only. The big stuff, the sort of things my mother once did when she was younger and more involved in the world, are out of my grasp.
"Wow." Portia stares at me, shaking her head; she clearly heard my little confession, which is good, because I wanted her to. "Too bad. Here I was thinking I might be able to sponsor you and raise you as a champion with a bit of time in the training room. Not like that—" she glares at Leo as he snickers, "—I mean the actual training that goes on there, get your filthy mind out of the gutter."
Before I can ask if she means what I think she means, a figure stands up a few tables over, and like a rock falling into a still pond, ripples follow. An expectant hush falls over the room.
The mountain didn't come to the prophet, so now the prophet has come to the mountain.
By which I mean the drop-dead gorgeous, clever, mysterious, and forbidden Jasper, son of Hermes, has appeared in front of our table and is directing his gaze straight at me.
A tingle goes up my spine.
I find myself picturing the dirty things that might happen in the training room, and it's hard to focus on the present. My mind keeps wondering what Jasper can shapeshift and change other than his hair and eyes. Like a certain cock, for instance, that he's no doubt proud of given the swagger in his step. There's a certain energy some men give off that's undeniable, and I've lived long enough to spot it from a mile away.
"Mora." Jasper leans a hand against the table behind Yoric, his hair glimmering a bright neon yellow, his eyes as black as a starless night. "I've heard you grant the wishes of the dying, and I want you on my team."
Chapter Eight
"What?" I stare at Jasper, wondering if this is some kind of clever trick, and if so whether I'm the butt of the joke or not. It's hard to tell what he's thinking when his eyes are so dark and inscrutable. "I don't... I don't understand. That kind of power is useless in a fight. Why in the world would you want me on your team? To get back at Vesuvius or something?"
The fiery demigod is at the opposite side of the communal area, three empty bowls of chicken and dumpling soup stacked in front of him, working intently on his fourth. It may look like he's ignoring everything around him, but the tension in his shoulders tells a different story. He definitely wants to know if I'm joining up with his rival or not.
So I tell Jasper, "That's kind of ridiculous, you know. Picking someone on your team just so no one else can have them. Seems like a losing strategy. Especially if there's someone else you could pick instead."
"Awww." Jasper throws his hand over his heart, his eyes sparkling to life with silver threads until the irises are a cool blue tone. "I'm touched by your concern. But no, Mora, this isn't a trick, and I'm not just trying to keep you away from V." Putting both hands on the table, he looms over me, intimidating and seductive at the same time. "I. Want. You. There's something about you... well, my stomach tells me I should add you to my team, and my stomach is never wrong."
Portia coughs into her hand, muttering something. Jasper shoots a look in her direction, and in a clear tone she mutters, "Gregorian."
"Ah. Right. The Great Disappointment." The trickster demigod shrugs his mistake away like water rolling down his back. "So I have one failure. And many, many successes. Something about you tells me that you'll be a success, Mora. No matter how coy you play."
My heart leaps against my rib cage, and not just because he saw through my fake weak routine. There's something in the way he looks at me with those odd, ever-changing eyes of his. It feels as if I'm being seen, truly seen. I don't know if I like it, but I do know that it makes him impossible to ignore.
"I'm not going to fight in the arena," I tell him firmly, hoping that if feigning weakness didn't work on Jasper, absolute negation will. "It's just not something I'm interested in. I want to keep my head down and survive this place, not get skewered on a sword or whatever. There are other ways I'd prefer to be skewered."
"I bet there are," he says suavely, and I curse my natural inclination to flirt. "Tell you what, Mora: you keep believing you can avoid the arena. And I'll be around to help you out when you change your mind. Because you will change your mind. Especially once you realize there's no getting out of this place. Godblood Prison is the end of the line."
His words echo what the god hunters claimed, though in a different way. They said this place is Hell; I still insist it isn't that bad, especially now that I'm here. The food is better than anything I ever ate on the battlefield, even in Ares' tent. And it beats what the sick and dying have to choke down in hospitals all across the globe.
My roommate isn't so bad. My cell has an actual mattress for me to sleep in, thin and firm as it is. There are interesting people here with stories to tell, and I'm starting to make friends, in my own way.
Best of all, the cuffs and manacles meant to be my punishment have their upsides. The only type of hunger I've felt since getting Ares gold slapped on my wrists and ankles is a hunger for food—and a desire for sex, which I intend to fulfill in some way... just not with Vesuvius or Jasper. Or Aleksander, for that matter, if I ever see him again.
There are plenty of hotheaded Bacchus fools to screw. They may not be my usual type, but their orgasms are still little deaths, a moment when the body's life force surges to the surface of the skin and some of it can be feasted on. A simple glance around the room at all the drinking, gambling, and flirting going on makes it obvious that I'll be able to find a bed to rest my head on—or a darkened corner to drunkenly screw in. I'd take a rest stop bathroom at this point, and it wouldn't be a new experience for me.
Some things change, but most stay the same. I'm still Mora, daughter of Death, screw up with a shitty past, who gets into bar fights and fucks the worst person in the room. I'll find my way out of this place even stumbling around in the dark.
Jasper is still staring at me impatiently. Intently. With far too much insight and intuition in his expression. It's probably for the best that I've decided he's off-limits—given how he looks at me, he'd prove to be trouble in a whole other way. At least the Bacchus idiots, stupid as they are, won't be able to figure out my big damned secret. They probably wouldn't see it if their faces were shoved right in it.
"This place may be the end of the line for you," I tell Jasper, enjoying the tension that my words bring to his face, "but I'm not going to rot down here, I can guarantee it."
"Oh?" He raises a brow, his eyes swirling into a bright emerald green that makes him seem curious and envious. "Tell me, how are you going to do that—by waiting for one of us to die, perhaps, and using our dying wish to free yourself?"
I give him a mischievous, secretive smile, letting him believe that's all I'm capable of. Loathe as I am to admit it, my powers truly are great—which is why I hate them, and my very nature, even more.
"Maybe that's my plan," I tell Jasper. "You'll just have to stick around and find out. Now, if you'd go back to your own table... I was having a conversation with my new friends." Motioning towards Garnet, I tell him, "They actually listen when I say no, and care about me enough to respect my wishes."
"Whatever." He leans away from the table, watching me intently. "You'll wind up in that arena whether you plan for it or not. And if you do, you'll regret not joining up with my group. We're clever enough to get you out of sticky situations—and you're clever enough to join us."
"I've yet to see proof of that."
"You will soon enough." As a parting shot, he adds, "If the guards ever hassle you or you find yourself in a sticky spot, come to me. I can help. Unlike some useless people around here."
He means Vesuvius, but Garnet winces, and the twins shift uncomfortably in their seats. Clearly the misfits know who and what they are: powerless outsiders, especially compared to the warriors on teams. I'm starting to understand why Portia would choose to elevate champions with her
wealth instead of trying to fight in the arena on her own; it's clear based on the way everyone around us dismisses the misfits, barely even looking at them, that they have no respect here.
Walking around without your peers' respect is dangerous when you're a godblood. Doubly so, I imagine, here in prison. I find myself studying the communal area, seeing how people's attention shifts as Jasper walks back to his own table, their gazes glancing at him with a mixture of pride, respect, fear, and even hatred.
He has a certain undeniable command over his fellow godbloods, even if they aren't on his team. It makes me wonder what he's like in battle, how he moves and fights, if he's fast and ruthless or patient and methodical. Maybe a combination of everything, given how he embraces a new hair color with almost every breath that he takes.
I also want to know how he moves in bed, where his gaze falls, what his touch is like, how he prefers to be touched. I'm sure he's a skilled lover, using his clever wits to make things interesting. His shapeshifting powers have got to bring things up a notch, too.
"Wow." Portia is staring at me. "That was interesting. Wonder what his angle was."
Yoric says, "Maybe he just wanted to figure her out. You know how Jasper is—sometimes he starts conversations with people just to study them, find their pressure points, and use information for leverage." To me he adds, "He tried to recruit me too, but it was all a ruse. When I auditioned for him in the training room, showing him what my shadows can do, he just said that it was interesting and he looked forward to beating me on the arena sands. Didn't even let me train with him once. I bet he was trying something similar with you."