by Lucy Auburn
"I thought you were better than this. Starting a fight in the middle of dinner—and over what? Some woman who won't even lie with you."
There's a tall redhead, I realize now, leaning back against the wall near where the fight broke out. She wasn't visible until the fighters moved apart as the guards broke them up. Even now, those same guards eye Alek warily—but don't move in to stop him, at least not yet. Seeing the fear and hesitation in their mortal faces, I know they must be aware of who stands among them. The godblood redhead, though, who must be a daughter of Hephaestus or Arphrodite, is looking at Alek with a hunger I recognize.
She wants him. Which, despite the fact that I have no claim on him, and don't even want to make one, is enough to fill me with rage. I have to jerk my eyes away from her and back to the tension brewing between the God of War's two sons, because if I stare at her much longer I might find myself striding over to punch her in her delicate little jaw.
It's been a long time since I held Alek in my arms and his life drained away. A long time since he was somehow brought back by his father, and I suspect my mother too. I've lived plenty and fucked around that whole time—I have no doubt he has too. That doesn't change the sharp pang of jealousy it causes me to imagine him with another woman.
"You don't understand." Julius advances on his brother, staring him down. "We can't all be self-righteous like you. Some of us want to live in here while we still can. As long as I'm mortal, I'm going to get what I deserve. And defend what I have. This asshole—" he points at one of the Kratos sons, who's cracking his knuckles and nursing a bruise to the temple, "—crossed me. He'll pay for that."
"Like this?" Alek surveys his other brothers. "And all of you—you'd join in on this ridiculous show of childish insecurity, all over a woman who walked away willingly?"
One of the other Ares sons steps forward, chin lifted, blood gushing from his lower lip. The guard near him crackles his electric baton, but he ignores it, telling Alek, "You've been gone for a while, Firstborn. We don't follow you anymore. We follow Vesuvius, Son of Hephaestus, now—and these assholes have turned coats to join with Jasper and his crowd of cretinous losers. Worshippers don't stand for that."
"Worshippers." Alek's eyebrows climb towards his temple; he stares Julius down, looking confused and disappointed. "So this is it, this is your life now? You've resigned yourself to all... this?"
"It's all anyone will give me. Whatever I can take, whatever I can keep, I'll defend it. No matter what your judgmental ass thinks." He raises his chin; his brothers line up behind him in a loose formation, some staring Alek down, others looking lost and confused. "As long as I'm in Godblood Prison, I'll follow strength, and you're not it anymore. You should go back to wherever you came from. Go tell Father you've decided to be a good little lapdog again."
Alek looks hurt. "I thought we were in this together, Jules."
"Yeah, well. Things have changed while you're gone."
"So be it."
For a moment it looks like everything is over; the fight, at least, has been moved to another time. The Kratos son will get his redheaded girl, and the Ares sons will back off, at least until they decide to make an issue of it again. Maybe they'll save their fight for the arena tournament, which is coming in a little over a week.
Then. Alek's eyes flash. His body language doesn't change a bit, and he doesn't forecast his intentions, but I've known him for centuries. I can see what's going to happen next.
So I flick my eyes towards Julius and watch his face as his eldest brother's fist connects directly with his cheekbones.
Alek doesn't reel back to watch the effect of his punch. As soon as his fist connects and Julius's head goes rocking back, he twists his weight around and kicks him full-on in the chest with the ball of his foot. An oomph leaves Julius's lips, and he goes stumbling straight back.
One of his brothers howls and goes for Alek. Then another. The Kratos sons step back to watch the fight, and the redhead twines herself around her new beau, a little twist to her lips.
"Wow." Portia whistles as the Ares sons all go for Alek at the same time. He beats them back one by one, barely even wincing as their fists connect, his hands, feel, and even head making short work of his brothers—I have to laugh a little when he headbutts one so bad he topples. "The guards aren't even interfering."
"They will." Glancing at them, I can see that they're waiting for something, and it's not hard to guess what. "As soon as Alek goes down or stumbles even a bit. They want to make sure his brothers have weakened him before they take him on."
"But he has cuffs and manacles on," she points out. "He's fully mortal. Not that he shows it."
I don't tell her that Ares gold works differently on certain people, especially those who have been tortured with it endlessly for years. Alek has built up a tolerance to all his father's tools, especially the ones the God of War used to bring him to his knees. He has the scars to prove it—especially the thin silver line across his neck, where a knife forged by Hephaestus himself severed half his arteries. He nearly died then, only for his father, who'd struck the blow in the first place, to change his mind and decide to have him healed.
A couple of cuffs and two ankle manacles are nothing next to that. No doubt even as he wears them, Alek can feel the beating heart of battle all around him. He's always had the knack to foresee his enemies' next moves and respond to them with lightning-fast accuracy—a power that makes it possible for him to duck his brothers' fists and respond with brutality.
Just when it looks like he might take them all down, a voice clears in the distance. Vesuvius's cellblock has been escorted into the communal area, and his fire-flecked eyes are staring at Ares' firstborn son with frustration.
"Those are my men, Aleksander. And I'd appreciate it if you'd leave them in one piece."
"Really?" Holding one of his brothers up by the neck, his broad hand around his chin, Alek shrugs and throws him down. The warrior coughs and stumbles. "Very well. I suppose if you—"
He doesn't see it coming. Julius, who had been curled limply on the ground, takes Alek's one moment of distraction and uses it to fly up and strike him in the neck, right where the silver scar is. I gasp and instinctively take a step forward, heart in my throat, knowing how much pain that old injury still causes Alek.
His eyes fly to me just as the guard between us mutters, "Watch it, Death girl."
Seeing their moment, the guards all around the fight nod to each other and leap into action. They take Alek while he's weak, batons beating him and electrifying him. One guard pulls a length of Ares gold chain from his belt and wraps it around Alek's neck, tugging viciously. He gasps without air, the pain on his face twisting my stomach into knots. Those violet eyes flutter closed, and it's all I can do not to yank my Ares gold cuffs off and punish the guards myself—if I had the power within me to do it, if I weren't starving without deaths to eat, I would. The guards deserve that much and more for the way they gleefully shock him over and over despite the fact that he no longer poses a threat, and never did to them.
Soon they've brought him to his knees and cleared most of his brothers out, shoving them back to their respective cellblocks while Alek turns pale and weak, surrounded by five vicious guards all eager to cause him pain and suffering. For a moment they seem to confer, and I worry they might kill him right here, right now, simply because he's so powerful that he frightens their small mortal minds.
A voice calls out, "That's enough. Let's bring him to the SHU." Damien strides forward, appearing from behind the cellblock that just entered, which contains Jasper and several others. "He's sufficiently contained. Harper—give me the chains. We'll wrap his arms and legs in the right formation. Gregory..." Seeing me, Damien briefly stops short and nearly stumbles before he remembers himself, his cheeks reddened, no doubt in memory of the recent erection I caused him. "Gregory, go find Kayla for me. She's out on active duty. The rest of you, make a perimeter around the room and ensure nothing else happens."
> It's a relief to watch Damien and the guards he spoke to unwrap the chain from Alek's neck, though I still clench my jaw unhappily as they tighten it around his arms, pulling his hands together. Seeing a warrior like him, one who thousands of men and women have followed into battle, so weakened and subdued is difficult.
As they drag him out of the communal room and towards the rows of solitary units to throw him in one, where he'll be denied any contact with the outside world, his violet eyes meet mine. There's a kind of desperation in them, as well as something else: the secret unsaid connection we've shared through centuries. I know him well enough to know what he wants well before he mouths it with a split lip.
Stay. Fight. Please, Mora.
Then he's taken away, the doors shut behind him, maybe to never be seen again. And I wonder if I'll do as he asks, or do what I've done for so long: look out for myself and no one else.
In my head, I hear Omar's voice. But I ignore it enough not to even acknowledge the things he might say to me right now. Omar wouldn't understand—he's a simple mortal.
I'm the daughter of Death. There are secrets I keep. I must do what it takes to survive.
* * *
Alek's plea follows me through the night and into the next day. He's like some damned chihuahua nipping at my heels or a ghost watching me. Even when I'm in the shower, scrubbing quickly because the water has gone cold—probably because Portia insists on scalding herself to death—I can't help but feel like he's judging me.
I know what he wants: for me to stay here. To join with him. Get others to join with him. Then something something rebel, overthrow his father, show the gods what's what.
It wouldn't be the first time.
Or his first failure.
Look at me, boy...
I shake the dark memories, not wanting to think about them. Alek would be ashamed of me, but there's no way I have it in me to stand up and fight. Not this fight, or in this place. I don't have the strength of will.
Besides, I'm not like him. Warfare doesn't flow through my veins and strength doesn't carve my muscles. The only thing that ever united us was the glory of war, and in the modern world you just don't find that anymore. It's best we stay separate, with our own goals and our very different lives.
Please, don't—no!
The water turns to ice, and I force myself to rinse the shampoo out of my elbow-length hair, then jump out and dry off quickly. Portia is waiting impatiently; we're supposed to train with the misfits some more today. After last time, I'm not sure how to feel about the whole exercise-followed-by-orgies thing, but it should be easy enough to make myself stay away. I've already figured out a target for my seduction, someone I can have a one-on-one session with who won't insist I join the Worshippers.
Mikael, one of the sons of Bacchus, came to my attention at breakfast this morning. With a port wine stain on the back of his right hand—a birthmark that makes it clear who his father is—he'd been in the middle of arguing with Vesuvius as Portia and I walked to our table with plates full of food. Apparently the fiery demigod wanted him off the team, but Mikael insisted he deserved another chance.
"Fine," Vesuvius snapped at him, "but don't expect any perks. Those two elemental daughters you've been screwing don't get to be part of the team just because you are. That includes anyone else you stick your dick in—I'm not adding them to the fold no matter how close the ties."
It was bad news for Mikael, but great news for me. Here comes my chance: a member of Vesuvius's team who I'll be able to talk to during or after training, who I already know screws around with women, and doesn't have any close ties to the rest of the team.
Us godbloods have always done things a certain way, an old way, much like our parents. We form our own kinds of families and gangs, with strong bonds of loyalty. Those bonds usually extend to the lovers of any demigod you ally yourself with—something that seems to have continued down here, in Godblood Prison. At times it can get messy; when Alek and I briefly dabbled with the idea of being lovers, none of his many, many brothers were thrilled at the thought of vowing to go to war over Death's only daughter. But it's a kind of loyalty that comes in handy. I just don't want it to wind up trapping me into joining a team and fighting in the arena.
Thankfully, with Mikael, I won't have that problem. And he's an attractive enough male, even among demigods, with a broad flared jaw, a dimple in his chin, and strong limbs. While he doesn't have Alek's presence, Vesuvius's size, or Jasper's clever sharpness, he'll more than do. Plus based on his appearance he's at least a few centuries old—aged enough to have a steady life force that I can hopefully drain more than once using my skills.
Anyone who says males, mortal or half-mortal, can't get it up more than once in a short period of time, hasn't met me. As soon as I get my hands on Mikael I'll drain him dry as many times as I can.
The same goes for Damien, if I ever manage to get him alone again. Once I've got my hands on him, I'll find out what god hunter life force tastes like, and I'll be damned if he'll push me away again. I just have to find his weak point—if it isn't dirty talk or my breasts, there has to be something I can do or say that'll make him forget his inhibitions and finally come for me.
"Ready for training?" Portia grabs my elbow and tugs at it. "Because we're almost late."
"I thought you hated sweating. And watching people exercise. Not to mention the orgies with 'dumbasses' and all of that."
"Yeah, well, I want to make sure I uh... don't get out of shape." She runs a nervous hand through her long blonde hair, confusing me. "Besides, someone has to watch you to make sure you don't get your ass beat a third time in a week."
My cellmate has a point there, but I have the feeling she's not telling the whole truth. There's something going on with her that's made her all squirrelly. If I knew her better I might insist she tell me, but instead I just shrug and head to training with her, eyeing our new guards the whole time.
It doesn't seem like they're the type to beat the fuck out of me. But I won't be caught messing with my Ares gold again. The next time I take my cuffs off inside the prison, I want to be sure I'm ready to face the consequences, no matter who sees.
Garnet, Sasha, and Leo are waiting for us outside the training room when we arrive. Yoric and Ferdinand aren't here yet; Portia impatiently sighs and twiddles with her hair.
"Figures my stupid brother would be late. He's probably preening and polishing his golden skin."
I refrain from pointing out that she tried on seven different outfits, pulling from a trunk beneath the bunk bed we share, before settling on the one she's wearing. Considering it was the first outfit she tried on, she shouldn't have bothered—especially because she looks like she's going to a picnic in her dress, not out to training. It's a wonder she's survived in here for so long, but then again, wealth and privilege seem to buy whatever their benefactors want.
Yoric shows up first, and seems surprised to see us. "Hasn't training already started?"
"We were waiting for you," Leo snapped, his expression unhappily on edge. "There's only a few more training sessions before the arena, you know. We can't afford to miss even one. Or be late."
For a moment Yoric looks like he's considering arguing with Leo, but apparently decides better of it. The Gemini twin is more than a little on edge, not that I blame him. I would be too if I were heading to the arena.
Finally, after much griping from Leo and a proposal from Garnet that we just go in without him—even though she's worried he won't be able to get in on his own—Ferdinand shows up. He's dragging his feet, and when he sees Portia, his eyes widen and he freezes. She frowns at him.
"Something wrong, Ferdy? Or did you just find out from father that you've been cut off of your inheritance?"
"Nothing of the sort," he says, frowning as well.
"A girl can dream."
"I just—" Something passes over his expression that looks like fear, or maybe even panic and worry. "Are you here because you heard the news?"
"What news?" Portia looks over at the rest of us, fiddling with her hair. "If you mean that little thing with the chalice, you don't need to worry. My associate on the outside said it'll be found soon enough."
"Not that. Or—well, related to that, I guess."
Leo sighs, the sound so loud and drawn out that it sucks all the air from the room somehow. "Whatever it is, just tell her, so we can go into the training room and embarrass ourselves publicly."
"Yeah," Portia agrees, "whatever it is, if you know it, it can't be that important. Or that bad. So just spill already."
"It's Dad," Ferdinand says, a strange kind of pity in his eyes. "He's rescinded your privileges and spoken to Ares. You're going to be one of the challengers in the arena along with the rest of us. And this time, he won't intervene if things go... well, wrong."
Chapter Fourteen
Portia has been pale-skinned since the moment I met her. I suppose so long spent living underground will do that to even a demigod; myself, I plan on never staying here so long I turn the color of spoiled milk.
But while she's always been pale, she's never turned this white.
Colorless. Bloodless. Eyes wide with fear. Breath catching in her throat. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, Portia looks ready to chew a limb off—only in her case, I think it'll be one of our limbs, not one of hers.
"No. He promised it wouldn't come to that. He said I'd be tested, but I thought... I thought he just wanted me to do the prelims, or make me sweat a bit, I didn't..."
"Apparently he's decided to teach you a lesson." There's real sympathy on Ferdinand's face, as well as a surprising amount of worry for his sister, who he must care for more than he normally shows. "I found out from one of his delegates, a godmarked he picked as a messenger. Nicole or something like that."
"Nicola," she snaps, "I know who she is. I don't understand why he didn't tell me himself. He speaks to me most evenings."