Demigod Captive

by Lucy Auburn

  Gods. They may not come visit their offspring here in prison, but they can still come to their godblood children in their dreams, presenting themselves like mirages in our minds. I've slept well knowing my mother would never do something like that. She's always been the type to flaunt her presence in person—besides, we'd have nothing to talk about if she did.

  Ferdinand lays a sympathetic hand on his sister's should. "He's cut you off. Probably temporarily. I'm sure you'll hear from him again once he's decided you've been taught a proper lesson."

  "That's if I survive!" Throwing his hand off, she huffs angrily and turns towards the training room doors. "What are we doing standing around? Guards and warriors be damned, let's go in already. I don't care what they think of me—I'm going to train."

  Because it's fun to watch Portia rant and rage against people who aren't me, I follow closely on her heels as she storms into the training room. One of the guards tries to stop her, but she shakes him off, and I step in to tell the man, "Vesuvius invited us to train with him. Leo and the rest."

  The guard frowns, and for a moment I think he might expect a bribe, or worse, decide to try to punish me. Then he nods his head and mutters in a low voice, "Just make sure you get your offerings to us every third visit."

  Great, so bribes it is. I nod my head and smile even though I want to punch him in the face. Of course, it's not just use of the training room that he's expecting the bribe for—the reality is, the bribes are for the privacy that comes at the end, as well as other things, I suspect. Things like getting to go back to our cells with weapons instead of leaving them behind in the locked cases and cabinets.

  Soon enough I'm going to need at least a knife to defend myself in order to escape this place. While my powers have their use, there's only so much I can rely on them, especially if I don't find a consistent source of life force around here. That's why I'll need to find something to sell, trade, or barter in order to get a weapon from the guards—I just hope that something doesn't turn out to be my body, because as horny as I might be, I'll never degrade myself that far.

  Well, not as of right now. I don't put anything past future me. If I wind up stuck down here for long enough, terrible things could happen. Like giving a blowjob to a guard with a receding hairline and saggy balls, or stretching wide and pretending like a pencil dick is impressive. Spare me.

  As we move to the center of the spaciously large training room, Vesuvius spots us from the corner where he's sparring with two of his warriors. He gives us a short nod, eyes moving across me—most significantly, across my bare midsection and scandalously clad breasts. But soon one of his warriors takes his attention away, and he's forced to focus on other things.

  It occurred to me, after getting away with jerking off Jasper, that I might be able to fool around with Vesuvius yet decline joining his team. I eventually discarded the idea; the two godblood males couldn't be more different, after all. While Jasper had to be persuaded to let me jerk him off, and never insisted on anything more, I have the feeling Vesuvius would jump on an opportunity to fuck me, no matter the drugs in my veins. And he's made it pretty clear he's a territorial and loyal man; his crew's anger against those Kratos sons for switching teams must have come from on high. If I get into bed with him, there will be no getting out of it, no matter how much I insist.

  Even with Jasper, I don't fool myself that I've gotten away clean. More than once in the communal area I've felt his eyes, and twice one of his followers has tried to flag me down for him. But he's an indirect leader, clever and secretive. He won't proposition me in public and knows better than to try to tie me down over a few pumps in the med-bay.

  No, the only sexual option for me here is obvious: Mikael. Over by the weights, he and a few buddies, including a strong dark-haired woman and Lyonne, trade off bench pressing as much as they can. I'll flag him down as soon as training is over—that is, if I survive training with a clearly rage-filled Portia. The instant we came in here she started acting like she owns the place, and it's pretty clear she's going to cause some trouble.

  "Give me that goddamn sword." Striding over to one of the female warriors, she stares her down like she thinks she owns the place, which for all I know she does. "You're about my height and reach, and I want it."

  "Really?" The brunette holding the sword stares her down, a hammer-shaped birthmark denoting her a rare daughter of Kratos visible just above her collarbone. "Last I checked I don't give a fuck what you want and I don't have to. Go get one from weapons checkout like the rest of us."

  Portia opens her mouth, no doubt to imperiously declare who her father is and how much wealth and influence she has, only to snap it shut. Clearly fuming, she stalks over to the weapons counter and does what she always should've done. Her spot in line is in the far back, and by the time she gets to the front no doubt they'll be out of the best swords, but at least a Kratos daughter won't slice her head clean off her neck.

  Yoric murmurs, "She seems really upset."

  "Guess she never thought she'd be in the same position as the rest of us," Sasha comments. Glancing over at Ferdinand, she asks him, "Do you really think she'll be forced to fight?"

  "I didn't want to tell her this yet, especially with all the sharp blades around, but Father had me pulled from the arena and her put in my place. He's mad about some of the things she's done and wants to teach her a lesson. So yes... I think she'll be forced to fight. I just don't know who I feel more sorry for: her, or whoever has to face her down."

  Leo grimly says, "I hope you have some good fighting moves to teach us this time, Mora, because I'm not sure ducking and running will do it. All these guys around us are ten times faster, stronger, and more powerful. I'm starting to think we're dead."

  Garnet says, "Don't say that! We can't give up yet."

  "Why not? It's not like we'll be able to fight well, no matter how much we learn. We might as well stop torturing ourselves with hope. Isn't that right, Mora? You would know—I bet you can practically taste our deaths coming."

  "It doesn't work that way," I tell him, though part of me doesn't exactly disagree that all their training is hopeless. The more I see of the warriors they're up against, the worse it seems.

  But that doesn't mean they should just give in. Considering each of them, and my own options, I decide that there's not too much risk in showing them a few more moves—as long as I'm careful not to get the attention of the fiery demigod practicing in the corner.

  "I'll help you out. We can practice a few offensive moves." Leo smiles and pumps his fist, so I warn him, "Just know that avoiding getting hurt in the first place should be your first instinct. And whatever happens... don't die out there."

  Yoric quips, "You're one to talk. If I die, I want to use my last wish to make this place cease to exist."

  If only it were that easy.

  * * *

  Despite myself, I can't stop worrying about Portia. It's a turn of events that I never would've predicted. Apparently I do have a heart somewhere beneath my blackened rib cage.

  As I help the misfits train, I watch her fumble her way through a series of sword exercises that made it clear she barely knows anything about wielding a blade. Though she more than makes up with it by being as angry and fierce as possible, any warrior worth his or her salt would be able to disarm her with a flick of the wrist. She's going to get her ass beat, maybe even wind up dead, and all because she angered her immortal father.

  It's a reminder that I need to make sure I get out of this place before my own time in the arena comes. A flicker of worry for Aleksander goes through me, and the thought of leaving him behind is hard, but he got himself into this mess somehow. He'll get himself out. Even the God of War won't see his resurrected son be put down again, no matter what other tortures he enjoys putting him through.

  Watching Garnet and Sasha practice throwing their weight at each other, I try to ignore the itch of Vesuvius's gaze on the back of my neck. He's taking a break from sword practice to watc
h his warriors and bark encouragement on them, and between rounds he stares at me. Self-conscious, I try to adjust my cross-front top, but there's no hiding my body in this outfit. I'll just have to ignore the prickle of heat that the fiery demigod's eyes spark between my legs.

  After all, there's another warrior I want to lure to my bed today. One who doesn't come with entanglements attached or any drama. A warrior who won't start a fight in the communal area if I stop screwing him and start screwing someone else: the whorish, low ring, undoubtedly fit Mikael.

  "Garnet, plant your back foot," I tell her, pacing around until I can see Mikael beyond her pixie form, his arms bulging as he lifts weights while doing lunges. "Make sure you twist your hips to the left. Good, that's better."

  Besides Garnet and Sasha, Leo is half-heartedly practicing sword-fighting with an angry Portia, while Ferdinand helps Yoric practice his dodges and blows, even though the former is no longer scheduled to fight in the arena. Portia may complain about her brother, but it's clear he's got a good heart beating beneath his golden chest.

  Feeling Mikael's eyes on me as he turns around to do lunges in the other direction, I reach down to adjust my top, visibly jiggling my breasts and pushing them together. The mesh triangle along the bottom does nothing to hide my cleavage, and neither does the deep V of the crossbody top. His eyes follow my movements, and I lick my lips, smirking as he meets my gaze.

  Mikael is simple. Straightforward. When a lift a brow and tilt my chin, mouthing after, he nods sharply then goes back to working out.

  Good. Once practice is over, we'll meet up, and I'll screw him silly, draining his life force until I've made a small dent in my hunger. Then I'll let him know we're probably never going to do this again—I don't want to start trouble, after all—and find a new idiot to feed off of. Maybe one of Jasper's warriors this time, so I don't accidentally send the wrong message about my loyalty. I have none, after all, except to myself.

  Though I'll be more than a little sad if one of the misfits gets seriously hurt in the arena—and let's face it, one of them will be. Stepping in, I coach Garnet through a few moves, then show her how to aim a kick at the back of the knee to bring someone down. With her small stature facing off with a larger opponent on equal footing will be impossible, but she can at least use their size to her advantage by knocking them off balance.

  Over and over we practice. I switch to Ferdinand and Yoric, showing them how to block a blade with their forearms and praying they're able to get some kind of armor to protect themselves. Then I hesitantly step in to save Leo from Portia, so someone who doesn't look terrified can be at the pointy end of her sword.

  "You know, it might be easier for you to practice with a long range weapon," I point out, raising the blade to parry one of her blows. I'm careful to do it a little clumsily and make myself wince as her sword hits mine, trying to pretend like I'm weaker and less capable than I am. "There are bows and arrows in the weapons case. And guns, of course."

  She snorts, flipping her blonde ponytail over her shoulder and scanning my stance for weak spots. "There are never any guns for challengers in the arena. Trust me, I know—unlike you, I've actually watched the tournaments. You know nothing about them."

  "Then tell me," I argue, getting more than a little annoyed with her condescension. "You keep acting all high and mighty because you know things I don't, but you never bother to just fucking tell me things. It kind of makes me want to—"

  "—stab me with a sword?" She picks up the pace of her sword-swinging, sweat rolling down her face. "Yeah, I can tell. As far as not telling you things goes—it just sucks getting a new roommate, explaining the ins and outs of the prison to them, then watching them die a bloody death or wind up in solitary. My last roommate was released. So I don't really feel like getting attached."

  "I don't plan on dying a bloody death," I tell her, frustration rising inside me like something sharp and bitter in my throat. The blood that pumps through my veins, made mortal by Ares gold, feels hot with adrenaline. "But you're going to die a bloody death if you don't take all the help you can get. So tell me why it is that you can't possibly get a gun in the arena, when there are guns in the weapons cabinet on the wall."

  "Because the good weapons all go to the fighters who have won before, or bribe the guards, or..." Frustrated, she tries to swipe her sword at my side, and I twist the blade so it falls from her hand, then slap her arm with the flat of my sword. As she scoops it up, she tells me, "The only weapons challengers like me get are whatever they've buried beneath the arena sand before they let us out into the arena to watch us die. We have to fight each other and fight the arena beasts before they send us against the warriors to be completely slaughtered. That means everyone is for themselves. So if I'm lucky I'll get a sword, and if I'm unlucky I'll get nothing. The better weapons are all kept far away from us."

  "Oh. Huh." As I counter her next move, I tell her, "Good, you're almost there. Next time make sure to keep your wrist stiff. You're not putting enough strength into it."

  "That's because I'm not strong like you," she argues, but either anger, fear, pride, or all of the above makes her try harder. After a few more rounds of practice, she comments, "You're better at this than you pretended to be at the start."

  I startle, suddenly realizing that a few curious eyes are on me. In all my anger at Portia I didn't hold myself back as much as I should have. While it would've looked like a normal sparring match to most—Portia doesn't have the sword skills Alek has, that's for sure—I've definitely lost a little of my claim to being a complete failure as a fighter.

  "Beginner's luck," I tell her, shrugging and dropping the tip of my sword towards the ground with exaggerated clumsiness. "Besides, anyone would look better at sword-fighting with you as a comparison."

  Thankfully she seems to buy this, and I sigh in relief a little. "I just don't get where you learned all this. And why. If you just grant people's dying wishes, it seems a little unnecessary."

  "I've been alive a long time," I tell her, which is the truth at least. "And my mother walks an interesting path. Sometimes I'd wind up in trouble and have to get out of it. That's all. It's not anything more complicated than that."

  "If you say so."

  She still looks a little suspicious, though. Portia may be spoiled and ridiculous, but she's far more clever than she lets on. I start to think I might have made a critical mistake. If she figures out too much, and doesn't keep her mouth shut, I could wind up in trouble.

  Thankfully Yoric interrupts to ask me for some pointers about disarming an opponent's sword arm when you're weaponless yourself. This I know plenty about—most of the bar scraps I've been in involved a rusty knife and a nearly-drunk me. Of course it usually took a handle of hard liquor to get me there, but I had to learn how to fight through my booze-induced incoordination to keep from being repeatedly stabbed.

  Not that a light stabbing would kill me. It's just so painful and inconvenient. The amount of death I would have to drink to heal myself afterwards would make even a mortician shudder.

  Speaking of drinking—the training session is almost up. Vesuvius is starting to have his warriors turn their weapons back in. I can feel him glance at me and away, and cross my fingers that he won't invite me to today's post-training fun, too.

  I'm not sure I have the self-control to say no a second time.

  And as soon as I wrap my legs around a male like him, I know I'll be wrapped up in everything else he does, too.

  Thankfully Yoric and Ferdinand manage to distract by getting into a ridiculous wrestle fight that ends with Ferdinand on the ground yelping for mercy. I laugh, dawdling as much as possible, watching Mikael wrap up and beg off the showers for now.

  All we have to do is meet up somewhere and I can finally fully feed. Not as much as I would get from an actual death—few things compare to the shudder of a life form coming to its end—but with a physique like Mikael's I'm sure he has strength to spare.

  In a loud voice pit
ched to carry, Mikael tells his fellow warriors, "I'm just going to shower and go back to my cellblock. See you guys later, at dinner."

  As the misfits wind down, Portia and I head to the weapons counter to turn our practice swords back in. The guards grumble about how long it takes to get everything straightened. Warriors stream out of the room. Despite myself, I glance over as Vesuvius heads towards the men's locker room, and find his bold grey-green eyes watching me, the flecks of fire glowing with intensity.

  It's all I can do to resist walking over and following him into the showers. I can just imagine what it would feel like to strip his armor off, undoing the leather straps and removing the linen and wool padding beneath. I'd palm his still-warm muscles and bring my hand down lower, lower, grabbing his thick cock and stroking it. He'd watch me and moan, then grab me, pick me up, wrap my legs around him and fuck his way inside my body with a passion only fire knows.

  At least that's how I've imagined it many times. That, and Jasper pushing me down onto my hands and knees, curving his body above me and pulling my legs wide, his fantastic cock doing amazing things in me with every thrust. Of course I want what I can't have—that's always the way of things, especially when you're as stubborn and bullheaded as me.

  Thankfully Vesuvius leaves, and I manage not to follow, though it takes every bit of self-will I have. I need to get off now, though, so when Garnet suggests we hang out in the communal area for as long as the guards let us before heading back to our cells, I pretend to have a bruise that needs looked at and claim to be heading towards the med-bay. The training room guards, who are relaxed and well-bribed, thankfully don't bat an eye when I head down the hallway, turn right, then settle into the doorway of a supply closet and wait.

  Truly, this place has terrible security. But I suppose when you hold hundreds of demigods deep underground, put Ares gold on them, and thread the rock around them with the stuff, there's not much to worry about. My own escape will probably involve bribing a few guards and climbing into one of those dumb black vans, or making a run for it in the yard and praying the electrified fence doesn't sear me like a steak.