Demigod Captive

by Lucy Auburn

  The kiss he gives me is brutal. I reach out to grab his arms and my fingers grow slick with blood. His mouth is that furnace-warm passion that makes me want to melt every time, claiming me possessively and dominantly, sparking me to life.

  "Let her go!"

  Damien shoves Vesuvius aside, which doesn't seem like it should be possible. Tearing myself away from the demigod, I realize with a start that the god hunter took off one of his gloves. They're an abrasion the size and shape of a human hand on Vesuvius's arm.

  "I'm going to protect her." Vesuvius scowls in Damien's direction. "Whatever you think you're doing, mortal, stay out of it. This is celestial business."

  "And you're a prisoner. We're getting her out of here. Dr. Moreland—there's a back way out, isn't there? Let's go that way."

  Vesuvius snorts. "Ares' men are here. A dozen of them. My men have beaten them back, but they're here for her—the culling is just a story. He's found out she's here and he wants her blood. You won't be able to stop him. Only a godblood can do that."

  "Do you want me to remind you what I can do to you?"

  Tension mounts. Damien clenches the finger of his bare hand, eyes narrowed, anger on his face. He looks like he actually could hurt Vesuvius, which seems impossible given how physically outmatched he is, but then again: the hand-shaped abrasion on the demigod's arm tells a different story.

  "Everyone stop arguing about me." Straightening my scrubs, which are now convincingly stained with blood, I turn to Dr. Moreland and Nurse Anna, both of whom have wisely stayed out of this like the mortals they are. "Where's the van to get us out of here? Can we get past the attackers if we fake having some kind of medical emergency?"

  "We can put Damien on a gurney," Dr. Moreland suggests. "Pretend like one of the guards was hurt in a commotion, get him out. If they think we're all mortals—"

  Just as he says it, though, the door of the med-bay bursts in with a spray of wood, glass, and metal. Vesuvius's warriors surge into action, the three of them warlike statues suddenly come to life. Swords meet with swords, proud-looking Ares sons dressed in their red cloaks with sharp blades at the ready attacking boldly.

  Soon the three warriors are overwhelmed. Vesuvius steps forward, slick with blood, eyes glowing red-orange. Fire surges to his fingertips, and I step back from the heat, watching enthralled as he throws a fireball directly towards Ares' sons.

  The fire snuffs out into nothing.

  One of the offspring, at the forefront, has a hand up, palm out. Looking identical to Ares—golden godlike hair, proud visage, tanned skin—an improbable daughter of Ares has stepped out between the sons, her red cloak fanning from one shoulder. She carries no sword, but doesn't seem to need to. Within an instant of touching her skin, it's as if Vesuvius has no flames at all.

  Stalking to him, she keeps her hands up, and second by second his flame withers and dies. He snarls, raising a sword, and one of her brothers jumps into the fray to meet its blade with his own. Two others, done with his warriors, join their brother.

  As powerful as the fiery demigod is, I fear he has no chance. Damien grabs my elbow, trying to pull me back, looking for another way out, but I shake him off.

  "Mora, if we escape now—"

  "Hush."

  The Ares sons are strong and fast. Soon enough Vesuvius is disarmed—outmatched by a powerful godblood warrior without any Ares gold on. They look to Dr. Moreland and Nurse Anna next.

  "You can't take my patients," Dr. Moreland says, chin up. "I won't let you."

  "You'll have no choice."

  Looking despondent but determined, Damien steps between the warriors and the two mortals. He slides his second glove off, hands bare, fingers flexed.

  I reach towards the golden cuffs on my wrists and wonder how it is that I've gotten myself into this.

  The Ares daughter steps between her brothers and the mortals, having left Vesuvius on the ground, two of her brothers holding him down with their strength as they wind Ares chains around him. She holds her chin up, glances at Damien, then looks to me.

  I feel a cold shock of fear in my system.

  "We only want her," she says, pointing towards me with a surprisingly delicate finger. "Mortem OfDeath. He wishes to speak to you."

  Oh, great. He does remember me. And so do his hellspawn, apparently—this one looks vaguely familiar. Maybe from one of the conquests, or... I think I remember now.

  "You were there when Aleksander died."

  "Yes." Her expression doesn't change. "Come with me."

  I can feel the death magic running through my cuffs. "And if I don't?"

  "Then we'll just have to kill everyone here until we find a proper way to motivate you."

  Waving more of her brothers through—there are nearly a dozen of them in the med-bay with us now—she tells them, "Find where they're keeping the patients. And grab the nurses and the doctor. We need to make sure everyone here is well-motivated. None of them are strong and powerful enough to appease father's bloodlust, but one must take every asset available in a war."

  I remember a time when I believed similar things. When I rode beside the firstborn son of the God of War, and drank death with every meal. There's something familiar in the daughter's face. Octavia is her name—I'm remembering now—and it takes me a while to realize that it's not her face I'm remembering.

  It's my own.

  I used to look this distant.

  This dispassionate, removed from the worries of mortals.

  Anna sobs as one of Octavia's brothers takes her arm and holds her to him, blade pressed against her throat, carelessly slashing a line of blood across her skin. Octavia looks like she doesn't hear it at all. She doesn't even notice Anna's whimper of pain.

  Beside me, Damien is still flexed, at the ready, about to spring into action. I tell him, "Don't bother. We're not getting out of this."

  I've been through enough wars to know when a battle is lost.

  Striding forward, blood on my paltry disguise, centuries inside me, I face Octavia head on. She stares at me incuriously, her eyes the blue of a summer sky. I wonder how old she is now—must be at least four hundred—and realize she'll probably age and die without ever really knowing anything but war, brutality, and what it means to please her father.

  "I'll go speak to Mars," I tell her, ignoring the look Damien shoots me, how Vesuvius fights his chains, eyes looking right at my face. "We have a few old scores to settle."

  * * *

  It was so long ago that I wonder if I even remember it right.

  All of it happened before things changed.

  Before I felt myself change, for reasons I still don't understand.

  This was when I reveled in death. When I made merry with it, mortal lives flashing before my eyes, mortal life forces slipping inside my hollow chest and filling me. It was when I was full, powerful, capable, holding secrets with my mother that even the gods don't know to this day.

  I still can't explain why or how I snapped. When it became too much. All I know is that one moment everything was one way, and the next it was another. Afterwards my mother had to do her best to make things right. She left me on my own, among mortals, for a few years. I began to see them differently. And when she came back for me, to bring me back into the fold, I didn't want to go anymore.

  Though I did, briefly, return to say goodbye to Aleksander. Which is how I wound up holding him in my arms as he died. I still wonder, if I hadn't been there, or if I'd been there sooner, or even if it had never happened to begin with...

  Well. Some things can't be changed.

  Part of me wishes Aleksander were here for this. It seems fitting, that I would be with him when he died, and he would be here when I, well, fucking bite it. We have so much between us, spoken and unspoken.

  I doubt I would've become the not-a-person who saved Omar if not for him.

  Though I still hate that he kept himself from me all this time.

  As the sons of Ares form a kind of phalanx around me
, I look to Damien and shoot him a smirk. "See you around."

  His expression is incredulous. I don't wait to see how he reacts to my leaving, I just march forward, footsteps falling in sync with the warmongers almost instantly. Vesuvius has to be restrained as they take me out, his muscles fighting against the Ares gold chains, his fire trying to escape. I shoot him a wink and hope he doesn't get himself too wound up.

  Jasper is nowhere to be found. As we walk the long hallways towards the arena, I wonder where he's gotten off to. Surely he also knows that Ares is here—he has his network of loyal guards, after all. Maybe he's off keeping to himself, protecting his people best he can until this all blows over.

  It still seems so surreal.

  Even the gods care a little about their children.

  But here Ares is with his sons and daughter, prepared to slaughter them in battle, all to feed his bloodlust. There isn't a single sign of a celestial in the arena; the stadium seats are emptied out, the viewing box guarded by two lone Ares sons. The god hunters seem to have been sent off somewhere—maybe they're rounding up the chosen, those who will be sacrificed to sate the appetite of the god who gave them gifts.

  Even my mother didn't have people slaughtered to feed her.

  She just watched them die, or killed them in battle, usually after their injuries had grown too grave.

  Then again, that's a kind of killing in itself: a god's lack of caring. It doesn't surprise me that she's not here. I think she wrote me off long ago, and the moment I saved Omar, she would've no longer considered me a daughter of hers at all.

  I'm led down into the arena, through a back room that must be where all the warriors prepare for battle. It still smells like blood and freshly oiled blades. Two double doors are open to the arena sand; this must be where the warriors spilled out, to fight each other and what challengers remained after the battle with the beasts. I wonder how the three warriors who used the bodies of the dead to save themselves fared against stronger, more powerful warriors. I hope they got their asses beat.

  Octavia stops in front of the open double doors, turns to me dispassionately, and draws a sword from a sheath at her hip, one she didn't even bother to use against Vesuvius. "I'm told you're expected to face him in battle."

  I blink at her. "Ares? Really? He wants to... fight me?"

  "Among other things." She shrugs. "But you must take the sword. If you don't, it'll be considered a forfeit."

  "And if I forfeit..."

  A smile on her beautiful golden face. "Then all your friends—because it was your friends in that med-bay, I assume—will be slaughtered. Mortal and godblood alike. We can throw in my eldest brother Aleksander as well, just to make things interesting. It would be nice if he died for good."

  The chill that goes down my spine is more anger than fear, but I dawdle, not wanting to take the sword just yet. If I jump into things too quickly, I won't have time to plan—and facing Ares, I know, is all about the planning.

  "Where is your father, anyway? I know he's not here yet. I would've felt it if he were."

  "He does have quite the presence, yes." She stalks to a bench in the middle of the room and sets her bare blade down on it, seeming not afraid at all that I'll grab the thing and put it through her middle. It probably wouldn't kill her anyway. "My father has had difficulty traveling along the celestial road. His imminence grows too strong to be made small and brought down to earth easily. Rest assured, he'll be here shortly."

  "Great."

  So he sent his sons and daughter in advance of him, to subdue the prison and take the godbloods he wants. No doubt they'll be dragged back to the arena, where he'll slaughter them, either himself or using his most loyal offspring. The power of the battle—of godblood fighting godblood—will feed him, just like death feeds my mother, and me.

  I could feed as well.

  And fight him, perhaps.

  But I know Ares. He's far too strong. It's been centuries since I've seen him, and from the sound of it, he's only grown stronger. Mortals wage war in the modern world as if it's nothing, fighting over the barest offense, creating missiles and drones. They don't even blink as ancient cities are leveled and war crimes committed by their own rulers.

  The worst kind of war, the most brutal and lacking in humanity, is the kind that feeds Ares the most. He'll be impossibly strong. Even my mother might not be able to fight him in his current state—not that she ever would. And I'm only half my mother, the other half a mortal man whose name is lost to time, who never mattered and died long ago.

  I have no chance against him.

  Unless I find a way around his rules.

  Looking around me, I find few resources. Thirteen of Ares' sons, and his daughter Octavia, have joined us in the preparation room. They all look bored, some of them splattered in blood, waiting for things to truly begin.

  I've fought with Ares and his sons before, so I know how they work. Honor is everything to them. Their pride is easily pricked. Their blood heats quickly, and forces them to do foolish things. It's the reason why so many of them are down here with us—their father is quick to cast them aside when they step out of line, and he fills them with such hot blood that they step out of line easily.

  They've been known to break the rules of battle that their father abides by, if not on earth, then at least among celestial.

  War isn't my strong suit. But games I can play. Especially games like this. Stepping forward, I look up casually towards the viewing box to the arena, and ask Octavia, "Won't we have an audience?"

  "Soon enough. They're cleaning out the box. In fact, I believe Bacchus will return shortly."

  From fucking one of the godblood women, no doubt. "Cleaning out the box?"

  "There was an incident." She rolls her eyes, very willing to chat with me even as she forces me towards my public death. "One of the female godbloods argued with another, and wine was thrown. Bacchus has his sons getting more—they are, of course, exempt from the culling today."

  Of course. But at least now I know: there will be witnesses to what happens on the arena sand. In fact, I spot an elemental celestial heading towards the box now, skin a white-blue color, long robes flowing. It seems possible even more may join to witness the bloodshed; it sounds like Ares is planning on making this a day to remember.

  They might also join in order to protect their children from his wrath. Somehow I doubt that of all of them, though. The gods are careless with their half-mortal children. We die so easily—most of us, at least. Few live as long as Aleksander and I have managed to make it, strange and hot as our blood runs.

  Walking towards the bench with the sword, I glance down at it and quietly think. Then I crack my neck, roll my eyes, sigh dramatically, and flop down on the bench.

  "You know," I tell Octavia, voice raised, hoping to get the attention of all of Ares' sons around us, "this never would've happened if my mother hadn't fucked your father. Well, not the fucking—the part where she insulted his size publicly."

  Octavia frowns, while around us attention is piqued. "That never happened."

  "It didn't? I remember it quite well. Oh wait!" Snapping my fingers, I shake my head, a smirk on my face. "It wasn't my mother who did that. It was one of Nike's daughters. Ares had her hanged, but not before word spread through his whole army: the God of War has a tiny cock."

  She looks puzzled, so I tell her, "It must have been before you were born."

  "That never happened." One of the Ares sons stalks forward, glaring down at me. "You insult our father's honor and dignity."

  "It did. It was right after your father lost a battle in Constantinople. Or was it the Mongolian steppe? They all bleed together. In any case, I think he believed if he fucked a daughter of Victory, he would get good luck. Unfortunately for him he got the opposite."

  Another of the sons gets irritated. "Our father doesn't lose battles. He's the God of War."

  "He used to lose quite a few of them." Leaning back on the bench, I cross my legs at the a
nkle, wearing my strange and bloody scrubs still. "I would know, I was there. Or my mother was. The two of us have seen his failure more than any others. It's why he wants me dead—so the knowledge of what a screwup he is dies with me."

  Octavia sighs as one of her brothers grabs for his sword. "She's trying to get to you, and it's working, Creed. Shut up and sit down."

  Her brother listens to her, but I can tell all the others are still annoyed and pricked by my words. So I keep going.

  "Do you know why your father hates me so much?"

  There isn't an answer. Wanting to put on a play, I get up, stretch, and take the top and bottom I was wearing out of the pocket of my scrubs. Unfolding it and laying it out, I start undressing as I speak, wanting all the males to be as randy and uncontrollable as possible, no matter their sister's calm head.

  "It happened a few centuries ago, so most of you probably don't know."

  As my breasts are freed, I lean down slowly, letting them sway in front of me. Octavia doesn't react—nudity is nothing to godbloods, unlike to mortals—but a few of her brothers are intent on me, clearly young and easy to arouse.

  "Your father has very little honor—" I enjoy the growl this gets from one of the men, even as I make a point of playing with my breasts while I put them into their top, "—especially when it comes to his offspring. So when he lost battles, as he did more often than he cares to admit, he was prone to lashing out. Finding a scapegoat. Often a son. Who he would beat publicly."

  Just stay over there. It'll all be over with quickly. Don't—don't get involved, Mora, he's too powerful for you to fight.

  Aleksander was always protecting me from Ares. Even as his father made him bleed. Suffer. Cry out in pain and torment.

  Watching him stoically take another beating is what woke me up to the world around me for good.

  I don't tell his brothers it was their eldest brother who Ares beat, though. Let them speculate. Or figure it out on their own. Some things are between us firstborn godbloods alone.

  "One day I got tired of witnessing your father's dishonor." I keep speaking as I strip off my bottoms, making it a point to turn around and sway my hips so my ass is on prominent display. "I decided it was time to show him a lesson."