by Ruby Dixon
The prelate sits up. His bald head is covered in sweat and has a slick sheen in the torchlight. “The anchor must dedicate themselves freely, Lord of Storms.”
The god sighs, as if he’s the most put-upon person in the world. “Then let a volunteer approach.”
The room is utterly quiet.
No one’s stepping forward to serve the god. At first I don’t blame them—he’s kind of an asshole. But as the oppressive silence continues, I wonder how come no one’s volunteering at all. Is it that bad a deal? No one’s saying what an anchor is.
At all. And that worries me a little. It might just be another fancy word for “sacrifice.”
As long seconds slide past and the god’s face grows angrier, the storms overhead thunder and crash as if the entire sky is about to fall down on our heads. That’s not helping the situation, I imagine. He’s not going to get a servant if everyone’s too terrified to speak.
“No one?” the god says, and I can practically feel the ice dripping from his voice.
I think of the certain death I have at sunrise. I don’t want to die here.
I think of the drums, and the voices I heard back in my apartment. I’ve been brought here for a reason. Maybe this is it. Aron’s terrifying, but I’ve worked for asshole bosses before.
And what’s he going to do to me? Kill me? I’m supposed to die at sunrise anyhow. Maybe this absolute raging dick of a god is the King of Pentacles I’m supposed to meet. Maybe it’s because he’s the one that can send me home.
I shoot to my feet. “I’ll do it.”
7
The room sucks in a collective breath, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
But I remain standing, unwilling to back down. I’ve made my choice. If I was brought to this crappy world for a reason, maybe it’s right here, sitting in that throne and glaring at me.
The god looks me up and down. “You?”
Arrogant dick. “Me. I might not be a great servant, but it’s freely given.” I move forward, stepping over the cowering people. It feels a bit like I’m walking right to my death, but I tell myself that’s just their fear getting to me. “That’s your requirement, right?”
“You wish to serve me in all ways?” The tone of his voice is arrogant, his expression practically a sneer. He also makes it sound as if serving him is going to have layered implications, and I can just guess what some of those layers are by his tone.
All ways means exactly what I think it means.
I do my best to look unfazed and make a joke. “Does that mean butt stuff? Because I draw the line at butt stuff.”
Aron snorts, and it’s the first time he’s shown any emotion other than disgust. His blade-sharp mismatched eyes narrow on me. I think for a moment that he’s going to give me a nasty cutdown like he did the prelate.
Instead, he extends his hand, palm up. Waiting.
I swallow hard and wonder if I’m walking into a trap. There has to be a reason why no one else wanted to do this.
But I’m out of options, so I take a deep breath and walk forward, up the steps, and put my hand in his.
CRACK.
Lightning sizzles. It’s like being electrocuted.
Power surges through my body and I’m dimly aware of my choking gasp before I’m flattened to the ground, collapsing at his feet. My jaw smacks against his ankle and I slide down the marble stairs a few steps.
No one comes over to help me.
It takes me a moment. My stunned conscious feels as if the world is collapsing in on itself and there’s both pleasure and pain in this moment. It’s like I’m being split and remade at a cosmic level, and then pushed back into human form again. Everything hurts.
Then everything refocuses, and the world becomes clear once more.
I don’t realize the room is quiet until I hear a low, pleasant voice. Aron. “You are right. That is better.”
I turn my head and look over and the god—I don’t doubt that’s what he is now—flexes his hand again. His color looks a little better than the paper-white shade his skin was before. It’s like he’s taken on some of my healthy glow.
Okay, maybe no one wanted to hitch their wagon to his because he’s a vampire.
I try to get up, but my limbs feel like noodles. I roll onto my side, and then try to push myself up off the floor with my weak arms. Am I drooling? I might be drooling.
“I’m cool,” I mutter. “No one help me get up. I’ve got it.”
“Help her sit up,” the god says coldly. “I don’t like seeing my servant sprawled like that.”
People rush over to my side, and arms grab me and haul me to my feet. I wobble unsteadily.
“Get her something to sit on,” Aron of the Cleaver demands.
“Shall my throne work, my Lord of Storms—”
The god focuses his cold, angry gaze on the prelate and the man goes silent. “You should not have a throne at all, mortal. This is my temple, is it not?” When the man drops to his knees in supplication, the god looks over at me again. “Get her a cushion. She can sit at my feet.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to gripe that he’s far too kind, but really, a cushion sounds pretty good right now. I’m wiped out by whatever just happened. It’s like my body is trying to recalibrate to something and not quite sure how. As I weave on my feet, a servant rushes forward with a fluffy, red pillow with decorative tassels that match the prelate’s robes, and then a kind hand touches my arm and leads me over.
Then, I’m seated at the god’s feet like I’m his toy. I don’t know if this is a step up or not.
What on earth have I signed up for?
“You may continue celebrating my arrival,” Aron says in his pompous, ice-cold voice.
Everyone’s too afraid to disobey, so the revelry continues.
I kinda admit that I like seeing someone else jump to this dick’s commands, because I’m thinking the prelate could stand being knocked down a peg or two and it probably doesn’t happen often.
Rich, sumptuous platters of food are brought to the god by pretty female servants, their heads bowed, their naked breasts practically shoved onto the platters like the food’s not the only thing up for offer. Another girl appears on the other side of him and offers him a wine goblet, which he takes. The smell of the food makes my mouth water and I realize suddenly that I’m ravenous. My stomach growls and I clutch at it, surprised at the ferocity of my body’s response. I’ve been hungry before, but not like this.
This is new. This is starving. Ravenous.
Aron takes a bite out of something, and then discards it with a frown. He sips his wine, and then frowns at that, too.
My stomach growls. No one’s offering me shit. All I do is watch Aron take a few small bites and then spit them out like they disgust him.
He notices my stare and turns that strange, mismatched gaze on to the nearest girl. “My anchor requires food as well. Serve her as you would me.”
One of the serving girls breaks off and kneels in front of me, offering her tray (and boobies). There are fruits of all kinds, brightly colored vegetables cut into chunks, and dried meats and cheeses of various shapes and sizes. I’m so hungry I could eat all of it, and so I smile and take the entire tray from her.
I take a huge bite of the first thing I see, a slice of cheese. Then bread. Then a leg of meat. It’s all incredible. I bite back a moan.
Aron gives me a curious look but says nothing.
I gulp down my wine and continue eating, even as I watch the room. I notice Aron doesn’t do more than pick at the food, more interested in examining it and flicking it back down on the tray than eating, but I don’t care. I cram it all into my mouth and wash it back with cup after cup of wine. I keep waiting to get drunk, but it keeps not happening. That’s a shame—getting drunk would be really nice right about now.
I demolish everything in the platter. I wipe my greasy hands on a square of linen handed to me and then nurse another cup of wine while I watch the partygoers. Definitely m
ore subdued and no one’s having furtive party sex. I guess Aron’s a boner killer. Everyone’s too nervous at the sight of Aron of the Cleaver, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m not entirely sure what to think myself.
Seems like the longer I’m in this world, the more fucked up shit gets. I chug my wine and hold my cup out for more, wishing it would make me as sloshed as everyone else in this room. Sometimes it seems like Aron and I are the only ones sober…and that’s depressing.
My wine cup is refilled and I drink again. As I do, I scan the room, watching everyone. The prelate has set his chair up across the room—on the floor this time—and I don’t miss the fact that it’s as far away from Aron as humanly possible. Can’t say I blame the guy. Avalla still hovers near him, but uncertainty is in her eyes. Actually, I’m pretty sure uncertainty is in everyone’s eyes. No one knows what to do now that the god is here in person. Something tells me they never expected him to actually show.
The soldiers still line the walls, but their expressions are equal parts wary and awe-filled. No one knows how to react. This has all the makings of a party that’s about to be over soon.
The thought makes my stomach clench and I look back to the far end of the room, where the blondes are waiting for dawn. There’s no reprieve for them, and I see a few trying desperately to be stoic while another has tears shining on her face. Dawn’s getting closer and no one gives a crap about these poor women. I have to do something.
I glance up at the god on his throne. He stares ahead, his eyes narrowed, watching the people crowding his temple. I wonder what he finds so fascinating, because to me, they’re not all that interesting to watch. He’s not eating or drinking, either. He’s not even trying. The cup he was offered a while back is still mostly empty and sits on the end of his armrest, and the platter of food being held by a quivering slave is untouched. Huh.
I should say something about the cleaver brides. I can’t live with myself if I don’t try to save them. I turn to Aron’s throne and wait for him to notice me.
Of course, after a minute or two of staring, he continues to ignore me. So much for gods being omniscient. I clear my throat softly, and when that doesn’t get me anywhere, I try again, a little louder.
Aron of the Cleaver turns to look over at me and scowls. “Are you sick?”
“Uh, no—”
“Choking?”
He really does make it hard to like him. “I was trying to get your attention.”
“By irritating me?” He gestures out at the room of revelers. “Do you think I am not maddened enough by these fools? You have decided to join in?”
I choose to ignore that. “I need a favor.”
He swivels back to me, a look on his face that’s half amused, half irritated. “You are asking me for a favor? Are you not supposed to serve me?”
“I realize it’s a little early in the game,” I tell him breezily, deciding that confidence is the best tactic with this asshole. After all, groveling got the prelate nowhere. “But yes, I need something done and you’re the only one that these dumbasses will listen to. So I’m asking—”
“Asking,” he repeats flatly.
I sigh. “Okay, begging, if that’s what you want to hear.” I gesture at the cluster of blondes in the back of the room. “But they’re going to sacrifice all those women at dawn in your name. As cleaver brides.”
“And?”
“What do you mean, ‘and’?” I stare at him. “You want that to happen?”
“I do not care if it happens or if it does not. Why should I? I am a god. They are mortals. Their life is as fleeting as a speck of dust.” He slicks his thumb and forefinger together as if to indicate so. “Why should I bother myself with them?”
“Because they shouldn’t have to die to honor you. It’s barbaric and stupid. They could honor you in a completely different way.”
“Such as how I’ve been honored on this night?” His mouth flattens.
“Look, I’ll be the first to admit that these people are shit at being properly deferential to a guy of your status,” I say, deciding to play to his vanity. When he grunts acknowledgment, I go on, “But that’s no reason that these women have to die. They didn’t have anything to do with it. They’re just slaves bought up by some assholes and dragged here as offerings. It’s not their fault.”
He looks over at me. “You were one of them, yes?”
“I was. I was going to die at dawn.”
“And instead, you have chosen to serve me.”
“That’s right.” I don’t tell him that I’m having regrets, or that fate might have brought us together. That’s too corny even for me.
He watches the women with narrowed eyes. “Some of them are far more lovely and probably more servile than you. Are you telling me I can pick a different anchor?”
“It has to be freely given, remember? I’m the only one that stood up.”
“Truth.” His mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused. Possibly both. After a moment of silent contemplation, he looks over at me again. “And why should I help them?”
“Because I’m asking real, real nicely?” I give him my brightest smile. “And we’re a team?”
“We are not a ‘team,’” Aron of the Cleaver says in that icy cold voice of his. “I am a god and you are my anchor to this world. There is no ‘team’ involved in any of that.”
Sheesh. This guy could give lessons on dickery, he’s so good at it. “Okay, then I’m begging you. Please save them. I can’t stand the thought of them dying in the morning. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“But no ‘butt stuff’ as you call it.” His tone is utterly imperious.
Is he teasing? I can’t tell. “Other than that, whatever you want,” I amend.
“You will do whatever I want anyhow.”
“I’ll do something extra special, then,” I tell him desperately. If blowing an arrogant asshole means I’ll save the life of two dozen terrified women, I’ll get down on my hands and knees right now. “Just say it and I’ll do it.”
“You can be silent,” he tells me.
Damn it. I open my mouth to protest his rudeness when he arches a silvery brow in my direction. Fuck. Is this a test? I can’t tell. Reading this guy is impossible. I close my mouth and slump on my stool, worried. I press my fingers to my mouth, anxious that I’ve not done enough. Should I have said something earlier? Bargained my “anchoring” to the god in exchange for all of our freedom? What if I’ve messed up and I have to watch all of them die? I can’t take it. I squirm on my cushion, miserable.
I look over at Aron, wondering if I should speak up again. Before I can open my mouth to blurt out another plea, the god raises his hand. “Prelate.” He flicks his fingers in that pompous way, indicating someone should trot over to do his bidding.
The prelate gets up from his chair and moves toward the god, his hands clasped in an attempt at piety. Something tells me he’s probably feeling a lot less pious at the moment now that he’s met Aron the Dickbag. He doesn’t get down on his knees right away, and the god stares at him so hard that I can practically feel eyes boring into the prelate’s skull.
The prelate clearly isn’t used to not being in charge. He’s practically bristling at Aron’s pompousness and he stands in front of the god, waiting. It feels like a battle of wills, and all the while, the storm overhead crackles and gets more ominous. The pressure change in the air makes my head hurt, and I wince at the battle of wills.
Of course, the prelate is the one to bend first. He gets down on his knees and presses his forehead to the floor again before sitting up. “How may I serve you, Lord of Storms?” His voice is tight and it’s clear he doesn’t like being at the beck and call.
Aron tilts his head, then holds his wine goblet out to the side, in my direction. Oh. I guess I’m supposed to take it. I do, and as I touch it, a spark snaps at my fingers, conducted through the metal. I bite back a yelp and manage not to drop the cup, but just barely. The god rests h
is hands on the ends of his throne for a moment before getting to his feet, and then I’m “treated” to a bird’s eye view of naked god butt.
8
I have to admit, it’s a pretty good butt. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re a god, though. It’s pale as the rest of him, but the globes are perfectly shaped and muscular. Not that I care, because it’s attached to a holy pain in the ass. Literally. He puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room. “Who are those maidens in the back that are not allowed to celebrate?”
The prelate’s gaze flicks to me and I get a chill down my spine. He knows I’m to blame for this. I lift my chin, unwilling to back down to him. I get a seat on the dais now, after all, and he doesn’t. That makes me more important. He can suck it.
Granted, it’s a seat at Aron’s feet, but it’s still a seat above his.
The prelate clears his throat delicately. “Those are offerings to the gods.”
He makes it sound so benign that I can’t help but speak up. “A bunch of people brought slaves to the temple. He picks the cream of the crop and then the rest are sacrificed at dawn,” I pipe in.
Both men turn to glare at me. Sheesh.
Aron of the Cleaver turns back to the prelate, and the thunder overhead rolls ominously. “Why are they sacrificed to the gods?”
“As an offering of our devotion, of course. It has been that way for many, many centuries, my lord.”
Aron crosses his arms over his chest, all pale naked body and stormy anger. “Have the gods ever asked for such a thing?”
The prelate is silent.
“I asked you a question. Have you been commanded by me—or any other—to sacrifice innocents?”
“It is tradition,” the prelate says faintly. “Slaves are given as cleaver brides every Anticipation—”
“I do not recall it being written in the sacred scrolls. Is it?” His voice is so casual and imperious at once, and I admit I’m hunching my shoulders every time he speaks, just because he sounds so darn mad—and the thunder crackles overhead constantly.