Damaged Gods (Monsters of Saint Mark's #1)

by K. C. Cross

  Sometimes the rooms move and you can’t ever find the one you need when you need it. But today, I am in luck because I find the closet room easily. The clothes are magic, so they have not rotted and the colors have not faded. They are as bright and fine as the day they were made.

  I will wear pants for this girl. But it’s not going to be enough to hide my package, as she puts it. Because the pants are tight. They were not made to hide the shape of me. They were made to accentuate it.

  I draw the line at shirts. And she didn’t ask for a shirt, so if it’s a shirt she requires to be comfortable during her first years here, she is out of luck. And she will learn her lesson. If you’re going to ask a monster for a favor, you had better be specific.

  The breeches are a rich, green velvet. The color of the forest. And they make me look like the woodsy monster-thing I am. Something akin to Pan himself. All I need is a pipe flute and I could be the wood god incarnate. Though my horns are much nicer than his ever dreamed of being.

  I take my time returning to the lower levels. The kitchen here at the sanctuary is a thing to get used to. It took Grant months to perfect the art of cooking over a wood stove, so I am not expecting much when I arrive at the dining table. But to my surprise, she has prepared a feast.

  “What is this?” I ask Tomas as I approach. He’s already eating. Which is rude. And before this girl came, Tomas, in this form, anyway, wasn’t real. Not corporeal. Not of any substance.

  He was a ghost. Sort of.

  But he wasn’t able to touch my slave either. And it seems he can now do both of these things.

  Interesting.

  “Mmm.” He’s still chewing. “Isn’t this great? We used the last of the bacon. And I ate most of it already. Fucking bacon. Mmm.” He points to the plate with his fork, which has two meager pieces left. “But there’s pancakes. We’re out of syrup though.” He shrugs like this can’t be helped, and continues chewing.

  “She did not make this.”

  “I did so.” And there she is, leaning against the wall leading into the kitchen, her arms crossed. This is when I fully notice her ridiculous attire. It’s strange, I believe. Even with my limited experience of recent events on the outside, I know this outfit is out of place. The very short skirt that shows off all of her legs and leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Plus a corset top. Her ample breasts practically spill out of the scarlet-red leather.

  There is no way she made this food. It’s magic left over from Grant. Tomas probably knew about the spell. And now I am left wondering how much of Grant was actually real, and how much was glamoured?

  He was a talented alchemist. He could make potions to do just about anything.

  Except break this curse, of course.

  I had assumed he just morphed into a talented cook over the decades. But what if everything he got better at was just magic?

  “Tomas,” I roar. “Bring us the rulebook. This is a working breakfast.” I figure if he’s real now, I might as well put him to work.

  “Is he a slave too?” the girl asks.

  I glare at Tomas, even though he wasn’t the one who asked. “Get me. The rulebook.”

  He gets up and goes.

  “You’re rude. You know that?” Then she sneers in the direction of my pants. “And those? Not helping.”

  “You said pants. I put on pants. It is not my fault that my cock is huge and your eyes are virgin.”

  She snorts. “Right. You wish.”

  “And you’re one to talk about appropriate dress. If that corset were any smaller, your nipples would pop out.”

  She makes a face. Then crosses her arms tighter.

  Tomas appears with the rulebook and plops it down on the table, then helps himself to the last two pieces of bacon and sits back down, shoving them into his mouth before I can protest.

  “Sit,” I command the girl. Then I point to the chair where the book is. “And begin reading on page one.”

  She exhales loudly, but obeys, scraping her chair on the marble floor as she pushes herself in.

  I sit across from her, not touching the food even though my stomach is growling. If I had known that Grant was glamouring my meals, I would’ve punished him for that. And I would not have eaten them. Just the thought of how much of his magic I have ingested over the decades makes me ill.

  “Read,” I growl. “We are not wasting this day. After we’re done here you will throw out every bit of food we have in the pantries and root cellars, and then you will put the ring on, go into town, and buy all new provisions. And the next time you prepare a meal for me, you will not use magic recipes.”

  I’m angry about the food. There is no telling what kind of magic Grant was working on me over the last few decades. And I’m beginning to feel like Grant knew things. Lots of things. Up to and including how to break this curse.

  But he didn’t break it.

  Why?

  For the reason the girl stated? She will not unleash a monster on humanity?

  Maybe. But doubtful.

  The girl opens the book with a loud sigh. “It’s in Latin! I do not read Latin!”

  I point at Tomas and bark, “Tomas, read the book.”

  Tomas swallows his bacon, dabs his mouth with a napkin, then slides the book in front of him. “‘Rule number one. The slave caretaker will wash the hooves of the guardian monster daily.’”

  “Oh, hell no. Hell the fuck no. I am not washing your feet every day! That’s gross!”

  I shrug. She will come to understand. “Please refrain from commenting. We have a lot to do today.”

  “‘Rule number two,’” Tomas continues. “‘You will feed the monster three times a day. Rule number three. You will bathe—’” Tomas pauses to look at Pie when she squeaks. She grits her teeth and looks at me, shaking her head.

  Tomas reads, “‘You will bathe the monster each night.’”

  And again, she whispers her objections. “Fuck this. Just fuck this.”

  “Keep going, Tomas,” I growl.

  “‘Rule number four. You will study alchemy, herbology, and spellcasting. Rule number five. You will attempt to break the curse at least once a month until it is done.’”

  Pie sighs and bows her head, her shoulders slouching in defeat. “I can’t do any of that. I don’t know why I’m here, but”—she looks up at me, meets my gaze—“you’ve got the wrong girl.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “And yet you came in here with a magical bird?”

  She lets out a long breath. “Magic? Um. For your information I have been locked in several psychiatric hospitals over the years. I’m not magic, I’m just… insane. Delusional. I hallucinate. I’m most likely just a very high-functioning schizophrenic.”

  “Keep reading, Tomas.”

  Pie deflates even more when I don’t show her any sympathy.

  “‘Rule number six. You will take care of the greenhouse and collect herbs as necessary. Rule number seven. You will run errands for the monster and keep the kitchen stocked with fresh food.’”

  “I hope you have money for this,” Pie says. “Because I don’t have any.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Tomas says. “We have magic money. You just write down the word ‘money’ on a piece of paper and hand it to them.”

  “Them?” She’s confused. “Them who?”

  “The people in town,” I clarify. “Any piece of paper will do. Simply write down the word ‘money’ and they will accept it.”

  She ponders this for a moment while Tomas and I exchange a look. I wait for him to tell her the rest, but he keeps quiet.

  Maybe he is on my side?

  “Wait.” The girl points at me, then Tomas. “What’s that look you two are doing?”

  “What look?” Tomas asks, feigning ignorance.

  The girl squints her eyes at him. She knows something is up, but she’s not sure what.

  “Keep reading,” I command.

  She exhales with frustration and anger. Tomas continues.
“‘Rule number eight. You will pleasure the—’”

  She snorts before Tomas can even finish. “Fuck you. Just fuck you, beast. Pleasure you? What the hell does that even mean?”

  I shrug. “Lots of things give me pleasure. We’ll figure it out.”

  She looks at Tomas for help. But he’s already standing up, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “I gotta go, sunshine.” He reaches over, brushes his fingertips against her cheek, and then winks at her. “But I’ll be around if you need help with anything.” Then he waves his fingers at her playfully and walks out of the dining room.

  The girl looks at me. “Nope. Nope. If you think I’m going to sexually satisfy you—”

  I bellow out a laugh and point at her. “Wow. Well. We know where your mind is.” I stand up, fist my cock through my skin-tight pants. “Still on my package, I see. Why am I wearing these pants again?”

  “What?”

  “Sexually pleasure me?” I glare at her. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Me?” She points to her chest. “You’re the one who needs to have your feet washed every morning and to be bathed every night. Like you can’t do that shit yourself?”

  “You’re my slave. I’m the Monster of Saint Mark’s. The only sex between you and I will happen in your dreams!”

  She stands up, flips me off, and is walking towards the hallway where Tomas disappeared when Tomas is suddenly there again.

  “We have a problem.” He’s looking at me. Not her.

  “What is it?”

  “Well.” Now he does look at Pie. “Your car just got a ticket.”

  The girl just looks at him, like she’s not understanding. “What?”

  “Yep.” Tomas twirls a finger in the air. “The sheriff is out front. Flashing lights and everything.”

  I smirk. I can’t help it.

  “What do you mean? There’s nothing out front but fog!” She’s in complete denial. About all of it.

  “No,” Tomas says. “Listen. This is how it works. Most of the time people can’t see the sanctuary. It’s hidden in the trees, this road we’re on is private, there’s no mail delivery, et cet-cet-cetera. So it’s practically invisible even without magic. But if they do notice us—for instance… a car is abandoned on the side of a country road—someone calls it in to the local sheriff. The sheriff comes out to take a look, so now the building, which was always here, just slightly, magically sorta hidden, is now visible to anyone who cares to look in our direction. So they can see us and we can see them.”

  “But the fog?”

  This poor girl. She’s slow. Not very bright at all. “The fog is only there because you have not put on the ring,” I explain. “And it will stay there until you do. But now that your car has been noticed—”

  “Oh”—Tomas laughs—“it’s been more than noticed. They are towing it.”

  “What?” She’s starting to panic. “They can’t tow my Jeep!”

  “Agreed,” I say. “We need that car to get groceries.”

  “Fuck your groceries! That Jeep is the only thing I own! They can’t tow it! I can’t get it out! I don’t have impound money! And I can’t even leave here.”

  I hold up a finger. “You can leave here. Remember?”

  “If I put on the ring.”

  “Exactly.” I smile, satisfied. “If. You put on the ring.”

  She glares at me. And her face goes dark as I watch her. “You did this.” Her voice is low. Growly. “You did this, didn’t you? You got the sheriff out here to tow my Jeep so I’d be forced to put that stupid ring on.”

  “Woman, how the hell would I get the sheriff out here? There is no phone. I can’t leave unless I’m with you. You’re losing your fucking mind because you know you have to put that ring on and there is no way out. And let’s get this straight right now—I’m not the one fucking up your life. You’re the one fucking up my life. You’re here and no one trapped you. You came of your own accord. So do you want that car or not? Because if you don’t go take care of this, you’ll be walking into town for groceries and it’s a nineteen-mile hike.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “I hate you.”

  “Back atcha.”

  “OK, OK, OK.” Tomas slides between us, one palm pointed at me, one palm pointed at her. “We’re all we’ve got, kids. We don’t hate each other. But Pie, seriously. You do need your car.”

  “No shit,” she scoffs.

  “So…” Tomas pauses. Like she’s about to turn into a reasonable person before his eyes and realize she needs to put the ring on.

  He’s always been a dreamer.

  “So? So what?” she snaps.

  “So…” he tries again. “Put the ring on, Pie. Go out there, tell him it’s your car, and handle this shit.”

  She purses her lips. Taps her boot on the marble floor. Puts her hands on her hips. Huffs. “We’ll see,” she says. Then she turns, momentarily gets confused as to how to leave the dining room, then picks a direction—

  “Not that way,” Tomas calls.

  I just shake my head and look skyward, asking for patience.

  “Come on.” Tomas takes her hand. “I’ll show you how to get back to the great hall. It’s tricky,” he says as he leads her out. “The hallways…” Then his voice trails off.

  I follow, reluctantly. But it’s not like I have anything better to do. Tomas is getting very hands-y with this girl. I’m sure he’s enjoying her immensely and I am starting to get the feeling that Tomas thinks that he and this girl will have something special.

  Good. Good for him. If he wants to cozy up to her, fine with me. She’s not my type at all.

  When we get back to the main hall, Tomas and the girl are looking out one of the tall skinny windows that face front.

  I join them and all three of us watch as a sketchy-looking tow-truck driver slides under her car to hook it up.

  “Better get that ring on quick,” I taunt. “You’re about to lose everything.”

  Her head turns to the side. “You’re an asshole. And I don’t need to put the ring on. I can have this conversation through the gate.”

  And with that, she turns to the door. Pulls it open and walks out.

  Tomas and I look at each other, smirking.

  He sighs. “She’s…”

  “Insane? Dumb? Obstinate?”

  “I was going to say… eternally hopeful.” He snickers. “But she’ll learn.”

  “They always do.” I cross my arms and wait for her illumination to happen before my eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT - PIE

  I walk out the door and the sunshine hits me in the face. I feel like I’ve been cloistered away for decades and it’s only been one night. I want to believe that this is all a bad dream, and I was holding out hope this morning, but this isn’t a delusion. And even if it is, while I’m living the delusion, I need to outsmart it. I need to be one step ahead. Hell, ten steps. I need to make good decisions and weigh every one of them carefully. Because it’s all a trap. I can just feel it.

  The sheriff hasn’t noticed me yet and the tow truck driver is too busy hooking my Jeep up to a very questionable truck. Maybe my Jeep is nothing special, but it’s my baby. And picturing it rattling behind that clunker is giving me heart palpitations.

  Once I’m halfway down the path I call out, “Hello! You can stop now. I’m here.”

  None of them turn to look at me.

  “Hey!” I call out, louder now. “I said you can stop. That’s my Jeep. I live… here.” That was hard to say. “Hello?”

  They don’t even look at me.

  In fact, it’s like they don’t even see me.

  “No,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening.” Am I invisible? “Hey! Dickface sheriff! You’re an ugly—” I stop. It’s very apparent that I do not exist without that ring on my finger. But aside from that, I was going to call the sheriff ugly. And… he’s not ugly. Like. At all. He’s… “Wow.” He’s fucking hot.

  “Huh.” I
plant my hands on my hips. “Maybe my theory about hot dudes was true?”

  Tomas is a looker. Like… mmm. That kind of looker.

  And even though the beast is a monster and he has horns, and hooves, and fur… he’s got a nice face. And that scruff of blond beard? Mm-hm.

  I shake my head and snap out of it. Because the tow truck driver is lifting my Jeep up now. Like he’s about to pull away.

  I turn, run back to the sanctuary, fling the door open, and screech to a halt. Because the monster is standing right there, palm out, ring in the center of it. “Forget something?” He smirks at me.

  I snatch up the ring. “Fuck you.” He might have a nice face, but he’s the reason I’m stuck here. And he’s a dick.

  “You’re gonna have to put it on, sweetheart.”

  I sigh up at Tomas. “Give me a minute.”

  “You don’t have a minute,” the beast says. “Your car is about to pull away.”

  “What?” I look out the window, and sure enough, the driver is getting into his truck. I spin around, go back out, run down the walkway, and slip the fucking ring on my finger just before I call out, “Hey! Stop! That’s my Jeep!” A repeat of what just happened two minutes ago, but with real fear in my voice this time.

  The tow truck driver just pulls away. Either he didn’t hear me, or didn’t care.

  But the sheriff has definitely noticed. He turns in my direction, flashes me a brilliant smile, lifts his sunglasses up to his forehead to reveal the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, and he says, “Well, well, well. Would you get a look at this.”

  I stop at the gate and frown at him. “Get a look at what?” And that’s when I realize… I’m still wearing my slutty schoolgirl outfit from Halloween night.

  The sheriff actually leers at me, looking me up and down but good. And I’m still trying to decide if I’m offended or not when he adds, “You, little darling, are a vision in plaid.”

  I want to be offended. I really do. But wow. He’s so hot. Like… supernaturally hot. He’s tall. And lean, but not skinny. I can see the definition of his biceps through his khaki-colored button-down shirt. And those already-mentioned eyes. Not to mention his accent. It’s just the right amount of rural Pennsylvania hick.