Page 13 of A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

Instead of being insulted, Kalix chuckles and returns his gaze to the window. I finish dressing and take a seat on one end of the lounge in the center of our shared common room. Four doors are spaced out evenly along the wall—one to each of our rooms and one to the hallway. I have half a mind to stomp down to the level below ours where the Terra for this tower reside and grab ahold of one of the female servants to come and service me. Rahela’s cunt did nothing to assuage my mood and Ruen’s sudden announcement has only soured it further. I know, however, that if I were to do that, it’d invite Kalix to destroy yet another perfectly good servant.

With a groan, I rest my head back on the cushions. What fucking Mortal Gods we are.

Three broken savages hiding away in this fucking tower, imprisoned by the blood that runs through our veins. I glance down and watch the pulse in my wrist throb against my flesh. Sometimes … I think. Sometimes, I wonder how much good it would do the world if I simply sliced it open and let it all run out. Maybe then, I’d feel some sort of freedom from this curse we’ve been given.

There is no freedom from the Gods, though. So long as we exist in the same world, they hold the authority, and we are merely temporary borrowers of that authority.

A higher domination there has never been than that of the creatures that masquerade as benevolent, but fuck their way through the bodies of their worshipers to no end but pleasure and power.

Chapter 6

Kiera

The sound of rain resonates into the quiet interior of the horse-drawn carriage as Regis and I finally find our way into Riviere. The ride had been long and tedious. My backside is sore and my hair—the moonlight color of it dulled due to the grease and dirt and sweat buildup—is plastered to the side of my temple and the back of my neck. The capital of Anatol’s continent is just as I distantly recall, luxurious as ever. Even under the dim gloom of rain and clouds, I can see that. I’ve been to a few of the other cities that house Mortal Gods Academies—three in total—but as the capital, this one is different.

The buildings in Riviere are taller here, stronger, built to house Divine Beings. The roofs are sloped and edged in expensive material. Gold and silver plaques line the streets. Some windows are colored and painted to depict stories from ancient days. The fairy tales of Gods lending aid to their human counterparts rather than reigning over them as the cruel overlords that they are. A more self-absorbed race I’ve never found.

The carriage’s ride smooths out the very moment our wheels hit the city’s streets and we pass through the gateway, pausing to show our identities—perfect fakes, courtesy of the Underworld and, I assume, our client. I’ve used many pseudonyms before to get into places I was required for other jobs, but this is the first time I’ve used one so close to my actual name and for such an extended period of time. Months if all goes well and possibly a year or more if it gets drawn out.

Across from me, Regis sits with his back against the wall, separating him from the driver, his hood pulled down low over his face. With the only light coming from the water-soaked windows, all I can see is the lower half of his face.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

I scoff and shake my head. A nervous assassin. That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. I don’t even think I was nervous when I made my first official kill—just annoyed. Then again, it’s been so long that I feel like looking back on those memories colors them differently. Perhaps I was nervous, but now I’m not. Ophelia made sure I would be who I am today. Devoid of emotion when it comes to my kills.

This line of work is disgusting, I’ll admit. It’s shown me, more times than I care to count, all of the ways that people will take advantage of others. Unfortunately, it’s also shown me that humans and Gods, no matter what the Divine Beings will have everyone believe, aren’t nearly as different as they seem.

I take no pleasure in killing, but on occasion—when I see the people who could’ve died instead, at the hands of my own victims—it does make everything a little better. Or at least, it makes me feel better about it all.

“You’ll get used to this job pretty fast,” Regis assures me. “You’re not changing your name much anyway.”

“Just because I’m going by my first name, doesn’t mean it won’t take a godsdamned lifetime to make this work,” I reply. “I’m not comfortable with the fact that even though I’ve decided to take on this job, the client still hasn’t revealed the target.”

Regis shrugs. “That’s just the risk you take for that kind of money, I suppose.”

“It has to be multiple targets, don’t you think?” I ask.

He turns his head towards the window and the passing scenery. The golden-etched buildings with tall pillars soon grow smaller and smaller the farther we get into the city. The streets narrow and so, too, do the alleyways we pass. Divine Beings become the minority as we enter Riviere’s second district, the human habitat. Still, though, to the village cities outside of Riviere, even the slums of this God City are rich comparatively.

“I try not to think too deeply about our clients’ plans, Kiera,” Regis finally answers. “I don’t concern myself with what happens after I’ve shed blood, only on how to survive until the next day.”

My gaze moves over him. Stoicism from Regis is rare, but it always seems to come about when he’s surrounded by Divine Beings. Dimly, I recall the first day he’d realized what I was. It’d been the turning point in our strange friendship.

“Stop crying.”

My muffled sob hiccups and I jerk my head up. “What?”

The boy’s lean face twists in disgust as he looks at me. Bushy blond brows furrow and the hollowness of his cheeks seems to darken as his lips pinch. The greasy strands of hair that match his brows are longer at the top than at the sides. No wait, it’s not grease but water. I blink and cast a curious look from the wet hair slicked back over his scalp to the smudges of dirt and other gray and brown grime left on the skin of his face and neck—streaked in an obvious attempt to remove it. I look up at him and wipe my sleeve under my nose. It comes away smeared with snot. His face wrinkles further and he even goes so far as to scoot away.

“No one here cares if you cry or not,” he says. “They’re all irritated by it—fuck, I’m irritated by it.”

Did he just say … fuck? Dad told me that was a bad word and it was liable to get some of that gross brown bar gunk from the market shoved in my mouth—the stuff that’s supposed to be for washing not eating—as punishment.

“It hurts,” I say, blinking as more tears cascade down my cheeks. My whole body hurts. From my back to my legs to my arms. I feel as if someone tied me to the back of a horse and slapped its rear end.

With a huff and an eye roll, the boy turns and fully looks at me. He leans down and appears to inspect me with his eyes. “Ya ain’t on the verge of dying,” he says finally with a nod. “If ya were, ya wouldn’t be here. There ain’t no parents to hold your hand here, kid. Tears are for people who care. You ain’t gonna find no one like that in the Underworld.”

“You’re a kid too,” I snap. “Don’t say that like you’re not.”

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