Page 15 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

Her head lifts, and the lines of her face, the wrinkles that truly reveal her age seem to deepen. Before she can speak, I move across the floor towards her, not stopping until I’m standing in front of her and the only thing separating our bodies is the table before us.

She doesn’t answer my question, so I ask a different one. “How long have you been working with Caedmon?”

Ophelia lifts up and thrusts her shoulders back. “I’ve known him for quite some time,” she tells me. The words are both an answer and a non-answer. Her green eyes, flecked with bits and pieces of gold, linger on my face. Her expression is unreadable and I hate it. I want so badly to know what she’s thinking, to know what her plans are for me, and if she’ll actually cave to Ruen’s demands to remove the brimstone from my neck.

She doesn’t seem all that afraid of what he might do to her if she doesn’t do as he commands, but then again, Ophelia is a master at hiding what she truly feels. I’ve known her for ten years and even I have never been certain of her feelings on most subjects. She could be terrified of Ruen, but even if she is, I doubt she’d ever show it.

That’s the fate of an assassin. Emotions are a weakness so they remove them. It’s a miracle Regis and I have done so well, but I suspect it’s more so the fact that we both had little choice. We both had goals that were more important than the lives of others and now we’re cursed to live with the blood we’ve shed staining our hands.

Such is the fate of killers and survivors.

Silence stretches between us, filling the hollow empty places in the room. I shake my head. “Did you send me here knowing that Caedmon was the client? Did you know this whole mission was a fucking lie? Did you know that I would—” I cut my words off, unsure how to finish the question. What should I even say? Did she know that I would meet the Darkhavens? Was that, too, planned?

“No one can know all things, Kiera,” Ophelia says, her tone quiet, almost tired. “Not even the God of Prophecy.”

I laugh, but the sound is anything but amused. Instead, it hovers over the two of us, caustic and too sharp. “You heard him,” I say. “Caedmon is no God.” He is Atlantean, a being from another world. A liar like the rest of them. “He’s just as mortal as the rest of us.”

Just as killable, I realize, though the thought of taking such an action had never entered my mind until this moment.

“Do you want me to remove the brimstone in your neck?” Ophelia asks, returning me to the reason we’re locked in this room alone in the first place.

I jerk my head up and stare at her. “Of course I do.”

It’s what I’ve wanted since the moment she inserted it. The stone feels wrong under my skin. Though the pain has lessened over the years—no, that’s not right. The pain hasn’t lessened, I’ve just grown accustomed to it. I’ve dealt with it every moment of every day for ten years. I’ve just fought through it. Spent nights sobbing into my pillows and hands until the rivers of tears had dried.

No one ever thought to help me out of the agony. They just expected me to act as if it wasn’t there. So I did what was expected.

The stone, itself, is like a low lying ache—an old wound that will never fully heal—that I’ve learned to live with not because I want to but because I have to. I tried to ignore the existence of it and even on occasion managed to forget it entirely, but that never lasted. When you’re constantly in pain, enduring becomes the only constant. You fight not to relieve that pain, but to survive it. It’s only when you become good at enduring the pain that people forget it exists.

Ophelia tilts her head to the side, watching me. Her eyes sharpen, pupils shrinking until all I really see in her gaze are green and gold. “And what do you plan to do once I remove it? Do you plan to leave the Underworld—your debt unpaid?”

A scowl overtakes me. I slam a fist down on the table. “How much denza have you made off my labor, Ophelia?” I snap. “As much as I’ve taken from my jobs, you’ve taken more. Each kill. Each mission. You take and you take.”

“I trained you,” she states simply. “I spared your life. I am owed what I am due.”

“I was a child.”

Rage burns hot coals in the back of my eyes. I fight back the tears that wish to unleash torrents over my cheeks. “Do not act like you spared me out of the goodness of your heart,” I hiss. “You wished to use me and you did. I’m sure you made Caedmon give over half of this farce of a job’s fee. That, combined with what I have made you over the last decade, should suffice for my debt.”

End this, I want to beg her. Set me free. I want it, crave it. The desire for my freedom is like a living, breathing entity in my breast. It curls around my heart and squeezes in long, drugging pulls as if it can keep the organ beating for as long as it needs to in order to attain its desire.

For a moment, Ophelia doesn’t speak. Her hands curl around the lip of the table, fingers digging into the wood as if they can burrow past the planks and break them free. She’s angry, but I don’t see why. Because she’s losing a blood servant? Tough. Fucking. Luck. I’ve suffered enough, haven’t I?

Children aren’t meant to be killers.

Wisps of shadows fall from my fingertips, curling up my wrist and circling like shackles. They do no more than that, but I can feel the power of them singing in my blood, moving through me and wanting more. My head pounds, the ache of the stone as it represses my powers as much as it can vibrating up the back of my skull. I bite down against the pain and glare at the woman standing across from me. All around us, in the walls and beyond, there are hundreds of little creatures responding to the call of my blood.

Whether I am half God or half monster, I don’t care anymore. All I desire is my freedom. The right to make my own choices, but I will not beg for what I have earned.

“You talk about what is owed.” My words come stilted, slowly, as I grit through the pain. “But what about what I am owed.” I lift my eyes and stare at her through my dark lowered lashes. “I have been nothing but loyal,” I remind her. “I took your education, I took your jobs. I did everything you asked.”

Please. I silently plead. No. I bite down on my tongue. I. Will. Not. Beg.

The shadows shiver against my skin, melding tighter. They are liquid darkness, unyielding, and yet, I do not find them restrictive. Instead, they feel like bands of strength, propping me up, urging me to face the woman I have both admired and feared for so long.

Ophelia’s nails retract from the tabletop and she straightens, pulling her hands away. “What will you do if I release you from your contract?”

“I won’t betray you,” I say, assuring her. “I have no intention of revealing the Underworld.”

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