Page 18 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

Her frown turns into a scowl. “What is this?” she demands.

“Choices,” I tell her. “These are your choices. If you use your right hand, the only one you have left, you’ll have it cut off now. What do you do? Will you use it or not?”

“It doesn’t matter what I would decide,” she snaps. “It’s lost either way whether I use it or not.”

“Exactly,” I tell her. “Every choice I’ve ‘made’ for myself has somehow been controlled by others. First by my mother, then my father, then the bandits, then you, and now … as it always does, it comes down to the Gods. All I have had has been the illusion of choice and I’m telling you that I’m done with that.”

No more.

“The only thing I have left to wonder is, if all I was good for was destruction and death then why?” The question refers to our conversation, but I’m not entirely sure what I want to know. “Why me and not someone else?”

Why did she keep me? Train me? Hurt me? If she wanted a daughter, why did she treat me as she did? Why the servitude? Why the choices she made?

Ophelia’s expression—once so difficult to understand—twitches and all of the minute little changes from the dart of her eyes to the muscle that bunches and jumps in the side of her nose or beneath her right eye reveals all. She doesn’t like being questioned, but I won’t retract it. Whatever she wants to answer, I’ll let her. I want her to. I’m curious to see which question she’ll take and which she’ll respond to.

So, I wait.

Silence stretches between us, seemingly unending until it does, in fact, come to an end with a deep breath from her and the gaze she breaks by looking away. She picks up the switchblade, wipes it on her pants’ leg, and then folds it down, closing the sharp edge into the handle before slipping it back into her pocket.

“I will not pretend to be altruistic,” she says with a shrug. “You were a good investment and I’m a businesswoman.” I wait a beat and she continues, arms at her sides. “With that said, all that I did, I did it to prepare you for the world. When I was a child, no one fought for me, and so easily I could see you killed. I did not wish to do that. Your existence was a danger, but children deserve chances. I had to protect the Underworld, but that didn’t mean I had to kill you to do so.”

My fisted hands release and blood drips free from wounds that have already healed. The cuts made by my nails are gone, but the remains of them flow over my skin, and ping against the floor one after another. It’s ironic.

This woman saved me. Damaged me. I am alive because of her. I resent her kindness as much as her cruelty. Is that fair? Perhaps not, but if there’s anything she’s taught me, it’s that life is not fair.

Without a word, I turn away from her and face the door. I reach for the knob—the sounds of voices on the other side louder than they were minutes prior.

“You are a better woman because of what I did,” Ophelia says. “Better equipped to handle the next task set before you. You are stronger for what I did.”

I bite down on my tongue even as the words break free a moment later. “Children do not ask to be strong or better, but I guess, in this life, I have no other choice.” I don’t look back. “It’s conquer or die.”

Chapter 8

Kiera

Ileave the small room on my own two feet with blood still soaking my collar, making it stick to my skin. The moment I step out of the door, three unnatural sets of eyes fall on me. Ruen’s head snaps to the side and he glares over my shoulder, most likely at the woman who remains behind.

“Let’s go,” I say, moving towards him. One foot in front of the other. No matter how lightheaded I feel, I won’t let myself collapse in front of Ophelia. I don’t want her to think removing the brimstone in my neck affected me.

The absence of the pain there has opened a void to something else. A strange sort of sucking of energy as it depletes me faster with every passing breath. As I near the other side of the room, my foot nearly catches on the side of one of the chairs. I stop just as Theos steps forward, reaching me in less than a second. His hand curls around my bicep and I pretend that I allow the action when really, I don’t have the energy to stop him. My gaze lifts to the doorway. The only ones who remain behind now are Regis and Caedmon. The former eyes me with concern even if I won’t meet his gaze. I’m still too raw from his betrayal, angry even if I can understand where he’s coming from.

“We’ll be in touch,” Ruen states, his tone sullen and his muscles tensed beneath the shoulders of his tunic and cloak. He holds out his hand for me. “Kiera.”

I shake my head and finally drag my arm from Theos’ grip, grateful when he lets me go easily. Once more, I walk towards the exit with my head held high. I stride into the hallway, bypassing both Regis and Caedmon. Theos follows, his presence somehow a relief. I pause once to glance back; Theos and Kalix are closer to me than anyone else, their bodies nearly blocking the entire narrow hallway. Over their heads, I see Ruen at the doorway. He says something to Caedmon, so quietly that I can’t hear it even with my newfound heightened senses.

Perhaps I could have were it not for all of the new sensations coursing through my body. I’m overstimulated. Each creak of the floorboards underfoot screams through my head until it throbs incessantly.

Theos frowns at me. “Kiera, are you okay?” He glances to the back of my neck where my fall of hair now covers what I’m sure is a healed wound.

I shake my head in a non-answer. No. I’m not okay, but I don’t want anyone here to know it. Not Ophelia. Not Regis. And certainly not Caedmon. It doesn’t matter to me that he’s somehow been trying to feed me information about the truth. He was Ophelia’s client. He knew everything this whole time. He let me be whipped and he, like the rest of the Gods—Atlanteans, whatever the fuck they are now—cannot be trusted.

I make it to the front door of Madam Brione’s shop without seeing her again, and though I am curious as to her whereabouts, the drilling of constant pain in my skull is overwhelming everything else. Kalix appears at my side, making me jolt back even as one firm hand lands on the small of my back. He doesn’t speak and he doesn’t look at me as he lifts the curtain away from the single tiny slit of a window in the door and peers out.

A moment passes and then another and another until finally, he nods and reaches for the door handle. Kalix slides open the door and his hand leaves my back to find my wrist as he tugs me along with him. Footsteps sound at my back, but it’s now taking all of my concentration to remain upright and walking.

The shop door shutting ricochets up the exterior building walls and over the cobblestones of the street. Farther and farther, I walk. Until my vision narrows down to one pinprick of light and I can no longer feel Kalix’s firm fingers on my wrist. I’m not sure if that means he’s released me or if all of my senses are finally crashing from the overload.

“Something’s wrong—” Theos’ quiet voice is suddenly cut off as a pair of arms pluck me off my feet and I find myself landing against a broad chest. My head lolls back against a strong shoulder and I peer up, finding the underside of a rough, unshaven jaw. Little dots of black hair line the square cut line and halfway down the throat of the man carrying me.

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