Page 6 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

Theos’ palm touches the back of my head, moving down my skull, weaving fingers against the strands, gently petting in a way that shouldn’t calm me but somehow does. Gods, some fucking assassin I turned out to be.

I allow myself the respite for a moment more, but that’s all. Pressing my hands flat against his chest, I push away and am relieved not to feel the burning of tears in the back of my eyes anymore. “Caedmon is here,” I say.

Three sets of dangerous eyes fall on me, and one by one, every single Darkhaven turns towards the back door leading into Madam Brione’s. Kalix takes a step towards it, placing himself between me and the man now standing in the doorway.

I turn and level my gaze on Caedmon’s earthen eyes. He stares over me at Theos and then swaps his attention to Kalix and Ruen who flank us. With a resigned sigh that doesn’t appear all that perturbed by what he sees, he turns into the room and motions for us to follow.

Ruen and Theos exchange a look, but Kalix keeps his gaze fixed on Caedmon’s back, and from where I’m standing I can’t see his face. With nothing else to do, I pull myself from the pleasant circle of Theos’ arms and follow Caedmon.

The only way to get the truth is to follow the God of Prophecy and, hopefully, he’ll lead all of us to a logical conclusion that won’t mean the end of my life or the Underworld.

Chapter 4

Kiera

When I return to the chambers, shadowed by three dark hulking figures, Regis is standing there along with Carcel and Ophelia. Ophelia’s upper lip curls back. For a moment her scolding gaze lands on me and her eyes narrow, probably annoyed at how close they stand to me. Displeasure fills her expression. I bite back whatever angry words I wish to hurl at her. It’s not my place. I turn my gaze to the floor.

The burn of someone’s attention sears into my cheek and I glance up once to see Ruen frowning at me, flicking his eyes between me and Ophelia and back again. A dull, aching throb begins in the back of my head and spreads outward.

“Regis told me of your … relationship with a trio of Mortal Gods, Kiera,” Ophelia finally says, her voice crisp and tight. I don’t flinch. “But I didn’t think you would be so stupid as to bring them with you for our meeting.”

Sucking in a breath, I lift my head to meet her gaze. “They know the truth now, so it only makes sense that I would bring them.” I don’t bother to mention that the three of them didn’t give me much of a choice.

Her scowl deepens and she pivots to face Caedmon. “Did you know about this?” she demands, accusingly. “About them?” The way she says the word ‘them’ sounds as if she’s uttering something as distasteful as the name of a soul-sucking puss-inflicted disease.

I glance at them. They’re a bit prettier than a disease, but they’re still definitely infectious. I can’t seem to escape them. Still, I would also like to know if Caedmon foresaw this.

Caedmon sighs as he takes a seat in one of the lounges, and though Ophelia remains standing, Carcel curses quietly and shoots me a seething glare. If I wasn’t still reeling from Caedmon’s presence, I’d punch that look off his face. I’ve always detested the prick.

Carefully, though, I keep my eyes averted away from Regis—it hurts too much to look at him right now—and move toward the center of the room where Caedmon sits. “How long have you known the truth?” I ask him.

Caedmon leans back and casually lifts one arm to perch along the back of the lounge he’s seated upon as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Yet with that same movement, his other hand drags down his face, making him appear frustrated as much as he is haggard. He’s a dichotomy, this God. Powerful, feared, and yet … he is the one God within the Academy that has never made it difficult to respect him.

“I’ve known who you were from the beginning, Kiera,” Caedmon states clearly. “Since I’m the one that requested your services.”

A frozen wave of shock descends upon me and I stop where I stand. Everyone else, too, it seems, pauses in surprise, save for Ophelia who simply blows out a breath and then moves to a bar cart across from where Caedmon sits.

“You are the client?” I clarify after a beat as the clinking of glasses grows too loud for my ears—the only sound in the room aside from our collective breaths. It hadn’t been a test?

Caedmon nods.

“Then who is the intended target?” I demand, rage starting to swell low in my stomach and cast warmth outward like long fiery branches because despite how much I pride myself on being so fucking elite, I never saw this coming. It’s hard to admit that I’m not as good as I thought I was; perhaps it’d all been my own pride in the first place. “You never sent a name. I’ve been at the Academy for months?—”

“There is no intended target,” Caedmon says, dropping his arm from the back of the couch as Ophelia approaches and hands him a glass. “Well, not for the contract at least.”

My eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline. Not just because of his statement, but because Ophelia never caters to others. The way she’d simply handed him a drink without him even asking makes it clear that even if the two don’t trust each other, they’re more familiar than I’d originally believed. She’s not even attempting to hide it as she drops down at the far end of the couch and throws back her own glass of amber liquid.

I shake my head and fix my attention back on Caedmon. “You’re the client that contracted me to kill someone in the Academy, but you never intended to send me a target?” For a moment, I want to look at Regis. I want to at least confirm that I’m not the only one who feels insane at the moment, but I can’t. I don’t. “What was the point? And how do you know Ophelia?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Carcel mutters, turning and kicking the toe of his boot against the wall. The picture frames hung against the wallpaper tremble with the action and a plume of dust falls from it. “This is ridiculous.” He turns once more and glowers at his mother. “When we traveled here, you told me it was for your damned mutt?—”

At my side, Theos tenses, but he isn’t the one to interrupt Carcel. It’s Ruen. “Now, I’m sure you’re not referring to Kiera, are you?” The question is spoken casually—or at least, it would be were it not for the flash of red in his normally deep indigo eyes.

Carcel throws Ruen a dark look that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Even if he can tell by simple context clues who the three men now standing in the room alongside me are, Carcel’s never exactly been the subtle type.

“Forget him,” I snap. “He’s not the reason we’re here. Caedmon,” I refocus my attention—and hopefully the others’—back on the lone God in the room. “Why did you hire me if you didn’t want me to kill anyone?”

Caedmon twists the glass in his hand, his expression turning contemplative. I’ve never been one for drama, but I swear, even if Caedmon isn’t Dolos, he has the same penchant for production. I despise the fact that I must now sit here and wait for his response when it seems that he isn’t quite sure if he wants to tell me. The muscles under my skin bunch and contract even as I try to force them to relax. Anger does not suit a situation such as this. Yet I can’t deny that it is rising, stronger and faster with each passing silent beat.

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