Page 91 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

Perhaps it makes me a hypocrite for caring when I just informed him that I wouldn’t consider them to protect myself. Then again, hypocrisy is how we met. A Mortal God who hated her own kind, forced to serve them, and now I know the truth—we’re all the same in the eyes of the Gods. Bugs to be squashed. Pawns to be used.

Chapter 39

Kiera

Ireturn to the North Tower and leave Kalix in the main room as I ascend to his bedroom which has now become Regis’ sickroom. Pushing the door inward, I peer at the bed where Regis lies, his face a pale sallow color. I nudge the door further open and enter, striding across the space—past the weapons hung on the walls and the hiss of Kalix’s snakes under various pieces of furniture—until I reach the curtains against the massive window on the other side of the room.

Gripping large handfuls of the thick fabric, I snap them outward, revealing the fading afternoon light and letting it spill into the otherwise dreary room. A scaled creature slithers out from beneath a nearby chair, coming cautiously closer until the snake sidles up next to my booted foot beneath my skirts. I arch a brow at the animal before shaking my head and going to the bedside. The quiet wheeze of Regis’ breath is accompanied by the short rise and fall of his chest. At least, he’s breathing, I think. That’s something.

I tap my hand against the wall, high up where a small crevice creates a space between the headboard of the bed and a crossbow hung sideways from a hook in the stone. A moment later, a familiar set of fuzzy black legs appear and Ara sticks them out to crawl from her little nesting place down to my upraised palm.

“Any changes?” I ask.

The emotions she pushes into me are both good and bad news. No change means he’s still alive, but it also means he’s still not awake.

I lower my Spider Queen to the nightstand as I lift a pitcher of water and pour it into a small basin. Dipping a cloth into the water, I use the wet fabric to stroke the side of Regis’ face, cleaning his skin of fresh sweat.

“You’re starting to look like a true Nezeracian,” I tell the unconscious man absently. “Only a man of the Hinterlands would have a beard so thick.”

Lightly tracing that very beard with the wet cloth, I feel my chest grow tight. I dip the cloth, getting it wet again, before wringing it free of the added water.

“I’m still mad at you,” I say. “You fucking betrayed me to Ophelia. I know you’d tell me that we’re all hungry in the Underworld—hungry for power, for freedom, for what we’re all searching for and hungry dogs are never loyal, but I…” My hand stills over the side of his cheek. “I expected better from you. I expected better from my best friend.”

Hot coals burn behind my eyes, threatening to send the emotions I’ve kept bottled for so long into an explosive eruption. Blinking back the tears, I turn away from Regis and drop the wet rag into the bowl before taking a seat. The conversation with Ruen and being unable to leave the North Tower without someone spying on me has made it nearly impossible to catch any true rest and I’m beginning to fade from the constant vigilance.

I sink further into the cushioned chair at my back, staring at the familiar face in the bed and hoping against hope that one day soon, he’ll wake up. When the dream starts, I don’t even realize it because it’s not a dream at all, but a memory.

11 years old…

Hot breath sears the inside of my lungs as I run. My feet slap the stucco stone pavement as I race after the sandy-haired asshole that is at least several paces in front of me. I grit my teeth and force my legs to go faster, knowing that to call after him and demand that he slow down would only earn me another trip to the dark room.

Pain, I can hear Ophelia say, is only temporary. You cannot expect others to help you, so you must help yourself.

If I were a betting kind of girl, I would bet all of my worldly possessions—which equals the clothes on my back—that she stuck me with the kid from my induction simply because he’s a sadistic monster who likes it when I get in trouble.

I lift my head as we near the next alley and realize with mounting horror that we’re almost at the end of our training obstacle course. I can’t come in last again. I can’t.

The back of my neck burns with the effect of the brimstone sitting beneath my flesh. It’s an ever-present ache that often leaves me crying into my cot in the middle of the night when the pain becomes too much to bear. One day, I’ll be able to ignore it. One day, I won’t even notice the constant buzz of the ache that ricochets up the back of my skull to invade my thoughts at all hours of the day or night. One day, I’ll be strong.

But even if that day is not today. I will not come in last again.

Putting on a burst of energy that forces me to feel the tug of power pulled through the sharp stab at the base of my skull thanks to the brimstone, my feet fly over the stone beneath me and as I round the next corner, I spy the object of my victory. Without stopping to think about my actions, I hang to the side and race right up the half broken wooden slat that is propped against the wall and use it as leverage to leap onto the rooftop of the building to our right.

The loud snapping noise of the wooden slat is my only warning as the too-weak plank gives way, but I’m already airborne. My hands slap the wall, two fingers hooking onto the rooftop shingles. I flinch as I feel a hard tug on one of my nails, but I don’t hesitate to swing my body upwards, grappling onto the shingles and using what pathetic little arm strength I have to yank myself the rest of the way up.

When I get there, rolling onto the steaming hot roof and feeling my skin burn when it meets the stone that’s been cooking under the sun for the last several hours, I pop back to my feet, shaking off the pain in my hands. Regis is already way ahead of me, but our end goal is in sight and he’ll still have to stop to climb towards it.

I take off running again, flying over the shingles and barely noticing when a few break free under my boots, sliding towards the street and alleyways with loud crashing noises. I’m panting, sweating, praying to the Gods—almost there. I’m almost fucking … there.

A cry of victory leaves my throat when I see Regis finally stop at the end of the next row of abandoned homes that act as part of our training ground today. I’m moving faster than ever before, the wind shoving the sweaty strands of my hair off my face. Relief is an initial sensation that’s quickly overcome by a strange sort of rush that I haven’t felt in a long time. I recognize what I’m feeling in the next instant—it’s triumph. I haven’t won one of these training exercises. Not even once since I was thrust into the program after my deal with Ophelia.

The pain of the runs and sparring exercises is nothing compared to the senseless beatings of the dark room, but at least here, I have a chance. The pain here is my body strengthening itself. The pain in the dark room is my body losing its control while my mind takes over the task of being strong.

Today, though, will be different. Today I will be the victor.

Glee floods my veins. Below, Regis bites out a curse and then takes several paces back from the stone wall that is now his obstacle. He takes a running start, leaping several feet more than any normal kid would be able to and hooks a hand over a jagged, uneven rock that juts out from the wall. As soon as he grasps it, however, it crumbles and he’s falling back to the bottom.

My heart beats a faster rhythm as I sprint towards the white flag that sits at the top of that wall. I leap from one house to the next as Regis tries again, taking another running jump and finding another hand hold. The second one holds stronger than the first and I force my body to hurry in response.

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