Once the resounding clap of her feet on the stairs has receded, all of our attention returns to each other. Caedmon and I gaze at one another for a long moment. When he finally releases a breath, he unfolds his arms from behind his back and holds one out for me.
“Come, Kiera,” he commands. “The God Council awaits.”
I take a step forward, but Theos’ hand on my arm hasn’t released me. I pause when the hold keeps me from moving more than that single step and look back. “Theos?” His attention isn’t on me but on Caedmon.
“We’re going with her,” Theos says, directing the words to Caedmon.
Caedmon lets his hand drop and then shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Theos,” he replies. “You may wait out here, but you cannot go in with her.”
Ruen shifts his stance from slightly in front of me to completely there, his big body stepping between me and the path to the God of Prophecy. The snake around my ankle rubs its head against my skin and I jerk my gaze back to Kalix’s. His eyes aren’t on mine but as he raises a palm to warm the small of my back, he directs me forward.
Theos’ grip on my wrist eases and then falls away as Kalix urges me around Ruen and further down the hall. Caedmon seems just as surprised as I am because his eyebrows rise and continue to do so until they’re as high as I suspect they can go before Kalix and I stop before him.
“We will be out here.” Kalix’s voice is quiet as he speaks. “Should she scream, we will know. Should she be harmed, we will know. Should anything happen to her that we would not approve of, we will know.”
Verbally, as far as threats go, it’s not very inventive. Physically, though, Kalix’s eyes glitter like emeralds dipped in blood. The specs of red grow in volume and brightness as they swim through the mossy irises. Cold air wafts over the back of my neck and my braid flutters to the side. I’ve never been one of those petite women. Muscular? Yes. Average in height and weight? Yes. But never small or petite.
Next to Kalix and Caedmon, I feel like I’ve entered someone else’s body. Someone far tinier and far more breakable.
Hating the strange thought, I pull away from Kalix’s hand and shake my head, reaching for Caedmon. Holding my hand out for him to take, I eye him speculatively. “I’m ready,” I inform him, though I feel anything but.
Caedmon’s much darker fingers slide over mine, rougher than I expected. I blink and glance down, for the first time, noticing the calluses there. Calluses I know well because it took years for me to develop them enough beyond my own healing capabilities.
My eyes lift back to his face and though I don’t say anything, I know that those marks can’t lie. If it took me—a Mortal God—years to develop those calluses with my healing, how long had it taken him?
I’d once assumed that Caedmon was someone obsessed with knowledge and futures. Perhaps, I was wrong though. Even Gods cannot hide the signs of sword usage. He might appreciate books and art and instruction—in this world of the Divine and Mortal, he might be my guide—but I suspect he is far more than that.
This man, whoever he pretends to be, is a warrior beneath it all.
The room that Caedmon leads me into is long and tall. The ceiling arching over our heads is so high up that they are shadowed. As we enter the double doors, the first thing I notice is the floor. Most of the buildings at the Academy are made of some sort of stone and the Gods’ buildings are no different. The floor of this room, however, is carefully painted with depictions of the Gods.
Starting with the tanned face of a particularly beautiful male whose rugged features are cut into a square jaw and glittering gold eyes. He appears somehow familiar, but I don’t have a chance to continue examining the image before Caedmon’s urging me forward. My eyes continue, remaining on the floor as we pass over a woman with long golden blonde hair set in waves over her high and round breasts. The next image is more than familiar.
It’s Caedmon with his dark skin tone a striking contrast against the light gray of the stone. I jerk my head up and look at him, but his gaze is focused ahead. Only then do I finally turn the rest of my attention to what lies in front of me.
The God Council chambers are set up much like throne rooms of old—back before they existed in this world. I’d read of old Kings and Queens and how they’d held audiences in long rooms with a dais set up at the very end. This room is similar to those old storybooks. The pillars lining either side are separated by recessed wall insets and arching stained glass windows similar to those in the lower corridor halls. Candle chandeliers, round and unlit, hang from golden chains anchored to the ceiling and walls.
My attention finally lands on the five Gods and Goddesses waiting upon the dais with an ornate golden and redwood table stretched before their chairs. An empty seat remains at the far left side and I realize it’s meant for Caedmon. He stops me before the dais and moves away from me, striding up to join the rest of them, rounding the table, and taking his seat.
I’d walked too fast to examine the other images painted on the floors, but as I gaze upon the now six faces before me, I realize that those images were meant to represent these men and women. The God Council.
Slowly, I let my gaze move from Caedmon to the others. On his right is a woman I don’t recognize, her skin is a soft brown, several shades lighter than Caedmon’s but no less luxurious in its smoothness. Her hair is dark, nearly pitch black as it hangs in waves over her shoulders and down her back out of sight. Upon her head sits a simple gold crown that matches the gold bracelets adorning her wrists. Her eyes are a darker brown than her skin, but soft with sympathy as she looks at me.
Stiffening at that sympathy, I turn my head quickly to the side, skipping over the God and Goddess at the center of the table whose chair backs rise higher than the rest. At the very end is the same man I saw in the first floor painting. His golden hair is darker than the artwork with various shades of brown through the locks. But just like the woman, he wears it long in thick waves. The only difference is that several of his strands are gathered together and locked in little trinkets of jewelry that pin the locks into braids.
His jawline is sharp and angled and covered by the light stubble of beard growth that reaches halfway up his cheeks. Bold gold eyes peer back at me, not with sympathy but with idle curiosity and … boredom?
Why does he look so familiar?
Before my mind can supply an answer, my attention falls to the woman at his side. A woman with dark skin, similar to Caedmon’s, sits straight-backed with her bare shoulders covered only by a light white cape tied at her throat with a simple gold chain. Her wiry hair fans out behind her head in a large puffy afro that appears like a halo surrounding her soft features. Of the rest of the men and women sitting upon the dais, her bone structure is the most petite and fragile looking.
For someone like me, that fact makes me far more cautious of her than any other. I know from experience that those who appear delicate are often the most dangerous.
As my attention moves to her eyes, I blink, realizing that she’s staring back. One dark eyebrow arches at me, amusement clear in her open expression. Her eyes are the color of honey, with lighter brown rings circling the point of her pupil.
Finally, I look at the two sitting at the center. The woman is the same as the floor painting. Her long blonde hair curls over her shoulders and down toward her chest. Her features are striking and far sharper than the image had depicted. The more I stare at her, the more I realize she’s not truly blonde. Instead, her hair is like a thousand different variations of the color—some of it darker, but much of it is lighter and almost the same shade of silver as mine. Her shoulders are straight back and her lips set into an ambiguous line that doesn’t give me any hint as to what lies within her mind.
The lone man at her side is none other than the man I know to be Tryphone. His features are slightly different from what I’d seen in a few of his paintings and the statues of him around the Academy. There are thin, fine lines at the corners of his lips and between the dark slashes of his brows. Age lines? A shiver slithers down my spine and I try not to focus on them, to let him know that I’ve noticed something that I shouldn’t.