Page 55 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

His sigh only serves to irritate me further. He releases the tea cup and steeples his fingers together, setting his elbows upon the edge of the stone table between us.

“I told you once that that book is special and that it is quite ancient and spelled,” he begins, his voice quiet enough that even my heightened senses strain to hear him. “But it is more than that. The book you currently have in your possession is a book of prophecies of a sort.”

“A book of prophecies?” I repeat. “But it told me of the past as well. I thought prophecies only dealt with the future.”

“All prophecies that come to pass eventually end up in the past,” Caedmon replies gently. “That book is more than special.” He pauses and his brow creases, lips turning down at the corners.

My heart hammers in my chest as a peculiar sensation takes root inside me. It’s a warning and I know why the moment Caedmon seems to resign himself to something before speaking again. “That book is a part of me,” he finally admits. “It is bound in my flesh and therefore, holds some of the same powers as myself.”

My lips part and my jaw loosens in pure shock. The book is bound in his flesh? The leather I’d held in my hands was not of any animal but a God? Horror sickens my insides and Caedmon must see it upon my face because, in the next instance, he’s out of his seat and around the table, kneeling before me as he takes my hands in his.

“It was purposeful, Kiera,” he says. “Do not worry—I was completely consenting in its creation. I bound it myself. Were I to perish, I wanted there to be something left behind. Something that could aid you.”

My breaths come in fast pants, filling my ears even as he squeezes my fingers in his grip. He’s still talking, his voice soothing and gentle, but I cannot understand. Why would anyone purposefully flay their own flesh to bind a book? What does he mean he wanted to leave something behind to aid me?

My gaze lifts to find his. The skin around his eyes crinkles at the corners reminding me of the same happening to Tryphone the only time I’d met him within the God Council’s chambers. Those lines, though beautiful and speaking of many amusements, are marked by age. Something that should not be possible for a God, another piece of evidence to back up Caedmon’s claims that they are not Gods at all.

After a lifetime, however, of thinking of them one way, it’s difficult to completely shift my understanding of the world around me. Knowing does not always mean truly believing. That is something entirely different. Faith in Caedmon’s words doesn’t come from my mind, but a separate place entirely. I’m starting to feel its spark now.

Before, I thought I’d understood all that is now on the line. It isn’t until I stare down at Caedmon’s otherwise smooth face and the hands that hold mine—hands that cut his own flesh from his body and bound it into an object of permanence—that I realize I was wrong.

The act of stripping flesh from a person’s muscles is a torture I’ve received. The pain that I’d felt and the elongated time of healing after is an enduring reminder. I shudder as the memory comes back to me. I repress it once more and try to catch my breath upon this new information.

“Are you alright?” Caedmon’s voice which had fallen into the muffled timbre of sounds returns in words.

I’m not sure I have a real answer, but I nod anyway. He retracts his hands and stands to his full height. I tip my head back, staring up at him. I focus on his face so that I don’t try looking for scars from his ordeal as I know they won’t be there. Even I healed from mine so there’s no doubt in me that he did as well.

“I know it’s frustrating that I’m not able to give you more information about prophecies, Kiera,” Caedmon says. “Believe me, I wish that I could be straightforward. I do not enjoy the hints I must leave you rather than simply telling you what you need to know. The downside to having these abilities is that we are often controlled by them and there are consequences of stepping outside the boundaries they have set for us.”

“So you can’t tell me anything that isn’t shrouded in some metaphor or mental puzzle that I must first unravel?” I ask plainly.

Caedmon’s lips twitch and he offers me a beseeching smile as he returns to his seat. “I am sorry,” he admits. “The disadvantage of my power is my inability to know the prophecies if I reveal the secrets of the future.”

I just stare at him. Heat fills me. Frustration. I’ve already told him that I am no one’s hero, least of all his. Yet, still, as he stares back, I see the truth in his eyes. He still has hope. Hope that I can somehow manage to overcome all of these obstacles.

He’s one of them.

Whatever future he knows but cannot reveal to me, sits in the shadows like a monster waiting to strike. Like the creature parents tell their children about in secret whispers to make them behave lest the being come to steal them away in the night.

I will not be frightened by an imaginary monster. I have more than enough real ones to face.

I lay a fist on the stone table between Caedmon and me and fix him with a harsh look. “So you can’t tell me what those names mean?” I ask.

Caedmon’s gaze shifts to something unexpected. I’ve seen broken men before. Witnessed their demises in darkened alleyways and shunned their existence simply for the fact that to acknowledge their cracked souls would harm my own ability to live on. That is exactly what Caedmon becomes though at the mention of those names again. He doesn’t speak, but his lips part as if he wants to. They close again and he answers with a shake of his head.

Again, because he can’t tell me.

I lower my eyes to the chessboard. The porcelain pieces—the same as every other time I’ve been here—seem to dance in front of my vision. I know this feeling well. I close my eyes against it, but that doesn’t erase the truth.

Trapped. I am well and truly trapped.

I can try to gain more information from Caedmon, but I have the feeling that no matter how many questions I ask, no matter how many times we come back to this place, I will never get what I seek. Maybe because what I seek is not in him. It’s not here in this false garden with its false light and its confined flowers.

The irony is not lost on me. The Academy is just like this greenhouse. We, the Mortal Gods, are the precious blooms that smell of sweetness and power. We grow under the light of the Gods, but it’s not true sunlight that shines upon us. The primary difference between me and the rest, though, is that I was not raised as a greenhouse flower. I was raised outside. I was carved from blood, sweat, and bone.

My eyes shoot open. Of course … I blink at Caedmon who is peering at me, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Those names have made me realize something. I’m still not sure what they mean, but they remind me that I’m not alone. I can’t kill Tryphone and I refuse to do so without knowing the truth—a truth that Caedmon knows but can’t tell me.

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