Page 58 of The Blood of Gods and Monsters

Abeyance Wellbriar—transferred.

They’re all there. Every. Last. Name. Each one is marked with a transfer, but to where? These are the list of the ones my book had given me. All save for Malachi.

I continue reading and after a few more minutes, I’m rewarded for my efforts with the answer. The Mortal Gods Academy of Ortus.

A shudder works through my body. The image of sharp, glistening ebony spikes that appear more like jagged knives spearing up through the land and ocean flickers in my memory. Upon further review, each of the names of the Mortal Gods listed come up as either First or Second Tiers.

I’m not entirely sure why so many strong Mortal Gods with powerful backgrounds would be transferred to the Academy of Ortus, but without stopping to think about these findings, I write them all down on the last page of the book, an empty extra. With a hurried glance around, I quickly rip the page from the volume and fold it before stuffing it into my pocket and standing once more.

My mind is awhirl with the knowledge, though I’m not sure yet what to make of it, I do know one person who might be able to help. Of all the Darkhavens, Ruen is the most studious. His wicked intelligence is one of the few things I admire about him. Even if I’m still smarting from our spar weeks prior, I know that he’ll be the best to help me figure out the meaning behind it all.

I leave the books behind where they lay, shooed away by the Terra of the library when I even attempt to put them away myself. I don’t argue. I’m in a hurry to get back to the North Tower anyway. The paper in my pocket is burning a hole right through the fabric of my trousers.

My legs eat up the distance and when I see the stairs inside the door of the Tower, I take them two at a time. My body buzzes with excitement and the fresh wave of adrenaline that’s flowing through my veins. It’s been a while since I felt quite this enthusiastic and the minor physical exercise is a good way to release the extra energy.

In a burst of energy, I fly up the rest of the stairs, straight past my old room until I’m standing in front of the door of the Darkhaven quarters. I don’t bother to knock. I don’t anymore. Turning the handle and letting myself inside, I scan the room, finding no one else. Ruen’s reading table is empty too.

Damn it. It’s the middle of classes. I’d completely forgotten. They’re all likely away and wondering where I am. I pause and release an annoyed breath, but as the door swings shut behind me a sound reaches my ears.

Hope blossoms in my chest when I turn my head and notice that Ruen’s bedroom door is slightly ajar and a shadow moves around inside. I don’t even stop to wonder why he’s back early when it’s obvious the others aren’t. I’m across the room before my mind can catch up with my body, pushing the door further open and stepping inside.

“Ruen, I found something that I want to ask?—”

The sight that greets me freezes all movements and the words that had been on my lips fall away, forgotten. The silence that follows my sudden intrusion stretches into what feels like centuries, but I know, logically, it can only be a few seconds. Ruen is shirtless. His body chiseled to the perfection only capable of being immortalized in statues and art. Each muscle of his chest and shoulders is cut like granite and the most stony of all is his face. Drawn into a complete mask of nothingness—no anger, no happiness. Every minuscule inch of his expression is devoid of the emotion that breathes essence into living beings.

For all I can tell, Ruen Darkhaven has simply ceased to exist as anything more than a memorial of the Mortal God I’ve both come to hate and unwillingly trust.

My eyes fall to where his hands are locked in place with a wet cloth coated in what looks like green and brown mush. They hover over his forearms, both of which are lined with sharp wounds.

I take a step further into the room and then quietly shut the door. My back touches the wood a moment later as I lean against it, needing the help to hold myself up. The physicality of touching an object grounds me as old memories swarm the back of my mind. Each cut is a perfect line. No wavering signs of hesitation. Precise. Cold. Callous.

The light outside the window appears to dim as I take a breath and push away from the door. Ruen doesn’t move a muscle as I approach and I don’t stop until I’m standing over where he’s perched on the side of his bed with the nightstand acting as a placemat for the bowl of water and what looks like a bag of herbs. The scent of soil and the tang of turmeric along with the softer aroma of lavender hover between us.

“What are you doing here?” Ruen’s voice is husky.

I peer from his arms to his face. “What did you do?” I demand instead.

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. My question does, however, seem to give him the energy to move. He lowers the cloth until it covers one of his forearms, and then he rubs it back and forth over the scabs that have now formed.

I eye those markings. They’re dark, suggesting that they aren’t new wounds. There are only two things that can harm a God or Mortal God and keep it from healing so completely. I don’t detect a hint of poison in the air, which can only mean that he used brimstone.

Several minutes pass as Ruen strokes the medicine covered cloth up and down his forearms and still, he doesn’t respond. I narrow my gaze on him. “Why?” I ask instead of repeating my earlier question.

Ruen pauses his actions with his head bowed. His breath shudders out of him, lifting his shoulders and lowering them once more. This close to him, I can see the fine details of scars marking his shoulders as well, the lines disappearing over his back.

“Ruen. Answer me.”

“It’s none of your concern.” I’m not surprised by his gruff response. What I am, is angry.

“Those cuts aren’t jagged.” I lick my dry cracked lips, feeling devoid of anything but wrath and pain. “You didn’t get them from someone else.”

He doesn’t reply, just continues scrubbing at the scabs. My gaze lands on his chest, the dips and hollows of a well-trained and muscled body. I bite down, grinding my teeth together.

I want to circle him to see where the lines along his shoulders and back end. Deep down, I know they don’t. The scars might come to a point somewhere along his spine, but they go far deeper than the flesh. I know because no matter how many times I’ve healed from my own scars, sometimes, I still wake up from old nightmares covered in their ghosts.

Ruen curses and my eyes jerk down to find that he’s scrubbed himself so hard that one of the scabs has peeled away completely and blood flows freely from the freshly opened wound. I don’t think. I just react. Capturing his hand and stopping him from slapping the cut across the opening, I reach for the extra cloth lying on the nightstand. I ignore the herb concoction and dip the fresh cloth into the waiting water, wetting it before bringing it to his skin.

“Irritating the scabs won’t help them heal,” I state. “But you know that, don’t you?” My tone is even, my words clinical as I press the wet fabric to his wound and watch the blood seep through in a way that it wouldn’t were these wounds made by anything other than brimstone.

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