Page 63 of A Haven of Brimstone and Darkness

“Wait.” I shake my head even as my fingers dig into the crevices of the table’s wooden surface. “But my dad didn’t have any power when he raised me. He was completely human.”

The softness of Makeda’s face changes in an instant at my words. The glimmer of tears evaporates from her eyes and she reaches for her cup, fingers gripping it tight. “He was chosen for harvest,” Makeda replies, her voice a low, dangerous sound. A warning.

“Tryphone knew I’d resist, so he didn’t tell me,” she continues. “Back then. He didn’t require us to drain powers from our children so often and never those that we had sired or birthed ourselves.”

I glare at her. “But you still did it to others,” I guess. “Lesser Gods’ children.”

Her lips press together in a thin line, but she jerks her chin in acknowledgment.

My upper lip curls away from my teeth. “I bet it wasn’t until your own son was in danger that you realized how wrong it was,” I snap, wholly unconcerned by the fact that she is a Goddess, herself, and could very well kill me if she so chose.

Makeda’s other hand comes up and she pushes back a wave of hair. Without one of her crowns or headbands to hold the mass of it back, it rests over her forehead and presses against her cheeks like a cloud curling around her.

“You would be right,” she admits with a grimace. “I didn’t think of Mortal Gods as anything but inconveniences until I met Arthur and we had Henric. It was ridiculous to me that my kind would breed with those of this world, those without magic.”

“Or Divinity as Tryphone renamed it, right?” I guess. “Since you all decided to play at being Gods in this new world.”

“Yes.” The admission brings with it a rush of molten hot rage, and I stand abruptly, knocking over my chair in the process.

Uncaring that I’m weaponless and in nothing more than a nightdress, I lean over the table and glare at the woman across from me. “What did you do when they called my father to be slaughtered for your power-hungry King?” I sneer the question at her.

Makeda bows her head. “Nothing.” Her shoulders curve in towards the fragile-looking center of her body. “I could do nothing, by the time I’d been told it was long over.”

“Then how did he survive?” I demand. Somehow, the answer seems already there. Still, I want to hear it.

“He survived the drain of his powers,” she says. “Not many do and when a lesser God of death was ordered to dispose of him, Ariadne saved him. She’d found out—too late as I did—but with enough time to free him from captivity and secret him away to the Hinterlands.

“By then, she’d already started to suspect what Tryphone was doing with her students. She’d always butted heads with her father. She was, perhaps, one of the only ones who’d regarded his decision to turn our kind into Gods in this new world as deplorable. Many others voiced their displeasure and they … disappeared.”

“They were killed, you mean,” I state. “Silenced by Tryphone.”

I straighten as she agrees and reach back to lift my chair to right it. When I take my seat, she glances up at me. Ignoring her, I reach for the kettle and pour a cup of the liquid.

“Keep going,” I say. “There’s no point in stopping now. If you brought me here, it was to tell me everything, wasn’t it?”

“Tryphone had his suspicions that his daughter was secretly leaving her post in the Academy. He had her followed on many occasions. I didn’t even know that Henric still lived. I admit that I … stopped caring about a lot of things when I heard he’d died the first time.”

A muscle in my jaw jumps at the reminder that even if my dad hadn’t died then, he had later … much later. Maybe if he’d had his powers he would have survived the attack; maybe things would have been different.

“What happened?” I press, lifting the cup to my lips and drinking back what tastes like a tea of sorts. Without any sugar, it’s bitter and tart, but the flavor at least is much bettercompared to the soup I’ve been forced to drink over the last few days. I drain my cup with hardly a grimace.

“Ariadne disappeared for a while,” Makeda admits. “I suspect it was around the time she realized she was pregnant with you. She had been sneaking out to see him often. They were in love and Caedmon, as her best friend, helped to hide her secret. I would have known all about Henric and you, I might even have known you in those early years had I not been so wrapped up in myself and my grief.”

I set the cup back on the table and pick up the discarded cake, nearly swallowing it whole. The shaky queasiness from earlier is fading fast and the delicate rays of early morning light coming in from the upper foot of the window warn me that there’s not much time left.

“Jump forward,” I say, coughing a bit as the cake lodges in my throat for a brief spell. “You haven’t explained what Avia means or why you want to help me? Howcanyou help me kill Tryphone?”

Makeda tilts her head, the mass of curly hair swinging with the movement. “Avia means grandmother in our ancient language,” she admits. “I am your grandmother, Kiera, and so is our Queen. We want to help you because we can’t bear to see our children hurt and slaughtered anymore. We cannot take part in this oppression anymore.”

Shit. Shit. Double fucking shit.

Here I thought the Darkhavens had a fucked-up family history. Makeda’s words, however, have me standing once more, this time far more cautiously. Her head lifts as her gaze follows me. She swallows.

“You may look like your mother,” she whispers, “but you have your father’s temperament.”

Doubtful. The man I knew as my father was far stronger than me, but she doesn’t need to know that. If anything, it’s a good thing she thinks that.

“The Hunt begins today.” She closes her eyes as pain washes over her features, brows knitted together, lips squeezing tight as she tucks her chin towards her chest. I stare at her for a moment more. I wait a beat before finishing. “I’m not talking about theVenatusCeremony.”

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