Page 25 of Prometheus' Priestess

At Amara’s dismayed look, he continued. “I’m assuming you’re not from aroundhere?”

“No,” Amara said slowly, remembering whathehad said about people of her complexion not beingwelcome.

The man paused before offering her a gentle smile that reached his eyes.

“The accent gave it away. Not to worry. I can issue you with a visitor’s pass today. Unless you planned onreturning?”

“No, I think I’ll just have a look today. If that’sok?”

“Of course.”

He drew his attention back to the computer in front of him, tapping away at the keys until Amara heard the whirr of a machine.

“Here you go.” He handed her a piece of laminated plastic.

“Just head up the stairs and the reading room with the archives will be to yourright.”

“Thankyou.”

“Not a problem. You have a nice day now.”

Amara nodded, careful not to smile at the kind man, and headed for the stairs.

After scouring the catalogues, she placed her online requests and waited patiently at the collections desk for them to appear. When the book fetcher − thankfully a woman this time − kindly handed them over, she carefully carried the copies of the papers to a nearby desk and settled in toread.

What felt like hours of fruitless searching later, Amara’s eyes were sore, her head throbbing from information overload. Her body was stiff from sitting in the wooden chair where the cushion under the upholstered brown leather had been squashed over time, leaving little support underneath her. It had been a futile hope she finally acknowledged, placing the last newspaper archive back on the collection desk and heading back out the doors and down the stairs.

Whether it was because she’d been so focused on the archives when she came in or simply because she hadn’t noticed before, when she walked back into the lobby, she saw signs for an exhibition. Checking the time on her phone, she saw it hadn’t slipped by nearly as fast as she had expected through the myriad of newspaper archives, and she still had time to catch the exhibition. It was on one of her favourite topics, constellations. Following the signs for the building where the exhibition was being held, Amara was delighted to find it was a free exhibition to the public.

Stepping into the space, Amara felt her soul sigh. She hadn’t realised her shoulders had been hunched up by her ears until they dropped down, the coil in her neck releasing at the same time. She took a deep breath of air and felt her ribcage expand. It felt like the first time she’d breathed in days.

The exhibition was wonderful. Projections on bare walls detailed all the different constellations, the written panes underneath them depicting their history. Not just their scientific discovery but the myths behind them all. Those were the stories Amara really loved.

She’d been lucky. Despite her penchant for exploring, she’d been given a lovely Parisian foster mother who had been strict but fair. Her one gift to Amara was that she had always told her a story about the stars at bedtime when asked for one. A moment of sadness tinted the exhibition as Amara remembered her. Remembered too the funeral, the feeling that she’d been abandoned once again and didn’t quite belong now that her foster mother was gone. It had only been six short months after the funeral that she’d saved up enough money to leave Paris, after working day and night as a waitress, picking up any and all the extra shifts available.

Her hands skimmed along one of the display cabinets filled with old brown maps that were curling at the edges, depicting how the constellations were plotted, how they had developed over the ages, how one could still get their name on a star to this day.

That would be nice, Amara thought,to be remembered in some way.

As she continued to skim her fingers along the glass cabinets, peering at each piece on display, following the grooves of the panels that depicted all her favourite stories, she followed each twist and turn of the exhibition. Then, when she turned the fifth corner, blood roared through her ears as her heart pounded against her ribcage and gasping for air hurt. She wasn’t alone after all.

CHAPTER XIII

Prometheus felt the presence of another, like one feels the eyes on the back of their neck. It was an instinctive thing for humans and gods alike. The exhibition was closingshortly and he hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. But there were two others with him, one a female that he could see out of the corner of his eye even now and another man whom he’d passed earlier.

Tyche, as ever, had been right and, as usual with her revelations, he could only admit it in hindsight, much the same way as the humans did when it came to her actions. He had been troubled and the sight of reconnecting with his siblings in the stars when he couldn’t see them in person did something to soothe what remained of his soul. The melancholy of the past always helped him understand his gift when it felt more like a curse. He liked the Scottish lands too. There was something about them that reminded him of the earlier days when he had roamed amongst the humans freely, teaching them the arts they would need to survive and thrive. Edinburgh had taken those lessons to heart and it was a city that thrummed with activity because of it.

As Tyche had predicted, he’d been able to sneak past the Olympic barrier undetected by Zeus’ eagle. Not that he thought the God of Gods could remember why he was mad at Prometheus anymore. He was probably off hunting heifers or his next conquest, provided his wife was kept busy. Zeus’ selfish streak knew no limits. Prometheus almost regretted siding with him. Almost. It had been inevitable though, the Titans’ future written in the stars. Here, in the stars, were the stories of their battles. Everything, every event, every loss, every win, every myth, could be traced back in the constellations.

Prometheus always felt the pull, the longing to understand his gift, his foresight, when it eluded him the most. And so, he tried to retrace footsteps to understand the past and make sense of the future. As always, it was fruitless. Like tying yourself to a shipwreck, hoping it would wash you out to sea again.

The feeling gnawed in his gut.

The goddesses had been callous in their plan for the priestess, and while he had told Aphrodite that he would offer the priestess more support ... that would only work if he couldfindher. While he knew she was in Edinburgh thanks to Aphrodite’s insight, the city was home to over half a million humans. And it seemed as though she had gone to ground ever since her attack. Even if she hadn’t, it wasn’t as if he knew what she looked like. He had been foolish not to ask Aphrodite for more information before rebuffing her, and he didn’t want to turn to Athena, for he knew they would only argue should they meet, anger still a dull ache in his bones at her actions. All he knew was that the priestess wouldn’t look the same as when she’d met him at the cabin, given the human cloak he’d given her ... of that he wascertain.

If Prometheus had still been in contact with the humans, he would have had a network of people to rely on, to be his eyes and ears to find her. But those souls had scattered to the wind and any remaining bloodlines were unlikely to believe the legends that their family line was once in favour with a Greekgod.

While he understood the goddesses’ plan to reintroduce alchemy to the world, he couldn’t help but think of the last time they’d tried to bring magic back to the human realm. They’d burnt those women at the stake. Repeatedly. Each death had felt like a branding on Prometheus’ flesh. While Amara would be using human tactics, he found himself still ... fearing for her. It was an acutely uncomfortable sensation. Worry for the humans he was used to, but this fear was acidic.

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