Page 48 of Patron of Mercy

“And how many people would they need to run that boat of theirs?”

The responding scowl was enough to tell Thanatos the answer was more than one.

The deafening noise followed by an immense plume of water to their aft made Thanatos freeze for a second. Chaos, they were being shot at. He’d never been shot at in his life.

Lach yelled an incomprehensible battle cry and went to the edge of the deck, pointing his tiny gun in the direction of the huge boat. There was another explosion, and this time the crunch that reverberated through Misericordia made his heart lurch. The living being beneath his feet had just been shot, was damaged.

“Get below deck,” Lach said, turning to look at him. “Maybe you can—can...” He trailed off, wild-eyed and panting. There was a sharp crack, nothing like the thundering sound of whatever they were shooting at the boat, and Lach jolted forward, pressed against the mast. When he drew away, his shoulder was bloody.

Thanatos took a step toward him, not sure what he could do but knowing he needed to do something.

Terrifyingly, the look in Lach’s eyes changed from angry terror to acceptance. “You should go. Go to Santorini. Find the scythe. You can get it to Gaia and fix this.”

Thanatos was more inclined to throttle Lach than leave him to his fate and go looking for the scythe, but Misericordia had other ideas. A rope that tethered her boom came loose just as Lach stepped past it, and it swung around to hit him in the back and knock him into Thanatos.

Thanatos grabbed him and righted him as there was another ear-splitting crash, and a hole opened up straight through Misericordia’s starboard side. She listed wildly to port, and the motion of the water exaggerated the movement. For one breathless second, they were weightless as the boat reached a crest and instead of falling back, it continued the roll.

As Misericordia capsized beneath their feet, Thanatos wrapped his arms around Lach and transported them to Santorini.

White Gravestones

The sun had risen, they were miles away, and Misericordia was sinking.

Unprepared for the stable ground, Lach’s legs overcompensated. He listed starboard, toward white paving stones. Light reflected off every nearby surface, turning the riot of flowers on headstones and monuments into stark shadows in the bright white light. For the first time, Thanatos was steadier than him and squeezed him close.

Lach had felt the tilting of the ship, even before the boom had sent him tumbling into Thanatos’s arms. His stomach had slid up into his throat as the whole world rolled. For one horrifying moment, they’d been weightless—nothing under their feet but a deck tilting perpendicular to the ocean swells that were swallowing Mis. All Lach had seen was the deep blue. Then, they were gone.

Closing his eyes, Lach tried to get a grip on where he was. He could hear the distant crashing of ocean waves, the squawking of seagulls. Nothing like the violent explosions and roaring sea spray. The gentle breeze that cut between the graves on the hillside rushed salty over his skin. They were in Santorini.

“Lach—” Thanatos reached for him gently, touching his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

His fingers barely grazed the wet spot on Lach’s shoulder. Distantly, he remembered the shock of the spinning bullet tearing through his flesh. He’d hardly felt it then, but now, when Thanatos touched him, he felt the bruising force and sharp sting of pain.

Lach had gotten into a gun fight in nothing but a pair of sweat pants. Lucky he didn’t have worse. A single bullet wound, barely a graze, was forgettable.

“We have to go back,” Lach rasped, gripping Thanatos’s arms and pinning them to his sides.

Thanatos was staring at the blood on his shoulder. Lach had never seen Thanatos bleed, he was too careful, but he’d seen other gods do it—Poseidon and Ares and Artemis. If Thanatos were hurt, he’d bleed golden. Heal quickly. Lach’s skin still sported an angry red gully.

“Thanatos,” he said sharply.

Shaking himself out of it, Thanatos met Lach’s eyes. Bleakness shone out from those golden irises. The shake of his head was so small that Lach nearly missed it. “We need to get you to a healer.”

Lach scoffed. “This is not the first time I’ve been shot, Thanatos.”

Paler than he’d been a second before, Thanatos straightened. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It looks worse than it is.” Impatience had sharpened the edge in his voice.

Thanatos hollowed his cheeks. Gritting his teeth, Lach squeezed his eyes shut. What use were reason and talking now? He had to do something.

“Lach—” One soft syllable, and it was too much. Anything other than “okay” was too much.

Lach’s eyes flashed open wildly. “Take me back!”

Seagulls took flight at Lach’s shout, but Thanatos only started. After all, he was a god—what power did Lach have to command him?

“I can’t.”

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