Page 25 of Court of Heathens

“Erm, still,” he says with a small smile. “Is that okay?”

“Thank you. At least one of you is kind.” The smile on his face tightens. I bet gods are used to flattery, but Phrixius doesn’t seem to be. How odd. That reminds me, I know hardly anything about him. With nothing to do but kill time, I brew some tea and make a plate of snacks, which I push to the circle and then sit before him as he sits with a confused frown.

He lifts the cup and sniffs it. “This isn’t poison, is it? Will it turn me into a flagpole?”

“What? Why? I only do that when the demon pisses me off,” I mutter as I sip the tea. “It’s chamomile.”

He nods but eyes the tea worriedly. “Yes, well, I have done nothing, nothing at all.”

“Right.” I watch him in confusion as he sips the tea and seems to relax. “So, tell me about you, Sammy.”

His eyebrows rise. “You wish to . . . know me?”

“Well, we are stuck together for now, and despite you being a greathouse guest and seemingly able to piss my demon off by just breathing, we don’t know much about each other. So tell me.”

“You could simply look me up,” he points out.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I sigh. “Besides, I don’t believe everything people say or write. They have a tendency to portray their own feelings and not the truth. I’ve found it’s best to go straight to the source.”

“That is quite profound of you,” he comments, settling back. “What would you like to know?”

“How old are you?” I grin, and he laughs.

“I began existing not long after this world.” My eyes widen, and he chuckles, his expression shining with mirth. “Yes, I am that old.”

“So you’re not like a daddy, you’re like a great-great-great-great-granddaddy,” I muse, and he spits out tea he just sipped.

“Daddy?” He blinks. “As if I’m a father? No, I do not have children.”

I roll my lips in to bite back my smile. “Good to know.” I giggle. “So you’re super old and don’t have children. What kind of god are you?”

“Of moon and magic,” he answers with a soft smile. “Though mostly magic. It’s a broad category, I know. Basically, I sense any magic in the world, but mainly witches.” He winks at me as I grin.

“So you can sense my magic?” I ask, sitting up taller. For a moment, I stare at him, wanting to ask.

“I can,” he says carefully, eyeing me.

Swallowing hard, I try to force the words out so I can learn the truth about what I am and the darkness that seems to plague only me, but in the end, I chicken out. “That’s cool,” I say lamely. “So you know a lot of covens?”

“I used to. We have withdrawn from this world in the last century. It’s just easier to maintain balance that way. In all honesty, I haven’t checked in with my people in a very long time. Covens run themselves, and witches are very good at keeping order . . . sprinkled with a little chaos. It leaves me with lots of free time. I feel more like an idea now rather than something important.”

Sadness tinges his words, making me scoot closer. “So why don’t you find something that makes you feel important again?” He blinks at me, so I continue. “I use my ability to help others with spells and potions. I like feeling successful and needed. The demon has, well . . . the demon. Agatha has the coven and her shop. Everyone needs something to give them purpose and inspire them, but moreover, it should make you happy. Without joy, are you really living?”

His head tilts as he eyes me for a moment. “Not for a long time.” He glances away. “It is something all immortal beings feel after a while—the stagnant nature of our never-ending lives. We are doomed to watch those we love or care for grow and die. We are made to watch cities rise and fall, everything around us changing, but we never truly do.”

“It sounds lonely,” I murmur. “I don’t think I’d like to be immortal. Yes, death comes for us, and the idea of dying scares me a little, but I think that fear is what keeps us moving, keeps us mortal, you know? We try new things, experiencing everything we can so that when death does come for us, we can say we truly lived. Our life spans are short in comparison, but I think it’s possible to live many lifetimes within one if you try hard enough.”

“Is that what you want? To live many lifetimes?”

“I want to be happy. It’s a small dream, I know, compared to most, but it’s true, I just want to be happy, loved, and cherished so that when the day comes and I return to the Earth, I know I can go without regrets. That’s my biggest fear—that at the end, all I’ll have will be bitter thoughts and what-ifs. I don’t want that. I know how easily life can be taken away.” I shrug. “Maybe that’s silly.”

“Never reduce your ideas and wants in fear of what others will say,” he responds automatically. “That lessens your own worth and reduces your soul. Your dreams are not small, Freya, they are beautiful, and so are you.” There’s a knowing gleam in his eyes I can’t look away from.

“It doesn’t feel that way. All I have now are what-ifs and a million different roads taking me places, and I’m standing in the middle of them all, too scared to make a choice in case it’s the wrong one. Someday,I want to take a step, but I want to know I’ll be going down the right path,” I say, my gaze on my twiddling fingers. When he’s quiet, I lift my eyes. He’s pressed to the edge of the barrier, watching me with a fond, soft expression.

“You will. I have never met someone as brave as you in my entire immortal life.” My heart skips at that. I want to protest, but he doesn’t let me. “Nor as singularly kind. I think, Freya, that when you make up your mind and accept all of you, you will have everything you want if you are strong enough to fight for it, and I know you are. I know you’re strong enough to withstand whatever comes when you walk the path you choose.”

“But what if I choose the wrong one?” I whisper.

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