Page 18 of Dead to Rights
Unaffected, Keegan shrugged. “So, how do you two know each other?”
“It’s a long story,” Noah hedged.
When he had first arrived in the Village of Lost Souls, he hadn’t known anyone. Things had been different back then, quieter, and the loneliness of those first few years had been crushing.
More for a distraction than anything else, he had started exploring the outer edges of the village, trying to find out what lay beyond its boundaries. He had hoped there might be forests, mountains, or maybe even caves.
He had found only the kind of total, disorienting darkness that neither light nor sound could penetrate. That hadn’t stopped him, though. Reckless and stubborn back then, he had pushed on, putting one foot in front of the other with no clear direction.
He didn’t know exactly how long he’d spent in that void. It could have been hours or days, and more than once, he had worried he would never find his way out. The sensory deprivation alone had almost driven him mad.
Then, suddenly, he had found himself standing in front of a small cottage with a thatched roof and a bright red door. Instead of the black skies and dusky twilight he had become accustomed to in the village, there, the heavens stretched out in an endless blanket of pale blue.
There had still been no sun. No bright washes of golden light. Yet the air had felt different, lighter, and the illumination that had existed seemed warmer, like the world just before daybreak.
He’d barely had time to take it all in—the breeze, the forest beyond the cottage, the scent of rain on the air—before Rebes had appeared. Standing all of five foot tall and probably weighing a hundred pounds dripping wet, he hadn’t exactly been intimidating.
Until he’d opened his mouth.
He’d spent ten minutes cussing Noah, calling him every insult in the book, some in languages that didn’t even exist anymore. Apparently, no one had ever made it past the god’s wards before, and he had been none too happy about it.
Then he’d sent Noah back to the village with nothing more than a snap of his fingers. Two days later, Noah had headed right back into the void, and again, he had succeeded.
Things had gone on like that for almost three years before Rebes had finally given up. That day, when Noah had arrived at the cottage, instead of a tongue lashing, the god had invited him inside and poured him a cup of coffee.
In the years that followed, Noah never quite knew what to expect when he returned. Sometimes Rebes would greet him with cryptic riddles, other times with a silent glare, and on rare occasions, a begrudging nod of approval. The cottage became a respite, a sanctuary he entered only by proving himself.
Strange things happened inside those walls. Time tumbled over itself. Rain fell indoors, and the forest pressed up against the windowpanes, ancient and watchful.
Sometimes Rebes waxed poetic about the old gods and the way the world used to be. Other times, he’d demand Noah fetch impossible things—a feather spun of pure gold, a stone that remembered its own name, a dream caught in the palm of his hand.
With time, he learned to navigate the god's moods, figured out when to keep quiet and when to push back. Until eventually, a subtle shift took place as Rebes’ anger cooled to a sort of reluctant respect.
In the village, nothing changed, but knowing he could retreat to the cottage kept the shadows at bay just enough to allow him to breathe. At first, he had considered these small mercies a stroke of luck.
Now, he understood they were gifts from one lost soul to another.
And the rest, as the saying went, was history.
“So, what is it you want to know?” Rebes asked, drawing him back to the present. “I’m assuming it has to do with the female?”
Noah dipped his head. “Her name is Karleigh, and she is my mate’s sire.”
“I see.” Leaning back in his seat, Rebes crossed one slender leg over the other and adjusted his loose-fitting silk pants so that the hem draped over his ankle. “And you’re jealous.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. “No, I’m not jealous. I just want to know more about the sire bond. Can she make him do stuff he doesn’t want to do?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?” Keegan prompted, his tone dripping with impatience.
The god’s eyes flashed again, the ring of blue around his irises glowing intensely. “A sire does exert a certain level of control over their progeny. In the early days, that can be the difference between life and death. Not only for the fledgling but for the general public as well.”
“So, they just have to do what they’re told?” Keegan looked appalled at the very thought.
“The bond is such that a fledgling will follow commands without coercion, simply because he wishes to please his sire.”
“Sounds kinky,” Keegan mumbled.
