Page 11 of Jailer to the Death God
“Do you eat and sleep while you’re in the mortal world?” she asks.
“Yes. My body is corporeal, if not mortal. It functions—” I curl my lip in disgust— “like a human’s.”
“You despise us, don’t you?”
“Only as the stag despises the squirrel.”
She bristles at that. “I’m not a squirrel.”
“Would you rather be a rat?”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
I am, in fact. I haven’t spoken like this to anyone in—I can’t even count the number of years it’s been since I had a real conversation. The souls who arrive in my realm aren’t exactly in the mood for a friendly chat. Not that I’d indulge them if they were. And my fellow gods don’t care for my company, nor I for theirs.
The Queen and I sit in silence for a while. I chafe at being confined in such a small space. Here in the mortal plane I can’t let my consciousness expand freely—it’s trapped in this skull of mine. I feel as if I must break out of the carriage, leap into the air, and soar away. Tormented by unbearable restlessness, I move my legs and body this way and that, trying to get comfortable.
“Stop moving around,” hisses the Queen. “It’s annoying.”
“Good,” I snarl, shifting my position again.
“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” she throws at me.
“Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”
“I thought you’d be darker, more terrifying.”
In answer, I let magic leak out of me in coiling shadows that climb along the coach’s interior, slithering toward the Queen. She eyes them watchfully, but she doesn’t cringe when they touch her.
At the same time I reassume my deer-skull mask—a smaller version, since the actual mask would never fit in this space.
“Am I terrifying now?” I intone, in the hollow, depthless voice of a god.
“No,” she says, almost as if she’s surprised by her own answer, confused by how little she fears me.
I have lost my touch. I used to be excellent at frightening mortals.
Gritting my teeth, I determine she will fear me by the end of this. I’ll make sure of it.
We journey in silence until the forest gives way to farms, the outskirts of what I assume is the royal city. Our carriage rattles over a bridge, and then along streets lined with buildings—tenements and shops, poorly lit by sallow lamps. The walking paths along the streets are empty—just one or two people hurrying along, hunched under cloaks, with scarves over the lower half of their faces.
The Queen slides back a small door which permits her to speak to the driver. She gives him instructions—a particular street and house.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“One of our nine sacrifices died too soon,” she says, her voice grim. “My best friend killed herself to complete the ritual, so you could save her little sisters. That’s where we’re going.”
If there are any humans I actually like, it’s the small ones. The ones who haven’t yet been corrupted. The ones with wide eyes, eager smiles, and open hearts. Every child who passes through my furnace receives a place in the most beautiful region of my realm.
Unless, of course, they are truly wicked. And I’ve encountered a few who had a taste for pain and cruelty from birth.
When the carriage halts, the Queen leans forward. “These little girls are sick,” she says, low. “You must soften your appearance. I will not have you frightening them.”
I consider defying her, but on this point I actually agree. So I vanish my horns and alter my skin color to a light brown. I leave my hair a dark green, streaked with pale jade. I dispelled my black robes when I switched to my winged form, so I’m only wearing a pair of leather pants, and though I attempt to summon my robes again, I can’t. Strange. I suppose my magic is somewhat erratic or partly restrained because of my bondage to the human Queen. My half-naked state will have to do.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
The Queen doesn’t deign to answer me. Her mind is elsewhere, probably with her dead friend. As we get out of our carriage, I see the wrapped body being taken from one of the coaches by a pair of guards.
