Page 14 of Jailer to the Death God
Am I no better than a low-born mortal, or one of my lecherous sibling gods? This is the woman who clawed me out of my comfortable resting place and dragged me into her world of sharp cold and tiny plague victims. This is the woman who slapped me across the face, whom I would have punished for that insult had she not been so bothered about losing her brother’s trinket.
Why am I reacting to her like this?
She sighs, shifting her body, and sways to her right, toward me. I hesitate for a second too long—she falls against me, her head tucked just below my shoulder.
Now if I move, she will topple right over and wake up. And then she might notice the firm length pushing against my pants.
Better to stay where I am until this absurd physical response abates.
She’s breathing softly now, not rasping. Thank the stars for that, at least.
I eye the book on the seat across from me. It’s one of only a few that hold the ritual for my summoning. Who knows what other secrets of mine it might carry? I shall have to dispose of it later.
Long minutes pass, during which I fester and seethe, concocting the most vile and disparaging names I can think of for the Queen who rests against me. Unfortunately several of the vile names make memorearoused, not less. This form is weak, prone to ridiculous bouts of primal sensation.
When reviling the Queen in my mind doesn’t work, I try to alter my form. I can change the color of my skin, switch from antlers to horns and back again, give myself claws and fangs or remove them—but I cannot alter my height or bulk, nor can I change the texture of my skin. I cannot deaden myself to unwanted sensation. I am a raw nerve, stripped to quivering nakedness, exposed to every volatile human feeling.
This bargain is different. The girl-queen has changed me somehow, and I hate it. How did she do this? Was it the time frame of her demand, or something else?
The carriage rumbles across a new surface. A quick glance out the window reveals that we’re passing through an archway into a courtyard.
We’ve arrived at the palace.
7
“Your Majesty.”
A low, terse voice—a familiar one—Farley, the servant who drives my carriage ever since most of our royal coachmen died.
I’m drifting in a warm blur, unable to parse out where I am or why he’s speaking to me.
“Your Majesty, we’ve arrived,” Farley continues. “I’ve pulled in by the West Tower. No one is around at the moment, but I think we should hurry inside with—him.”
Another voice, like thunder and the rumble of rolling boulders, combined into a single dominant sound. “You’ll speak of me with respect, mortal, or I’ll remove your tongue.”
The new voice vibrates through the whole carriage and into my body. Eyes still closed, I frown as my weary mind begins to clarify.
Farley’s voice again, shrill with fear this time. “Forgive me, Lord Arawn, Master of—of Calamities, Maker of Catastrophes, Wielder of—of—”
“Hush, fool.” Arawn scoffs. “Can you devise no better names? For shame. I’ll let you live until tomorrow. I suggest you spend the time making a list of fine titles for me.”
His voice is very near. Much too near.
What am I leaning against? Not the side of the carriage—
My eyes flash open.
I’m leaning against the smooth flesh of the death god’s arm.
Oh shit, shit—
I pull myself upright, my hands fluttering over my face, checking for drool, pushing my hair back.
How did Arawn end up on this side of the carriage, with me draped against him as if he’s a feather pillow?
“Your mercy is overwhelming, my god,” says poor Farley, bowing. “I will think of better titles with which to praise your name.”
He retreats, still bowing, and then flees out of my line of vision, probably to tend the horses.
