Page 17 of Jailer to the Death God
I can’t, not yet.
With my knees tucked up to my chest, shivering naked on the edge of the tub, I wait for the water to rise a little higher. Breath hitches into my lungs, tiny sips, expelled instantly in long guttural groans, ugly sounds I can’t stop, becauseRose, becauseLei.
The shifting scrape of a footstep in the doorway of the bathroom, and my head whips around.
It’s Arawn, sauntering casually into the space.
“What are you doing in here?” I screech, swiping at my dripping nose.
“I thought you were dying. Thought I might enjoy the spectacle of your demise.”
“Fuck you,” I vent in a broken gasp. “Get out.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m naked.”
“Everyone enters my realm naked,” he says nonchalantly. “Believe me, I’ve seen every possible variation of the mortal form.”
“Go. Away.”
“As I’ve told you, I don’t take orders from you, little queen. You left the door open. If you wanted privacy you should have closed it.” He walks through the bathroom, trailing his fingertips over the marble counters, fondling the bronze handles on the sink taps, stroking the edges of the wall tiles. When he comes to a basket of scented soap and lifts one to his nose, his eyes widen.
“By my furnace,” he murmurs. “That smells fucking delicious.”
He inhales again, then picks up another bar of soap. His dark lashes flutter shut. “Stars above, what are these? I want one.”
Somehow I’ve stopped crying. Furious annoyance has temporarily superseded my grief. “They’re soaps,” I snap at him. “You wash yourself with them when you bathe, so you smell like them afterward.”
“Bathe, yes—yes, I know what that is.” His eager gaze fixes on the tub and the gurgling tap. “I’ve never done it. Never needed to. Gods are never dirty. Well… some gods like to get dirty. But I like the smell of death, you see. The smell of rot and bone, of disease and decay. At least… I thought I liked it. This body seems to have different ideas.” He sniffs a third bar of soap.
“Does all of Annwn smell disgusting?” I ask. “I thought parts of it were nice. Peaceful.” Need twists my soul—I must know that my friends will be happy in the afterlife.
“Of course,” replies Arawn. “I reside near the entrance to Annwn, in an area which absorbs some of the odor and decay that souls bring with them from their moments of death. But parts of the realm are quite beautiful. No disease, eternal youth, abundant food and pleasure—those delights belong to the souls of the worthy. The more unjust or cruel you were in life, the less pleasure you enjoy after death. And some souls deserve pain and retribution, not just deprivation. There’s a separate place for them.”
“And you decide all of that. Who gets to enjoy the afterlife, and who gets punished?”
“It’s what I was made to do. To provide balance and justice.”
Still holding a bar of soap, he looks at me. This time it’s not a cursory glance like when he entered the bathroom, but a long, analytical look that makes me blush all over. Since my legs are tucked up to my chin, he can’t see certain parts. But the snap of hot light in his eyes makes it clear I’m affecting him somehow. He appears to hate what he sees—he’s frowning thunderously. Glaring, he lifts the soap to his nose and takes a long sniff. His frown smooths out at once.
The death god, pacified by the fragrance of soap.
A hysterical laugh explodes from my throat, and I cover my mouth, trying to hold it back. But I’m laughing uncontrollably now, and sobbing again, too—snot and tears and laughter and wretchedness. Rather than huddle at the bath’s edge and try to manage it, I fling myself into the water, face-down.
And under the water, I scream.
8
The queen floats face-down in the sunken bath, glossy white marble framing her porcelain body. She’s too thin—approaching emaciated, the knobs of her spine forming a chain down her back, ending right between the curves of her smooth bottom. Her snowy hair unfurls around her, twining with her outstretched arms.
The force of her scream ripples the water.
She surfaces, wiping her face with both hands, pulling in a breath and plunging down to scream again.
I stand motionless, riveted, caught in the sucking force of emotional currents unfamiliar to me.
There is a power in her grief, a brilliance to her rage. This is a woman who, if she had magic, could level cities by the sheer violence of her tumultuous heart.
