Page 21 of Jailer to the Death God
Best to save the official introduction until after I find out what they want from me. Perhaps it’s a simple matter, easily resolved.
But my heart tells me it’s more.
If only I had Rose to talk to… she always gave me the best advice. Leilani’s advice usually consisted of volunteering to punch someone in the face on my behalf.
I struggle to my feet, waver, and collapse onto the nearest sofa. My head is swimming and my eyelids feel swollen, thick, and heavy.
“To bed, foolish little Queen,” says Arawn.
“I’ll sleep here.” I pull a cushion under my head and tuck my feet up, onto the sofa. “You take my father’s bed. In there.” I nod vaguely toward the bedroom as my eyes close.
“I thought you were preparing your bed.”
“It’s too deeply soiled. Needs a thorough cleaning,” I murmur. “Sleep.”
Arawn’s footsteps recede toward the bigger bedroom, but in a few seconds they return. And then his hands shove under my body, scooping me up.
My eyes fly open. “Get off me, or I’ll call for the guards!”
“There is plenty of room in that bed for us both. Oceans of space. You may rest on one side, while I take the other. You’re aqueen. Queens do not sleep on sofas.”
“Maybe in times of crisis they do.” My cheek brushes the hot, smooth skin of his chest as he strides through the parlor. He’s back to his human appearance now—no horns, no wings, and skin a light brown. The pants he’s wearing are for lounging—loose and silky, purple with thorny black vines embroidered along the sides. I can’t remember my father ever wearing them. Perhaps they were a gift.
The death god carries me into the dark bedroom, leaving the doors open so a little light from the parlor fireplace can enter. He dumps me onto the covers.
I start to scramble off the bed, but he’s on me in a second, wrestling me down, pinning my wrists—his body hard and unyielding over mine.
“Be still,” he hisses. “And rest, little Queen.”
My aching body reacts, sudden and visceral, to his weight. Ineedthat weight. I crave the heaviness, the pressure of solid muscle and bone and skin. I want all of him crushing me down, holding me firmly, tightly, together. I think his solid self could keep me from drowning in the black ooze of my pain. I think he could calm the vibrating anxiety in my soul.
I go perfectly still under him.
He is also still—tension lining his shoulders. I can barely see his features in the gloom, but there’s a faint jade-green glow to his eyes, even in this form.
His muscles twitch as if he’s getting ready to move off me.
I wrap my arms around his waist to hold him in place.
I don’t know why. He is death, and divine magic. I can sense the Otherness of him.
Hold me down. Press me back into myself. Soothe me, save me.
My weary brain is spouting nonsense.
“I can’t tell if you want to fight me, little Queen,” he whispers, “or something quite different.”
My arms slip away from his waist. “You may sleep over there,” I say stiffly, pointing.
“How generous of Your Majesty.” He pulls away, circling around to the opposite side of the bed.
“And humans sleep under the covers, not on top of them. Surely you know that?”
“There are many things I know, but have yet to experience for myself. Gods rest, sometimes for a hundred years or more, but we do not sleep as humans do. Although I find myself a bit heavy in the head just now, as if I’m—dragging a little, and lying down would be pleasant.”
“You’re tired.” I wriggle under the blankets and sheets. They were changed immediately after Aspen’s death and haven’t been touched since then. They smell a little stale, but they’re clean, and at this point I would sleep on a bare wooden floor if I had to.
Sleeping in this bed is painful, too, but I barely feel it. Just one more bucketful in the sea of agony.
