Page 23 of Jailer to the Death God
“Or something else.” She averts her eyes.
“Forcing myself on you. Do you think I would?”
“You seem to have no compunction about murder.”
“That’s different. And the number of humans I’ve actually killed is very small. I may toss around the threat, but I prefer to enact my vengeance or justice in other ways. Transformation, for instance. That’s one of my favorites.”
I pace toward where she stands with her back pressed against the dresser.
Her eyes are wide and liquid, the eyes of a fox cornered by hounds, or a doe holding the gaze of the hunter.
A primal, predatory instinct thrums in my veins. With my forefinger I trace her lips, painting them crimson with my own blood.
And she licks it off her mouth, almost instinctively.
A sliver of pleasure traces through my body.
“Tell me, little Queen,” I say softly. “Would I force you to submit to me?”
“You wouldn’t even want me,” she whispers. “So it’s pointless to theorize.”
Do I want her, this gaunt survivor in her soft pink nightdress?
It’s not a question I can answer. I don’t know myself anymore.
Perhaps I haven’t for a long time.
Maybe my uncertainty shows in my eyes. Certainly something shifts in hers—strength and awareness replacing the hunted look she wore a moment ago. She’s appraising me, lookingintome. It’s unsettling. No one has ever looked at me like this—as if I’m something other than a god.
She pushes away from the dresser. Takes my bitten hand in hers. The wound is already gone, but blood has dried there.
“Come,” she says calmly. “I’ll show you how to bathe.”
11
I can taste the death god’s blood on my tongue. Salty, with a bitter richness. I’m not sure why I licked my lips. An instinct, I think. There’s a part of me that responds to him in a primal, visceral way, beyond rational thought. I don’t like it.
Judging by the timepiece on my bedroom wall, I must have gotten a few hours’ sleep, but I’m still weary—so weary my head thrums with a low ache, and my belly feels quivery and sick. I need to lie down again, and soon.
But first…
The lamps in the bathroom were lit when we arrived this evening, and I turned them out when I was finished in the bath. When Arawn and I enter, I light a couple of them again.
There’s another light source, too. The bricks at the back of the parlor fireplace are not as prosaic as they seem; they’re translucent crystal blocks, painted to look like bricks from the front side. Some of the glow and heat from that front fireplace permeates the bathing room as well.
My bathwater has long since drained away, so I turn the water on for the death god. The one resource we’re never without in Cerato is clean water. So far, thanks to precautions that my father placed and my brother and I continued, our water supply hasn’t been contaminated by the dead or other by-products of the plague.
I test the water against my wrist, unsure how hot a bath the death god can handle. Blazing hot, perhaps?
“Is your furnace actually made of flames?” I ask him. “Does it cause agony to those who pass through?”
“It is more about illumination than destruction,” he says. “It reveals all the deeds of the person in life. Sometimes viewing those scenes can cause pain to the spirits. But the furnace is not a method of torture in itself.”
Something slides against the floor, and when I turn, I see that Arawn has dropped his bloodstained pants.
He has also reverted to his godlike form—wingless this time, but jade-skinned and wearing those four ridged horns, wickedly sharp at the tips. I’m not sure why he shifted. He seems both angry and unsettled, though he answered my question civilly enough.
I try to keep my gaze pinned to his face, but his jade-colored skin is almost satiny, glowing in the soft light. I can’t help admiring the glossy curves of his muscles—pectorals, abdominals, thighs—
