Page 28 of Jailer to the Death God
These politicians—they do it so slyly, so smoothly, making me look like an incompetent, girlish fool while smiling with false compassion. I’m not used to this—I didn’t train for this.
They’re right in that respect. I was never groomed for the rulership like Aspen was. I may be smart and strong, but I’m not a politician.
I need an ally against them.
Or at the very least, I need time to figure out how to prove I’m worthy to be Queen.
And time is the one thing I’m not being given.
“Time is of the essence in days such as these,” says Lord Venniroth, as if he perceived my thoughts. “One week, Majesty, and then we will discuss the matter again.”
“I will let you know my decision in a week,” I say, in a tone that intimates the whole thing was my idea. “Now if you will excuse me, I must attend to some other matters.”
I rise gracefully and glide from the room, doing my best imitation of my stepmother’s elegant posture during feast-day parades.
When the Council Chamber doors close behind me, I vent a long, frustrated sigh.
Then I realize, with a dark thrill, that Arawn is leaning against the wall outside the meeting room.
He disobeyed me by leaving the suite. And clearly he has been eavesdropping. Two guards are slumped against a pillar nearby, their faces gray and their eyes closed. One of them is snoring faintly. Two more guards down the hall are also sleeping where they stand.
Arawn is in his jade-skinned god form, clad in a very tight black tunic and pants, holding a half-eaten apple which he tosses before catching it again. “That didn’t go well, did it?”
Seizing the death god’s sleeve, I haul him along the corridor until we reach an alcove. I shove him into it as roughly as I can, despite his height and bulk.
“What did you do to those guards?” I demand.
“The sleep of death. If I left them in that state they would die by day’s end, but—” He leans out of the curtained recess and snaps his fingers. The guards stir, awakening, rubbing their eyes in confusion.
“Stop it.” I shove Arawn against the back of the shadowed alcove. The tips of his horns knock against a sconce bolted high up on the wall. “I don’t need this, not right now.”
He looks down at me with an infuriating grin, as if I’m a very small, amusing kitten pawing at his pant leg. He holds up the apple. “This is delicious. Care for a bite?”
“I—what? No!”
“Why not? You should eat something.”
“Not that. Not after you put your mouth all over it.”
“Is there something wrong with my mouth?”
My gaze fixes on his lips—perfectly arched, with a lower lip so full I want to bite it—
Shit… Why am I thinking that?
“You have death-god mouth,” I say faintly.
“Death-god mouth,” he repeats, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m not contagious, you know.”
“No, I know that. I—” My fingers curl into fists against his chest. “You shouldn’t be walking around the palace looking like this, all green and horned.”
“I didn’t.” He changes color, his skin assuming a light brown hue while his horns vanish. “See? Now I’m the simple healer from some faraway land who can go from house to house and deal with the sick.”
“Deal with the sick? That sounds ominous. You mean ‘spare the plague victims.’”
“I plan to end things quickly for the unworthy and remove the shadow of death from the worthy. But phrase it however you like. After all, you have other concerns, it seems—like your impending marriage.” Another grin, wider than ever.
“You’re enjoying this,” I hiss.
