Page 30 of Jailer to the Death God
“I know I’m merely a tool in your hand, little Queen,” he says. “But perhaps you should consider that I will not always be your slave. One day, you will be mine.”
At the dominant possession in his tone, a shiver races along my spine. I’m about to respond when my driver Farley opens the carriage door.
“The guards say it’s clear now,” Farley says, with a brief bow to me and a deeper one to Arawn. “You may descend, oh Mightiest of Illustrious Lords.”
I roll my eyes. Farley has been gracing Arawn with new titles whenever we enter or leave the carriage, and each title seems more obsequious and flowery than the last.
“Such a pleasure to know that stubborn little humans can learn to respect their betters,” Arawn says, with an affectionate squeeze of Farley’s shoulder as he descends from the carriage ahead of me.
I nearly succumb to my anger and kick the seat of his godly pants. The bastard knows I’m supposed to leave the carriage first.
But I restrain myself, descending after him and smiling through gritted teeth at the crowd. Though the night is dark and cold, all the streetlamps have been lit in preparation for our arrival. This is our last scheduled stop for the day, and I’m determined we’ll finish this sector before we return to the palace for a few hours’ rest.
Some of the people along the street cheer for us, while others call for mercy. Several shout threats at Arawn, though they don’t dare threaten me openly. Not yet.
Farley yells back at a few of the protesters. His defense of Arawn is admirable, I suppose, but he’s arguably making the situation worse.
“I do believe Farley would suck your cock if you asked him,” I mutter sideways at Arawn through my bright, queenly smile.
“Perhaps I should ask,” he says, low. “It would be a novel sensation, indeed. And no one else has offered.”
He gives me a sidelong look.
My cheeks flush hot at Arawn’s comment. I know he sees my discomfort, because he smirks briefly before he moves forward, laying one hand each on the foreheads of two sick men. They are barely able to stand, propped up on the shoulders of relatives.
Ahead, a whole family of plague victims have crawled from their house and are lying in the street, waiting for Arawn’s attention. He strides forward quickly, pressing a palm to the forehead of the baby first, then a small boy, then a girl of about twelve. On each of their foreheads, a symbol appears, glowing green. The mark of life.
Arawn marks the mother next. And then he lays a palm to the father’s forehead.
The death god hesitates. Turns and looks at me.
I see it in his eyes—the solemn judgment that the father of this household is not worthy of life.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.
Arawn pulls his hand away, leaving the man’s forehead blank.
“What?” quavers the woman. “What are you doing? Heal him! You have to heal him—he’s the one who works, who provides for us—without him, we will starve!”
“Better to starve than to endure his presence anymore.” Arawn’s pained gaze moves to the young girl, and my stomach sickens. Whatever this man did to deserve death, it involved his own daughter.
But the onlookers do not see it. They do not understand. They only note the absence of the life mark from this father, this provider. The voices who cursed Arawn when he appeared begin to castigate him again.
Usually the god seems immune to their verbal abuse, but today his shoulders are taut, his body tense. I can sense the dreadful swell of magic from him, an impending explosion. If the others in the crowd feel it, they don’t show any alarm. Perhaps I can only sense it because of the magical contract between us.
If Ihavebeen pushing him too hard, it’s from a desire to save lives. There are so many lives to save, and we haven’t even gone beyond the walls of the city. Soon we will have to travel outside its borders, to save those in the towns and villages beyond.
If only Arawn didn’t have to touch them all. If only this could be quicker. If only I’d summoned him sooner.
He’s moving forward again, touching foreheads swiftly, still brimming with barely constrained anger. Shadows seem to thicken along the street, curling around some of the streetlamps, dimming their light. A deeper cold sets in—a bone-deep, frozen, cracked cold that makes the air itself feel like knives in the lungs.
The cold of death.
I hurry forward and grip Arawn’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” I hiss. “Stop it.”
He turns. Looks down at me. Despite the human form he’s wearing, he is so enormously tall that I step back instinctively. His eyes are still glowing green.
The eyes of most healers glow golden, and their magic appears as lines of golden light. The green gleam in Arawn’s eyes is one more thing for the naysayers to gossip about.
