Page 31 of Jailer to the Death God
“Control yourself,” I breathe.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He grins, showing teeth far sharper than they should be.
With a small gasp I look down at his hands, which are now adorned with savage claws. He’s testing me, slowly revealing his true form.
He can’t do this. Not here—I can’t take the added pressure of trying to explain how and why I summoned the god of death.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just this one more section, and then I’ll—I’ll let you return home to check on your—your pets.”
I can feel everyone’s eyes on the two of us, a searing pressure. I wish I was taller, so I wouldn’t look so physically inferior to Arawn.
The angry chatter and confused murmurs of the crowd blend with the moans of the sick. Under cover of the noise, I whisper to Arawn, so no one else can hear. “When you return, I will ease the schedule a little. More time for the pleasure you want.”
“The pleasure I want?” His voice is low, his eyes burning green. “You’ll give it to me?”
Again my heart does a quivering leap. What exactly does he mean by that?
“Any pleasures you desire will be yours,” I whisper hastily. “Now please, put those away.” I nod to his claws. “And the teeth too. Please.”
He smiles, and the sharp points of his fangs recede. “I was right. You beg very prettily. But I think you can do even better, with a little training.”
“Shut up,” I breathe desperately. “For the love of the gods, shut up, and move on.”
His tongue traces briefly across his teeth before he turns away and resumes his progress through the crowd of plague-stricken people.
I’m left to stand alone, struggling to breathe through the pounding of my heart and the unexpected heat centered between my legs.
The way he looked at me just then—it was more than anger.
He looked ravenous.
And I think I might be the meal.
The crowd continues to gather, following our progress along the street, their clamor and shouts slightly muffled by the cloths wrapped over their lower faces—a defense against any plague particles that might be floating through the air.
I don’t like the growing numbers. It’s not safe, either from a contagion perspective or from a security standpoint. The smoky lamps, the cold and bitter dark, the stench of sickness, the snarl of angry voices and the glare of rage-filled eyes—it’s making me feel brittle. I am an eggshell that formed too thin, with only the vulnerable jelly of unprepared life beneath.
I need to be strong. I need to handle this somehow.
But I don’t know what to say. My weary brain has gone frighteningly blank. Mentally I form a few phrases and cast them aside—they sound weak, self-serving, too defensive. What can I say to reassure these people, to convince them to be patient until they can see the positive effects of what Arawn is doing?
“Turn back, wielder of dark magicks, death-dealer, killer!” screeches a woman’s voice in the crowd, and something flies through the air, straight for the death god’s head as he bends to touch another sufferer.
I lunge without thinking, throwing myself between Arawn and the object.
It strikes my cheek, hard-edged and cold, then falls to the cobblestones and shatters into crystal fragments. A chunk of ice.
Pain blazes across my skin, and when I lift my fingertips to my cheekbone, they come away damp with blood.
Suddenly I’m hemmed in by guards, a protective trio of broad backs, while more guards shove back the crowd, shouting harsh warnings, demanding that the one who hurled the ice step forward for punishment.
I can’t see over my guards’ shoulders. Can’t make myself heard over their shouts and the outcry from the citizens. But I can feel the rising panic, the growing churn of motion among the crowd.
They are going to break, riot, stampede—they will trample the small and the sick. They might even overwhelm my guards and drag me down, crush me under the fists of their terror and anger.
For a bleak moment, that end almost looks like relief.
And then an impossibly tall figure shoulders between my guards, and a hand falls on my shoulder.
