Page 78 of Jailer to the Death God
Which is truly unfortunate.
I think he suspects it. The way he put distance between us today, closed the door to any further physical intimacy—it’s clear whatever he’s feeling for me is distasteful to him.
So much the better. I’ve lost everyone who loved me, and he would be no exception. As long as we both stay alive through the end of our year-long contract, he’ll be returning to Annwn, reversing his incarnation and going back to a dispassionate existence in the Unlife. He will continue to exist for thousands of years, and I’ll be lucky if I’m a tiny scratch on the glossy expanse of his memories.
I wander through the columned hallways of Beirgid’s temple, taking care to stay far from the night’s festivities. Two of my bodyguards trail behind me at a respectful distance. The other two and Farley are still reveling with the wedding guests. Earlier tonight I saw Farley kissing one of my guards while sitting on the lap of a priest. The sight gladdened me, because my men deserve a dose of joy and pleasure after all they’ve been through.
My fingers trace the cold marble edge of a bubbling fountain as I walk through a quiet parlor filled with couches and nude statues. Beirgid’s temples are always richly furnished. The devotees of pleasure are nothing if not generous.
I suppose, in a way, the priests and priestesses of Beirgid are essentially prostitutes. Worshipers are expected to bring offerings to the temple, which could be considered payment for the carnal rites.
Far be it from me to judge Beirgid’s devotees for enjoying themselves. But I can’t help the nauseating pulse of jealousy in my stomach as I think of Arawn, who is probably balls-deep in the priestess right now.
Was I foolish to suggest this? What if he loses control of his shadows while he’s fucking her? Will he have the presence of mind to explain it away?
I have no right to be angry with him. I encouraged him to do this; I went and found her for him. I brought her to our room.
My reasoning was two-fold: firstly, because I can’t bear to see him suffering under the weight of the chains with which I bound him, and secondly, because I need to let him go. I must practice releasing him now, before my sore heart becomes too hungry for his love.
If hecanlove. As he told me himself, gods and goddesses often have trysts with humans, but they move on quickly. I’ve never heard of a deity actuallylovinga human in any permanent way.
Frankly, I always had difficulty believing in the pantheon. I thought the gods might be imaginary. I wavered frequently in my belief, right up until the moment Arawn exploded out of the Pit and startled me as I mourned over Rose’s body.
I will never forget that first sight of him—impossibly tall, crowned with antlers, looking down at me with supreme disapproval. Then he began to change his appearance for me, trying to identify which of his forms I’d expected to see.
I think that’s when I felt my first bit of warmth for him.
I haven’t been in love before, but I’ve been fortunate enough to witness true love in those around me. I’ve seen it in its first romantic blush—in its heady, hot summer—and in its steady season, still passionate at times, and more secure than ever.
Arawn has seen love reflected in the souls of his realm. But I’ve watched it up close. Like the plague, I recognize its symptoms in myself. Love is a lyrical sickness that lacerates the unsatisfied heart with pretty wounds, singing through bloody whispers until the victim realizes they are dying. By then, it is far too late.
I’ve been standing by the fountain too long, motionless, lost in thought, while my guards linger nearby.
I need to stop thinking about love. I need to avoid picturing Arawn’s toned body, taut and gleaming, hovering above the priestess’s lush curves while he thrusts between her legs, while she moans with delight at the feel of him because he feels wonderful… he feels like solid, satisfying, comforting wholeness…
Damn me.
I dig my nails into my palms, but the pain isn’t enough this time. It can’t settle my tumultuous heart, my churning thoughts.
Crossing the parlor, I hurry into a gloomy sanctuary, along a colonnade of pillars decorated with lecherous paintings. Lamps are few and far between here, and pitch blackness swathes the ceiling.
I’m halfway down the hall when behind me, beyond the footsteps of my guards, I hear a deep voice.
“Little Queen.”
At first I think I imagined it.
But when I turn, there he is, barefoot, shirtless, green eyes glowing. His long black hair is tousled, as if someone’s fingers have been writhing through it. The top two buttons of his pants are undone.
My guards barely have time to turn and look at Arawn before he lifts both hands and casts the sleep of death on them. They go motionless as statues, a gray cast falling over their faces and bodies.
Arawn strides toward me, teeth bared, a violent passion in his eyes.
My stomach flips.
I pick up my skirts and run.
I don’t know why. It’s not as if he’s going to kill me. He’d be killing himself.
