Page 97 of Jailer to the Death God
For a blinding moment I can see nothing—nothing but the shriveled, rictus grin of the aged Venniroth, who lies at Vale’s feet, still clutching his knife. After I left, he must have crept from his home and waited here—waited to deal out death to my Queen. To finish the task Macha set for him.
I underestimated the strength of wickedness, even in such a frail body.
I lunge for him, seize his head in both my hands, and snap it sideways. His spine pops, and it is done. He is gone.
I should have killed him last night. Why didn’t I end him then?
My fault, my fault.
I whirl to Vale, desperate, wracked by the same terror I felt that night on the road, when one of my hounds tore her with his claws. But no—this is worse. This is happening faster. I can feel her sinking quickly.
“Someone get a healer,” I choke out. “A surgeon, a physik—”
“There are no more healers, Lord Consort.” The guard who speaks is white-faced, half-holding Vale while Farley unrolls bandages with trembling hands.
I snarl at the guard and take hold of Vale myself, sinking onto the cobblestones and draping her across my lap, her head on my arm. “One of you take a horse, ride to the palace, and fetch the Queen’s maid, Tilda. Now!”
Two of the guards dash off to obey, while Farley places bandages over the stab wound in Vale’s chest.
She’s wide-eyed, struggling to breathe, staring up at me with her blue-gray eyes, her black lashes stark against her pale skin. “I’m sorry, Arawn,” she chokes out. “I didn’t—wasn’t careful—I didn’t recognize Venniroth until he—”
“This is not your fault. It is mine. I should have told you what I did to him last night. If I had, you might have known—you might have seen—” I groan, bowing over her, pressing my forehead to hers. Hoarsely I grit out words, useless words, powerless against the ritual that binds us. “I do not accept this death. This soul is not for the Pit. I do not accept this death…”
A clear, cheerful voice rings out nearby. “Oh good! I’m not too late for the show.”
Before I even lift my head I know who I’m going to see.
Macha stands nearby, her face blood-flecked and merry, her hair in two wild bunches. She wears black furs matted with blood. Her feet are bare, coated in blood that leaves scarlet footprints as she approaches.
“So the old fool managed to finish his task.” She kicks Venniroth’s body. “I shall have to reward him somehow, in the Unlife. Perhaps I’ll let him lead my armies when we move out to conquer all the realms.”
The humans in the square are cringing away from her, cowering. Some may recognize her, but even those who don’t can sense the aura of dire malevolence, of careless, brutal power that emanates from her.
I want to spring at Macha, to battle her, to crush her into oblivion. But Vale would die while we fought, and I would perish immediately afterward.
No, my pride and power are not the answer here.
“Your antimagic,” I say hoarsely. “You can heal her.”
“I could.” Macha tilts her head, taps her chin. “But why would I do that, when her death gives me what I want? It keeps the two of you from having enough time to worm your way out of this, you see. So I win, sooner than I expected.”
“But you don’t win everything.” I force the words out through clenched teeth. “You want me, too. And you may have me. Heal her, and I will yield Annwn to you. I’ll come to you at the end of my contract, and I’ll be yours entirely, body and mind. All of me, at your pleasure. Think of it—the god of death, your devoted slave.”
My body is shaking. My incarnate form can sense the end approaching—the end of my beloved, and of me.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please. Do what you like with me, only save her. I beg you.”
Macha purses her lips as if she’s thinking. “Very well. Give her to me.”
Every fiber of my being resists as I hand Vale’s body over to the goddess of war. I can hardly bear to let her out of my arms, much less allow Macha to touch her.
Vale seems to be unconscious. She’s utterly limp and pliant in my sister’s arms.
“You should lie down, Arawn,” Macha says, blowing a strand of hair back from Vale’s face. “You don’t look well at all.”
“Heal her. Please.” I bow with my face to the cobblestones.
“Oh, brother mine.” Macha chuckles. There’s a snap and a gust of air, and I look up as great leathery wings explode from her back. “I don’t think I will heal her, after all. But I will dump her into the Pit myself, and follow her down, and see to her first torture session in the Unlife. And then I’ll have a seat on my new throne. You see, I don’t want this human girl’s leftovers. I don’t want a god-slave who pines for his rotting mortal while he’s fucking me. You had your chance, brother. It’s too late now.”
