Page 94 of The Ascended
"Marx."
"I'm serious." Her dark eyes held mine, no trace of humor in them now. "He's your mentor, you're mortal, and oh yes, the entire divine realm would literally kill you both for violating divine law."
"You're being dramatic."
"Is that so?" She resumed walking. "You're keeping enough secrets without adding 'fucking a deity' to the list."
The reminder of my other secrets made me wince. "Speaking of which..."
"Your blood. The wards." She didn't look at me, focusing instead on the horizon.
It wasn't a question. I stopped walking, trying to find words that weren't lies but weren't the trutheither. "Marx?—"
"Save it." She held up a hand. "That thing nearly killed us because you couldn't—wouldn't—use your blood for the wards."
"I know." The admission was like swallowing glass.
"It looked like you'd rather die than bleed. If so, that's your prerogative, I suppose." Her voice was careful, controlled.
"It won't happen again," I promised, meaning it.
"How can you guarantee that?"
I met her gaze directly. "Because I'll make sure it doesn't."
She studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowing. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you." I held my ground, refusing to look away.
The waves filled the silence between us, their rhythm hypnotic. Finally, Marx sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the surf. "Fine. But if we die because of whatever you're hiding, I'm cursing your ghost. Extensively. Creatively. For eternity."
"Fair."
"It's not like I'm a stranger to secrets myself," she said, resuming our walk along the shoreline.
I studied her profile as we moved—the sharp angles of her face, the curve of her jaw, the perpetual tension in her shoulders. "Yeah?"
She kicked at a shell, sending it skittering across the sand. "My parents were... devoted. Obsessively devoted." She laughed, but there was no humor in it, only a brittle edge that spoke of old wounds. "Our whole village was, actually. One of those places where the priests reside year-round."
"Sounds suffocating."
"That's a kind word for it." She shrugged. "My mother would wake us at dawn for prayers. First light was for Olinthar, of course. Then offerings to Davina before breakfast. Midday devotions to Pyralia. Evening songs for Syrena." Her fingers tightened on the wood until I heard it crack. "Every moment of every day, scheduled around worship."
"When did you realize you had powers?" I asked, genuinely curious about the woman who had saved my life.
"I didn't. Not at first. I was maybe seven when things started happening. Little things. The neighbor's dog that always barked at me got sick. The boy who pulled my hair fell down the temple steps. My father's favorite prayer beads snapped during morning devotions."
"Creepy."
"I thought they were coincidences. Until they started adding up." She stopped walking. "My mother was the first to put it together. Found me crying after I'd gotten angry at my younger brother and he'd broken out in boils. She locked me in the cellar."
My chest tightened. "Marx?—"
"Three days," she continued, voice flat, drained of emotion. "To 'pray the corruption out of me.' When that didn't work, they tried other methods. Holy water burns, by the way, when they force you to drink enough of it." Her smile was a terrible thing. "They didn't think I'd been blessed. They thought I'd been cursed. And you know, I suppose they weren't wrong."
I felt sick. "They tortured you."
"They tried tosaveme. At least, that's what they told themselves. That's not the type of gift anyone would want for their child."
