Page 17 of Godsbane
His eyes never leave mine as his thumb trails over my birthmark again. The tiny crescent shape on the inside of my wrist.
The same shape my mother had sketched in the worn leather journal I found on my bed when we returned from the shore without her. The book, filled with cryptic information scrawled in her handwriting, gave a name to the foreign power that had invaded my veins and led to more questions than answers.
Murphy’s face gives no clues to his thoughts. No indication that he’s planning to verbalize our shared secret. Every part of me is silently screaming at him, demanding a confession.
A flash of lightning illuminates the now darkened clearing. The hairs on my arms raise in response to the electric tingle that races across my skin.
Still, Captain Murphy holds my hand in his. The moment is thick and palpable, balanced on a knife’s edge. He opens his mouth to speak, his lips moving slightly at the same moment that thunder booms through the clearing and drowns out his words.
The sky opens up, the deluge of rain, sudden and drowning, washing away his certain admission. The timing of the gods is truly unmatched.
There are so many things that I want to say. So many questions I want to ask and yet can’t bring myself to voice them now. The gray of his eyes mimics the nimbus clouds rolling overhead and I fight to stay out of their tornadic pull. One more moment in his hold and I will be pulled under, like prey for the beast inked across his chest.
I can’t let that happen. I have two weeks to convince Murphy to show me the man behind the persona. Theaevusbehind the captain, the weakness I can exploit. And I need to keep my wits about me if I have any hope of surviving that long.
So, instead, I slip back into the indifferent character of the poisonous heir, yanking my hand out of his before marching into the tent and away from the storm that brews beyond its canvas flaps.
CHAPTER 7
The cobblestone streets of Amale are packed. Crowds of people push past in droves as they file towards the palace. Each of their faces is turned upward at a man and a woman standing atop the palace balcony.
I strain to see who they are, dodging elbows and shoulders as the people clamor forward. I can make out their clothes—a tunic and dress of deep amethyst—but nothing else. It’s as if there’s a thin, translucent veil obstructing them from the crowd.
A woman to my right wails loud cries of joy as tears stream down her face. A man on my left hurls vile insults and incites men around him to join in. Still I push forward in the crowd, desperate to get a better look at the monarchs.
The crowd is becoming restless, neighbors turning on each other as a heavy rain starts to fall. Shouts ring up from further ahead in the crowd, full of praise and scorn.
“The gods have blessed Corinth!”
“Heretics, the both of them!”
“Long may they reign!”
“Magic has no place here!”
The rain intensifies, coursing through the mortar of the stone streets and soaking my clothes.
Despite my efforts, I’m no closer to the building or the figures standing atop the balcony. I’m shoved hard from behind and I have no time to brace myself before I fall face first onto the wet street. My head smacks loudly against the bricks as the world shifts.
The stones around me turn to liquid, the roar of the crowd replaced with the roar of waves. The cold waters of the Eastern Sea lap around me.
Desperately and unsuccessfully, I try to swim. Something black breaches the surface just out of my frame of vision and panic seizes me.
Death’s creature lurks in the murky water.
I call to my magic, grasping for any thread of power to save me. Vines of ivy shoot out from my wrists angled towards the sea floor seeking purchase in the silt. The black shape crests the surface again. With one final breath, I scream a single syllable name.
The leviathan opens its mighty jaws, wrapping around me and sending the entire world into pitch black.
I wake in a panic, gasping for air. A thick layer of salty sweat that feels too much like sea water coats my skin. The crackling fire calls to me and I step cautiously out of the tent to warm myself.
I expect to find Captain Murphy on watch, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Palming the dagger that I keep sheathed against my outer thigh, I creep around the tent, eyes searching the dark for any signs of life—friendly or otherwise.
Murphy kneels at the edge of the small pond, his hands clasped and head bowed reverently. The light from the full moon shimmers across the glassy surface, illuminating his reflection.
As if in response to a whispered petition, a cool breeze cuts through the trees, sending a ripple across the water and a chilldown my spine. The clouds above shift slightly, casting the captain’s head in a glowy, silvery halo.
If the gods are real, I imagine they look like he does now. Mysterious, radiant, gorgeous. The appearance alone is worthy of disciples.
