Page 46 of The Sacrifice

“Birds of a feather flock together...” dismisses Kronos with a wave of his hand while fetching another bottle and meandering to the table. “A small price to pay for maintaining peace and order.”

“And Hollow Night?” counters Kyan, stabbing out his chin. Painful knots twist in my stomach, growing claws.

Without turning to the angel, Kronos proceeds to unbind several bottles from his belt and places them on the table, organizing them as if they are both trophies and temptations for the Kings.

“An acceptable sacrifice. One-night casualties of the war between us and a renew the peoples’ faith in me and their fear of you. But I make it succinctly clear every year, all you need do is kneel and pledge your fealty. I will restore everything to you from your lands to your true castles. And more.”

Drago snorts and takes another puff of his pipe.

“We’ll never kneel to you, Kronos,” barks out Merikh, pinning his dark eyes upon the god-eater. “Ten thousand years...I do wonder what the people must believe about their “oh so powerful”, eternal ruler and why he can’t manage to bring four kings into his servitude. Much less eliminate such a threat.”

Kronos sniggers and taps his pipe against his open palm. “Or you serve as an example of slow, grueling exile for any enemies who wish to arise. Pity none exist to offer me a worthy challenge. Not since you precious boys.”

“Bored to death already, Kronos?” quips Kyan, stirring a breeze to ruffle the god-eater’s robes. “Bring down the Veil, and I’m certain the four of us will find a much more exhilarating death for you.”

Tapping the side of his nose, Kronos winks at the fallen angel. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Kyan. The quietest of the group. But when you speak, you prove the most amusing. And the most gullible.”

Something crosses the angel’s eyes at that moment. Something that shivers me down to my soul. He tilts his head at a severe angle. His pupils dilate, overwhelming not just the irises but the whites of his eyes. With his spine curving, body in a predatory crouch, he reminds me of a bird of prey. The kind who soars through the night, concealing himself in shadows. The one of silent flight whom you don’t hear coming until his talons have gutted you.

“Kyan!” bellows Merikh, cupping his partner’s shoulder and pulling him back. Their eyes deadlock. The vampire tenses, veins straining against his skin as he focuses on the angel. I purse my lips, knowing he’s using his blood power to stem whatever crazed tide rages inside Kyan.

“A jolly good time we’ve had, but I believe we are missing our party,” announces Mayce and rising to a stand. “And while we may be cursed bastards, we are still the Monster Kings of the Waste. Don’t want to disappoint the Court, now do we?” he flicks his eyes to their corners, marking Drago.

“I believe I will leave these here, considering your willingness to accept my last ones,” mentions the god-eater, tapping one of the bottles. “Some of them aged poorly on the journey, so it’s no loss to me. Do with them what you will. I’ll pick up a few more within the Veil on my return home.”

All the Kings flinch at the word. As if it’s a hot iron poker stabbing into their spine. But my blood thrills at the thought of freeing those souls, releasing them to find their own homes. I chew on my lower lip, considering the Shadow next to me, wondering if any of the souls could possibly fit her. Or if it could help her regain a flesh and blood form. Other than her curling shadows, Qora hovers, motionless. I part my lips, suspicious because she continues to study the god-eater.

The other three Kings rise, set down their now-empty pipes, and glower at Emperor Kronos, who extends a hand to the main path leading back to the Court. Melancholy nestles in my chest at the sight of Mayce’s tree withering in seconds, leaves and fruit shriveling to rot, juice turning dark as cursed blood. Drago’s flames have faded to a heated glow upon his flesh.

With one growl at Kronos, Drago swipes at the array of bottles. None break.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, still haven’t cooled that temper in all these centuries, Dragomir,” chastises Kronos as the Dragon King turns, fists braced, and storms off down the path.

Panicked, I tiptoe toward the back of the crypt and press my body into the narrow space between the crypt wall and the rocks behind me.

“He needs to calm down,” sighs Mayce. “I’ll go talk to him.” He follows in Drago’s direction, saying nothing else.

Kronos rights the bottles, tsking to himself while Merikh and Kyan usher out of the cracked courtyard. I hold my breath as they pass, hoping Merikh doesn’t scent me. Midway down the path, he pauses. Too close to the crypt. Qora drapes her shadows around me, but I dare not take a breath or move a muscle.

“Coming?” Kyan urges him a few steps ahead.

After scenting the air, Merikh huffs and stalks toward the fallen angel, following him back to Court. I release a shallow sigh and peer around the corner of the crypt. No trace of the Emperor anywhere. The bottles rest on the table, all of them straight and lined up in flawless rows. Colorful cages, that is what they are. With the daylight streaming down upon them, they gleam, far too gilded for a soul prison.

Choking on my own sadness, I catch my breath, swallow hard, and bolt from my hiding place. “What are you doing?” whispers Qora, trailing me.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I say a little too sharply but could care less about politeness right now.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Do I ever?”

Qora doesn’t respond. Already, the energy from those souls thrums across my skin like the fluttering of bird wings. Each chants its spirit song, a lyrical essence, calling to me, mesmerizing. My heart lurches in my chest, and I press my determined lips into a tight seam. And gingerly touch the closest bottle of cerulean blue, stunned by the warmth. I’d expected a soul to be cold as a ghost, bereft of its form. Unless Kronos prefers to heat the bottles for his journeys.

My thoughts swirl, and I hardly know what I’m doing when I tug the cork from the bottle. Peer inside. I make out nothing but an illusory fog. Tresses of mist curling in this glass cage. The moment I creep my fingers inside the bottle, the warmth envelopes my fingers. Followed by a sharp bite. I jerk back, startled.

“It bit me!” I gasp at the sight of my bloody fingers.

“She,” corrects Qora. “She’s afraid. Not likely to come out of her own accord.”

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