Page 37 of Unlikely Omega

“We’re not letting them out of that cage,” Gereth says. “Don’t be daft.”

“You!” Finnen shouts suddenly. “You, worm. You’re a worthless piece of shit.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. What is he doing?

“What did you say?” Gereth glares at us, then approaches slowly, leisurely. “What the fuck did you say?”

“You’re a worthless piece of shit,” Finnen repeats, calm and level, his tone conversational as if he’s talking about the weather, “who doesn’t have the guts to even speak your own mind. A cowardly worm. You don’t want us out of this cage because you fear us, or am I to trust that you’re not as angry with us as the rest of the world?”

“You…” Gereth approaches, fist clenched. “You’re asking for it, aren’t you, you stupid, filthy animal?” He reaches for Finnen through the bars. “I’ll show you—”

Finnen grabs the man’s head and slams it against the bars, one, two, three times, then lets him fall to the ground.

I gasp for breath.

It happens so quickly.

So violently.

“What did you do?” The coachman comes at us and as he reaches through the bars, I bring down my fist over his wrist, followed by a chop from my other hand—the movement of the Setting Moon, from the evening ritual of Artume—and he cries out as something in his wrist snaps.

By then, the other rider is running toward us and Finnen reaches through the bars for Gereth who is slumped against the cart. Something jingles.

“I’ll get my hands on you,” the rider says but hangs back, more prudent than his fellow guards. “I’ll take you back to the fort and you’ll be executed right then and there.”

“Ariadne,” is all Finnen says as he grabs the lock and inserts a key in it—presumably taken from Gereth’s belt.

The as-yet-unnamed rider growls and comes for Finnen, then, to wrestle the key away from him—and I sit on my ass, slide my legs out of the bars, and kick him in the jaw.

Reminiscent of movement seven in the morning ritual of spring, but maybe not.

Maybe it’s just anger and fear pushing me, making me do what I must to save Finnen.

Save both of us.

The rider doesn’t crumble and fall, but he stumbles back with a curse, a hand to his jaw, murder in his eyes.

It gives Finnen the chance to unlock the door of the cage and swing it open. A moment later, he jumps out, silent as a cat, and stalks over to the man. Before I’ve even drawn my legs in and jumped out the open door, he’s laid the man down on his ass and knocked him unconscious with a kick much like mine but obviously delivered with a lot more vehemence.

“Is that what they teach priests?” I mutter, coming to stand beside him. “How to perfectly maim and knock out other men?”

“And now you know how, too,” he mutters back and flashes me a grin that shouldn’t look so dangerously hot, but it does.

Goddess, the man is looking more and more handsome by the day. Is it me getting used to him, is it our shared misfortunes? Is it this omega crap catching up on me or did I just refuse to properly look at him before?

“We should get the horses and go now,” he says, cutting through my thoughts. “Before the real storm breaks.”

12

ARIADNE

That’s how we find ourselves riding on, pulling the two horses of the cart behind us, moving through the night and the rain. I’ve been on a horse before, thankfully, part of my early acolyte training which involved more than just dancing and chanting. It was thought that an acolyte has to learn a bit of everything to help about the Temple.

Riding isn’t doing my aching nether parts any favors, though, and if I was cold before, I’m half-frozen to death now as we cut through the wind and rain, soaking wet, the ice of night closing in. My robe flaps around me, the hood fallen back, my hair streaming as we gallop away from the ruined farmhouse and our jailers, as far away as possible.

I have no idea which way we’re going, but Finnen keeps his head down as he takes the lead and if he’s as lost as I am, he doesn’t look it. I wonder how he gets his bearings without being able to see, if he’s relying on his horse to find the way. Illuminated by streaks of lightning that flash over the surrounding hills and woods, he rides grimly on, and I do my best to keep up.

The rain falls harder now, pouring from the sky. My horse is stumbling—from exhaustion or from racing blindly in the rain, who knows.

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