Page 10 of Unlikely Omega

“I don’t beat people. You…” His white brows knit together. His nose—long and narrow, somehow elegant in his thin face—wrinkles, nostrils flaring. “Start dancing. Follow my steps. You need to learn the dance.”

“Are you really taking me on as your assistant? I belong to Artume.”

“Do you?” The question is quiet but intense, and although he can’t see me, I feel as if his gaze goes right through me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

“Nothing. Get dancing. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

“Nobody asked me,” I mutter under my breath as I move to stand beside him.

“Didn’t realize it was up to you,” he mutters back.

“Great, you have the hearing of a cat.”

“When you can’t see, you hone your other senses.” He lowers the sword and takes a stance I try to mimic. “Lift your arm more.”

“You can see my movements?”

With a snarl, he turns away. “Go away. Leave me. If I knew you talked so much, I’d have let Elegos beat you up.”

Just great.

Left to my own devices, I pick up my usual routine. Acolytes have loads of chores on top of studying the scriptures and practicing the rituals. Today I’m purifying the western wing of the fort, then washing floors in the grand hall, followed by peeling vegetables in the kitchens for lunch.

All in the glory of the gods, of course. Which simply means I’m a glorified servant with a fancy denomination who never receives any salaries.

A slave in all but name.

And will you stop your whining? I tell myself in a stern voice as I light my three candles in the western wing and carry them from room to room, whispering prayers to Artume and trying to calm my mind, as well as trying to get an annoying young priest out of it, with varying degrees of success.

Or failure.

Other people, other girls have it so much worse out there, in the world, a world governed mostly by men with a thirst for power in every area of life, from work to public life to the house and family.

And Artume is right to abhor sex. Sex leads to babies, to families, and what are those good for except to trap you? Except to offer you pain, the pain of losing what you thought you had, the affection and warmth and safety that turned out to be illusions.

My mind strays to priest Finnen, and I don’t even know why. Because he protected me yesterday? He’s a prime example of my fears: yesterday’s champion, today’s deserter. Why extend his protection and then send me away like he couldn’t stand my presence?

Finishing up with the cleansing, I head down to the storerooms to grab a brush and a bucket and get on with the physical aspect of cleaning. Mind and body are one, Artume teaches, keep both clean and pure, focused on the hunt and the kill, on forgiveness and love and rebirth, because that’s all so easy and straightforward and not contradictory at all.

All right, so some things make sense and for a long time I did my best to understand the teachings, to conform to them, to empty my mind of all regrets and sadness, all anger and need. What do I have to show for it?

Frustration.

Inappropriate flashes of arousal.

Dreams with faceless men, hands and mouths and sweat.

Heading down, I cross the Divine Circle. I could have bypassed it, but something keeps drawing me here. Abandoning my cleaning tools, I walk the ritual circle, passing in front of every statue, inclining my head, my goal Artume’s statue—where I can maybe ask for forgiveness once again, promise I’ll do better, that I’ll find my path—but something yanks my feet to a halt.

The unnamed god is gazing down at me, stern and yet he seems to be smirking in the light spilling down from the high, small windows in the dome of the roof. His perfect anatomy is in full display, as all of the other gods’ and goddesses’—the Fae apparently had no modesty whatsoever and didn’t shy from depicting their deities in perfect athletic, sculpted nudity—and my gaze slides down from his handsome face to his muscular chest, narrow hips, and lower, where his long, thick c—

Pain.

It flashes through me, doubling me over, cutting off my breath. It starts from my belly, radiating downward. I sink down on my knees, bowing over—an appropriate posture for a supplicant, for sure, if only my vision hadn’t grayed and if I couldn’t swear I feel hot liquid slip down my inner thighs.

Is it blood?

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