Courting War (Vicious Gods), page 9
It was his priestess, and she let out a long and impressive string of curses aimed at the Goddess of Love. “Why?” She glared, and he had no idea if the question was for him or Love. So he sewed his lips shut.
A thick, stilted silence pulsed through the room, clinging to his body like burning tar. Kellyn didn’t know what to do or say, so he watched, wordless, with his hands curling into his carving. The wood bit into his palms and helped ground him during the awkward moment.
The priestess rubbed her wrist and glowered. She embodied a bewitching battle, and he hoped her ire wouldn’t be directed his way. For battle, even if beautiful, was still a battle.
She stalked to the bed and sat down fiercely—as if she wanted to murder either the bed or Kellyn. Then her glower turned on him.
Perfect.
“You’re praying?” she asked.
“I was.”
“What’s the wood?”
“A lovespoon tribute to the Goddess of War.”
Her eyes widened a fraction and traced the spoon like the chalk outline of a dead body at a crime scene. “Hmm . . .” She tapped her pocket and repeated, “Hmm.”
Kellyn waited for her to add more, but she never did. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I'm Kellyn Ellis.”
She flipped a midnight curl and pretended not to hear him. But from the slight twitch of her lips, she clearly had. The girl didn’t need to speak because she screamed her opinion with her body language, every muscle taut, and her head held high like a god sitting on a throne. A deep, dark disdain swam in her irises, simmering with annoyance—like Kellyn was a gnat that needed to be squashed. He was a peasant not worthy of her attention.
The room smelled of incense and firewood, which should have felt calming, but in her presence, they were signals for alarm.
Kellyn grunted and placed the carving in his pocket, rocking back on his heels, not knowing what else to do. He was a man of few words, and he had even fewer for this situation.
An awkward tension licked the space between them.
The priestess’s gaze caught on the peacock statue, and her already frigid features crumbled to dark sooty ash. Without warning, she sprang up from the bed, charged at the peacock, and kicked it hard onto its side, toppling it to the ground.
Shock spiked in his blood as the crash sound reverberated like a thunderclap. Shards of marble clinked against the redwood floor, a dust cloud exploding outward, coating the room with sharp edges.
“What are you doing?” Kellyn asked, standing up quickly and putting distance between them. The girl was an unoiled hinge. No, she was unhinged.
“Spies.” Her voice was a dark promise, but she didn’t glance in his direction.
Kellyn let out a long-suffering sigh. Utterly confused and exhausted with everything. This would be a torturous week—for however long he survived.
The priestess bent down and picked up the fractured head of the peacock. She rotated it between her fingers. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.” A wicked smile painted on her ruby lips, and a vicious glint lit her eyes as she threw the fragmented head against the floor, fully destroying it.
Kellyn itched his scalp; this girl was visceral—living anger. His heart drummed in his ears, and he sat on the bed.
She angled her head like a snake, examining its prey at the other two statues—the raven and the cat. “You’re loyal to the House of War?”
Kellyn rubbed his face, utterly confused and a bit horrified.
The cat statue inclined its head, rocks popping with its movement, and the raven statue said, “Yes, we are loyal to War.” Its voice was a hollow, guttural croak that sent shivers down Kellyn’s spine. Gods magic. He shouldn’t have been surprised because he was in their city, and it lived and breathed their power. Yet he still was because it was so utterly different from Theoden.
“Will you promise not to report or record anything unless I command it?” She narrowed her eyes as if she were looking into the cat’s soul and judging if it was worthy. The stone crackled with its movement as it bowed its head again. The girl nodded as if appeased, her stare cutting through the raven like a sharpened blade. “And you?”
The raven statue ruffled its wings. “I'm always loyal to War.”
“Excellent.” She carefully stepped over the shattered pieces and went to the bedside table. Methodically, she removed the pins in her hair one by one, and black curls fell down her back like waves of spun midnight.
Kellyn gulped, fixated. In Theoden, it wasn’t proper for a lady to wear her hair down. It must always be properly pinned in place. This would be scandalous under most circumstances. Kellyn wasn’t proper per se, he had bedded more than his fair share of ladies, but he wasn’t used to watching a woman undo her hair so slowly and so seductively—usually, he loosed it for them in the heat of passion right before he fucked them. He hadn’t known how much not touching someone could be so . . . enticing. The sight was utter torture because he couldn’t do anything about it. Several improper sensations passed through his body and shifted uncomfortably, his mind latching onto a forbidden—and foolish—desire. He wanted to run his fingers through her silky strands and kiss along her dainty neck. What would her flesh feel like against his coarse, calloused hands?
He wanted to silence her rage with a good fuck, but that was foolishness. Fucking his priestess could only lead to terrible consequences—not to mention he was pretty sure she would devour him as a praying mantis did to its lovers. She was the deadly one here.
Kellyn cleared his throat and shook out his hands. He needed to get a hold of himself.
Remembering his place as a gentleman, Kellyn coughed, stood up, averted his gaze, and shifted his legs again. He stared at the mess on the floor, trying to get his thoughts off the priestess, who was far too alluring for her good.
Her eyes flicked to him, and she said, “They’re spies. They report back to the gods; some even act as two-way mirrors, allowing the gods to see into private moments and rooms. They also record the games and display them worldwide on magical mirrors like that one there.” She pointed to the mirror on the wall.
He knew about the mirrors, having watched the games in Theoden as a boy, but he never knew how the gods received the images.
“If you would turn around, I would like to change.”
Kellyn pivoted, facing the wall, trying not to think about what she was doing. He added equations in his head and pulled his chisel and wood from his pocket. With the blade’s tip, he formed Theodic knots into the lovespoon. The design formed a shield knot with endless loops representing eternal love, loyalty, and protection from battle. It was one of the Goddess of War’s symbols and one of the major symbols in Theoden.
Kellyn was drawn to forming Theodic knots because the image embodied an unbreakable bond, and there was nothing more important to him than loyalty. Once his loyalty was solidified, he’d do everything to protect the bond—it would never break . . . never shatter.
Which was why the fracture in his friendship with Emmett was so painful.
“You can turn around now,” the woman said. She wore a light pink—nearly sheer—cotton nightgown. Lace hemmed the sleeves and the train. Her face was framed with loose, bouncing raven curls, and she looked almost sweet, but cruelty still lingered in her bones. There was a hardness in the lines of her cheeks and the set of her jaw.
“What’s your name?” Kellyn asked softly, not wanting to scare her off. He needed something to call her by. She couldn’t just be a priestess.
She cocked her head, and a storm of thoughts crossed her sapphire eyes—like a silent picture show. But none of the emotions were distinguishable to him. After a long while, she finally said, “Morrigan.”
“Morrigan,” he repeated, playing with the sound on his tongue. “Nice to officially meet you.”
She nodded, eying him as she pulled the covers and slid into the bed. She rolled over on her side, her back to him.
Kellyn gawked at the bed for a moment, unsure what to do. “Shouldn’t we try to solve the riddle and start the first task? Most of the others will have already started.”
She rolled over and tugged the covers even higher. “It is foolish to face the gods unrested.”
Kellyn simply stood, watching. He had no answers. He ran a finger over his riddle again, hoping that doing so would help him with it.
It was useless, and Morrigan was right. Rest would do him good.
But he couldn’t join her in the bed. It just wasn’t done. It was a terrible idea, especially considering the lust he felt coursing through his veins when he looked at her.
Kellyn grunted.
Morrigan huffed. “Join me already. I promise not to bite.”
Kellyn froze. He absolutely couldn’t. It was indecent. Ungentlemanly. His heart raged in his chest like a hummingbird in a cage.
“Then sleep on the floor,” she said with a hiss. “I don’t care.”
He swallowed.
He’d sleep in the common room. Except as he opened the door and tried to walk through, his wrist burned, and an invisible chain shimmered in the air—solidifying momentarily. He tracked its length and saw the other end circled Morrigan’s wrist.
God magic.
An invisible chain bound them together.
This was new. He’d never seen it happen in any Sacrifice before.
Which meant leaving was not an option. If he wanted to rest, he’d have to join her in the bed because she ruined the floor. Kellyn took three tentative steps and removed his House Ellis tartan vest before placing it on a bedside table.
He rolled up his cuffs, memorizing the layout of the room and the hazardous floor. Slowly, he extinguished the sconces and covered the room in pitch black. Making his way to the bed, he froze again.
I consume shadows.
Kellyn carefully made his way back to the sconces.
I die at night but resurrect in the morning.
He sucked in a breath and flicked the electrical switch.
Light.
Light consumed shadows and died at night.
“Light.”
“Yes, that’s how electricity works,” Morrigan mumbled, throwing a pillow over her head.
He’d solved it. All on his own. Perhaps Theodra was watching after him because his prayer had come true!
With excitement running through his veins, Kellyn switched the light off again and went to bed, sliding under the covers and curling up on his side. The excitement soon faded as he realized his predicament. Morrigan was the type of girl he might end up with beneath the sheets in a different scenario. Strong, feisty, and curvy. But he had to remember that love and lust were off the table.
He was a dead man walking.
Kellyn stared into the darkness, listening for Morrigan’s even breaths. But they didn’t come.
She was awake, too.
They both were examining shadows and their anxiety.
Tension coated the space between them and filled his thoughts with agony. Kellyn inhaled sharply and held his breath, his heart racing and knocking into his ribcage.
The girl was unpredictable, untenable, and utterly tempting.
It was the last bit that would kill him.
Chapter Twelve
KELLYN
Champion of Theoden
THEODEN SUITE, CITY OF THE GODS
In Kellyn’s dream, his fingers stroked down the spine of a beautiful woman who’d fallen asleep on his chest. Lazily, he ran his fingers up her neck and into her hair. The woman groaned, and the dream rotted.
It wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was the sound caused by the trauma of waking up in the morning.
Kellyn stilled, and he held his breath. Silently cursing, he pinched his eyes shut. All his muscles tensed, and his heart pounded in his ears.
His dream was his priestess. She’d rolled over during the night and curled into his side. The feeling was at once comforting and anxiety-inducing. It felt right and horribly wrong all at once.
He squinted slightly and considered his options. He had no idea how to move without waking her up. But thankfully, he didn’t have to solve the problem because she woke up, flinched, and jumped out of the bed as if bitten by a spider.
She glowered, and he grunted. It was becoming their pattern—the way they communicated with each other.
And at this moment, there was nothing to say.
Quickly, they dressed in silence, neither willing to mention the cuddling incident.
“Are you ready?” he asked, pulling up a boot.
Her sapphire eyes flicked to him. “For what?”
“The first challenge,” he said, “it’s Light’s.” He held up his arm, gesturing to the riddle.
Morrigan crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, her eyes swirling like a deadly ocean storm. Indecipherable thoughts flickered across her face, and a twinkle of purple swirled in that storm. It seemed as if she were deciding something, and she settled on, “Yes, let’s go to the first challenge,” but she said it through her teeth.
“Great.” He cleared his throat. “But first, I need to check in with Cecile.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked toward Cecile’s room—he vowed he would help her—but his eyes caught on the massive magic mirrors on the upper floor of the Common Room. They were playing live broadcasts and replays of the challenges, and Cecile was already playing her first one.
She’d left him.
They played their own games and had different challenges and schedules—although they could face the same challenges at the same time . . . technically—but it still hurt that Cecile hadn’t even tried to strategize with him at all. Kellyn’s stomach twisted, and his heart leaped into his throat. Emmett’s attitude and betrayal were one thing, but Cecile . . .
. . . this broke him.
“You look like you swallowed a jellyfish,” Morrigan said as she marched up to him, rubbing her wrist and cursing.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, ignoring the comment.
“It’s the chain.” She lifted her wrist, showing him the raw skin beneath a flickering chain. One moment it was invisible, the next it appeared solid, connecting the two.
“It likes to play with how much leash it gives us,” she growled. “Shall we head to the mirror then?” Morrigan nodded to the broadcast depicting Cecile’s task. She was in a shadow maze, being confronted by memories. “Clearly, she’s busy.”
Kellyn grunted but led the way down the stairs to the Hallway of Mirrors.
The gods certainly liked to use mirrors as a conduit for their magic. Broadcasts, portals, communication devices. Anything they wanted really.
The Hallway of Mirrors was formed from a dome and colonnades with nine massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors held against the flowing lava. That alone would’ve made the room impressive, but the looking glasses themselves stopped hearts and claimed souls. Silver light coated the room, emanating from each of the nine massive portals, and the floor vibrated like the body of a strummed guitar. The place sang. Songs of sorcery and heartache. Songs of mystery and trickery. Songs of death and promise.
Each mirror had a unique appearance from the frame to the image depicted in it. One was a wheat field with braided ivy forming the frame—belonging to the God of Harvest. Another frame was constructed from wine goblets and grapes, depicting revelry. Havyn’s mirror was formed from snakes circling skulls and pomegranate fruits.
Morrigan winced as her eyes caught on War’s mirror. Blood dripped down its frame. Depicted on its swirling silver surface was a pile of decaying bodies—a mass grave from a battle.
Andromache’s mirror was framed with braided starlight and planetary rings. Its surface didn’t show an image. Instead, it rippled with glowing gold light.
Kellyn gulped. It was the one he needed to enter.
He sucked in a breath. The statues lining the room filmed him and played it back for the world to see. He needed to look brave. He needed to die with honor. So he reached out a hand to graze the mirror.
It felt so cold it burned, and he slowly pulled his hand away, holding a breath and stifling his pain and emotions. Sweat dripped down his back, his body not responding to his cues. Fear gripped tightly to his throat and burned.
Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer to Theodra and plunged into the glass. Holding his breath, the texture cascaded over him—a mixture of heat and silk. It burned, but once his whole body was consumed, it felt like a warm hug instead of guttural pain. It felt like a fetus in the womb. Kellyn couldn’t figure out if it calmed his nerves or made the experience more terrifying.
Perhaps it was prophetic that it felt like a womb since Andromache was the light of life—she was the goddess of birth, among other things. All the sisters were both life and death gods. Balances to each other. Andromache was the light of life, Theodra the strife of life and Havyn the end of life.
Stepping out of the barrier, Kellyn fell to his knees in a magical field of silver grass, Morrigan stumbling beside him, and the portal disappeared—trapping them.
Towering at the other end of the field was a building made from river stones, fairy dust, and lizard skins. A wall of sparkling blue and cadmium green rose, dancing against the sky, and glowing yellow orbs drifted in and out of the rocks like fireflies twirling in a cancan dance. Cut into the stones were words, touched by twisting shadows—whisking letters in an unknown language.
They lingered, haunting yet alluring, whispering sinister invitations, and humming shattered love songs.
“What is it?” Kellyn asked, not thinking Morrigan would have an answer.
A muscle ticked in her jaw. “It’s the Droma Labyrinth.” She gulped. “The Great Lost Library.”
“Oh, shit . . .” he said, a knot forming in his stomach. “That’s not good.”
The Droma Labyrinth was a legendary Athenaeum of stolen spirits. A deadly labyrinth of secrets, forbidden magic, and books spelled and protected by monsters and Andromache herself. It was said the place devoured souls.
Kellyn grunted. He had no words, not when anxiety stroked his throat, the vein in his forehead pulsing. A library filled with books and traps perfectly designed to thwart him.
