Wicked gods book one, p.29
Wicked Gods: Book One, page 29
“Meet me on the eventide, a world reserved for lovers
Where twilight's hush descends, and silver moon, it hovers.
A secret garden blooms, with petals sweet as ash,
Where hearts entwine, and passions meet.
We’ll be alone at last.”
The poem verse runs through my mind and I shiver. I can’t remember now where I read it, or why it stuck with me. Or why I think of it now, here, with Rhyland veiled in darkness, his face stark and haunting when he turns to assess me.
“Well,” my voice croaks, “you have me out here. Now what?”
“Now I prove my point.”
I crook an eyebrow at him, fighting another bout of terrible tremors when a sharp wind threads in from the east. Before I draw my next breath he unsheathes his sword and swings it at me.
Narrowly, I dodge the strike, leaping for cover behind a twin pair of wooden barrels.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
His eyes have the brightest gleam to them when he swings again. I duck and the sharp edge embeds itself into the barrel's side. A slow trickle of rum leaks out when he rips it back.
“Pirate!”
Laughter, cool and enticing, sweeps the air. The sound grips my stomach, though not in the worst way.
Insane. He’s gone entirely mad.
“At least give me a blade!” I shout, yanking the top off from one barrel to use as a makeshift shield. It takes a considerable amount of strength, but I manage to shove the lidless barrel so that it tips sideways, Sweet rum sloshes toward him, drenching the deck and coating his dark boots.
A smile blooms in his eyes, something ruthless and cunning as he kicks it away and advances. “You don’t need it. You can stop me without one.” He swings, and this time I’m not quick enough to dodge. With a subtle rotation of his wrist the flat of the blade meets my upper arm, stinging.
A sound caught between yelp and growl escapes my lips. I pause to inspect the rising pink welt left behind. “You arse! You could have cut me!”
He grins. “If I wanted to, I would have.”
Cocky—another facet of him to add to my growing list. I lift the makeshift shield as he rains down a quick flurry of strikes. And almost grin back for having blocked each one until he sweeps a leg under me, sending me sprawling down onto my back. The barrel lid slips from my hand, clattering along the deck.
Several colorful curses escape me. An ache rides along my arse to the top of my spine. There’s not a moment to catch my bearings. Without a shield, the best I can do is roll away from the next assault.
Slash.
Roll.
Slash.
Roll.
Slash.
Roll.
He misses me each time, embedding the edge of the cutlass deeper into the wood planks I just moved from, but I realize after two more slaps with its flat edge against my blocking forearms, he’d been going slow. Pulling his skill.
I kick out hard enough that the heel of my boot smashes into his shin.
Sharp breath whistles between his teeth. And then that low, enchanting huff of laughter follows.
Before he can retaliate, I roll away, scoop up the dropped lid, and grip hold of the railing to pull myself back up to my feet.
“Stop running. Stand your ground, call your fire.”
The withering scowl I give could curdle milk. I rub at the stinging welts, knowing they’ll likely turn to purplish bruises by morning. “Mòr said the marriage bond means we can’t hurt each other.”
“Can’t kill each other,” he corrects quickly with a smirk as sly as a wolf in the night. “My sister has always been one to exaggerate.”
I’m panting and leaning heavily against the gunwale for support. Bedridden for days, sick and feverish, it’s taken the fight out of me. But I can’t remember the last time I stopped something simply because I was too tired to finish it.
“Good to know.”
I rush him, using all my strength to slam the makeshift shield into his sword arm. The wood cracks in two. He grunts, losing his grip on his weapon just enough that I seize the moment to drive my knee upward toward his groin. He anticipates my treachery, sidestepping with a grace that belies his size and puts him behind me. Without missing a beat, he reaches out, grasping the back of my shirt and jerking me into his chest. I find myself at the mercy of his blade once more, pressed across my throat.
We’re close. Too close.
Our bodies brush, the heat of him searing through my thin blouse. His scent, now achingly familiar, fills my nose—leather, sea brine, a hint of driftwood that makes my breath hitch. I dare to crane my neck, glaring into the midnight blue of his eyes which burn with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
“Never let your guard down, Nymph. Ever,” he murmurs, his voice a deep rasp that vibrates along my back. Another simple flit of his wrist and I’m disarmed; the remnants of the barrel lid skid along the deck. Before I can recover, he twirls me hard in one quick motion so that I’m facing him. His free hand snakes out, hooking me around the waist to pull me flush against him.
Slowly, he backs me up until my shoulder blades meet with the wall of the forecastle, a soft thud. His fingers press into my hip. I feel the solid muscles in his arms bunch when he tenses, their power barely contained. He could easily overtake me, I know it. Warbringer, fallen god. But there’s a restraint to his hold, a teasing edge that quickens my pulse.
“Yield,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
My heart hammers into my ribs, an echo through my head. Yield? Never. Not to him. Not to any man. Still, a strange thrill courses through me at the idea. The thought of surrendering myself to him, if only this once….
“Make me.” The words slip out as dark and hungry as the night around us. A challenge.
A flicker of something dangerous slips over his face. He leans down, his lips hovering an inch from mine. The warmth of his fingers trail up me only to curl around my neck in that slick possessive way. The blade in his other hand clatters at our feet so that he can bring his touch up, lace it tight through my hair.
“As you wish.”
He tilts my chin back roughly and I can’t breathe, can’t think around the pulse, pulse, pulse in my head.
And then his mouth is on mine, warm, demanding. Nothing like the restrained, chaste meeting of lips from our wedding ceremony.
It’s fire and shale to be touched by him; a curse and a blessing. A feeling that evokes sensations I didn’t know could exist beyond stories inked by star-crossed poets.
How the world could fall away, the sea could dry to bedrock, all of Hlódyn a waste of ash and ruin but I would not know it. Would be incapable of comprehending anything outside his touch. His presence. His passion—
No. My lips rip away from his and with it my traitorous thoughts.
He lets me go without a fight, steps slowly back so I can turn away, breathing hard. My eyes are crammed tight together.
“Nymph,” he whispers.
I can’t answer. If I did, it would be with a great gasping sob that’s trying to force itself from my chest.
No, no, no. I can’t feel this way. Not again. Not ever. But it’s so much worse than it was with Harlow. He had been the wind but Rhyland is the sun. If I fell…and if I ever lost him, my universe would drown in a darkness from which it would never recover.
I can’t love you. I can’t protect you.
“Nymph,” he says again, softer now. “Look at your hands.”
My eyes come open. I gaze down at my spread palms, blinking the threat of tears away to see smoke. Small tendrils of silverish flame dancing along my fingertips.
I turn in an almost violent movement to gape at him, finding him patting out scorched patches on his leather coat, burned imprints of my hands.
“Y-you did that on purpose?”
His stare is that familiar cold wall. The one I’ve only managed to peek behind once or twice—if that.
He nods.
Something in me withers before fracturing. Of course…of course it meant nothing. He was manipulating me. Trying to stoke my emotion to tempt the flame to the surface. The kiss meant nothing.
My cheeks go hot and the blaze from my fingers vanishes more readily than it appeared. Humiliation writhes inside of me, a living beast.
“How does it feel…your victory?” I ask.
A pulse of emotion on his face, and then emptiness. He says nothing, turning away and lifting his sword before he steps into the shadows.
The Sea has no mercy
for the wicked or the woed.
She will reap,
and reap,
and reap
what she’s owed.
—Excerpt from 'A Sailor’s Demise', by Ariyn Avery
Four days pass. Rhyland and I speak not a word to each other. At night, his cabin is silent and still, save for our shared breathing and the insistent groan of the ship.
I spend my days tucked away in Mattias’s surgery, helping the old man blend tinctures or tend to minor wounds common among the careless brood of crewmen.
If not down trying to be useful to Mattias, I trail after Rowan who is all but Sabre’s shadow. She works from sunup to sundown, heaving lines, mending canvas, reefing sails. Her dedication would be awe inspiring if bitterness wasn't rotting me from the inside out. When she’s not working, we eat together with the crew in the galley. After dark, Sabre insists on teaching Rowan how to handle a sword in the rare case we’re boarded, or meet trouble in Staygia. Watching them fight sends a pulse through me, something dark, almost loathsome. I’m an outsider, an intruder peeking in on their happiness. When they bid me goodnight, heading down below, fingers entwined, eyes hazy with lust for each other, I linger on deck to stare at the vast expanse of sea.
A shiver coats my skin before arching along my spine. It has nothing to do with the fevers that have since gone and everything to do with the fact the deep is fucking terrifying. I wonder, briefly, as my fingers skim over the place the rune on my chest is tucked away, if I’ll ever let this fear go. If I’ll ever look at the water and not feel horror bleed into my bones, as though it’s been stitched along my muscle. Engraved on my soul. Once, I had revered the seas, longed with my entire being to swim in them. To explore a world outside of Aurorae, to find somewhere I could feel…welcome. But that was ruined for me when the Shadow Weaver went down. When Màma was ripped away, pulled under, weighed in chains so heavy a grown man hadn’t the hope of lifting them.
We were dead. I was sure of it.
Until we weren’t. Until I was leveled with a task that felt heavier than all the chains in Hlódyn combined. What is she doing now, my móðir? There are so many questions, and a cruel, insistent fear that I’ll never be able to ask them. That I’ll fail and never see her again, knowing it was all my fault. That I trusted a snake who spread his poison through my veins. If you couldn’t trust your own judgment, what was left?
Nothing.
I feel the truth of it, now, how very alone I am.
I think of Rhyland, our kiss, the coldness in his eyes, and want to scream. To rage at myself for daring to risk feeling anything but hate. Anger bubbles beneath the surface of my control, dampening my fear. I make myself move, to climb the forecastle toward the bowsprit that points like an arrow to our destination.
Staygia.
What happens when we get there? My fingers move almost obsessively through the tips of my white hair. The natural chestnut shade is finally starting to come back through. Hints of it, so that I now have the strangest combination of rich brown melding in from the top. I’ve tamed the heavy, wild mane into a tight braid that hangs down over my shoulder, past my breasts. Some of the strands inevitably came loose from the day's hard work. The wind ruffles them as I move toward the front of the ship to peer down at the figurehead. The majestic Nightingale, a creature borne of myth and legend.
Behind me, a throat is subtly cleared and I jerk in response.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” I hiss into the salty air, folding my arms against the cutting breeze.
“I didn't realize you were up here,” Rhyland answers dryly.
I almost scoff at the idea. There is no scenario in which I imagine he doesn't know where I am on his ship at all times. I’m his captive, after all.
He comes up beside me, presses into the rail to gaze out over the glassy surface. A breeze ruffles his dark hair. He leans into it, pulling in a deep breath.
Looking at him is a painful reminder of my anger, so I keep my eyes trained on the sleek wings of the figurehead. The deck is illuminated by a single hanging lantern that casts a glow of orange over everything, guiding our way through misting fog.
“Why the Nightingale?” I can’t help but ask it, wanting to know more. More than I should.
His high brow raises in response. “You know the story, yes?”
“Bits. A majestic bird. A powerful creature no one has ever actually seen, said to be important to your kind.” I let venom reap the edge of my voice.
For a moment a hard line seizes his mouth and I don’t think he is going to speak, but then he sighs, breathing way into the chilly night. “We gods believe the Nightingale forged the Midnight Crown. It is the creator of everything—first the black cold, then the bright sun. The pale moon. Then the four realms. It was the harbinger of the universe and then, without warning, it vanished. When Mór was a child her first prophecy came to her. The Nightingale is not a bird at all, but a creature destined to be reborn among us. Wings of midnight, a rain of fire. When the Nightingale darkens the skies again, it will soar on a tide of doom. Twilight of the gods, some call it. When man and monster and immortal alike will all know darkness and then death.”
He looks to the sky, at the silverish stars that blink through the deep navy, said to have been scattered there by his mother’s hand. I wonder now if that’s true.
“The prophecy is Ireus’ greatest fear. From the beginning of the creation he has thrived off his power, bolstered by the worship of mankind. Your wars came, your religions fissured, but still he remained at the center of their praise—the triple god, they call to him. While Centurism is pushed, the other godly families fade. Weaken. One line tried to rise up, to do something about the conflict and he—” His voice rips away from the sentence. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. “The figurehead is just another way of saying ‘fuck you’ to him. A reminder that his time is finite. The crown shattering was the beginning of it all. The catalyst of the prophecy.”
I shake my head. Gods and their games.
“So you are gathering it for him? To try and change fate?”
Mór’s words ring hollow in my ears, how fate is a fickle thing. Forever arriving and departing. Nothing is assured. Not even the lives of the divine.
“My reasons are my own.”
“Why do you care so much about me learning to use my magick?”
He hesitates at that, shoulders growing rigid. “I don't.”
“You do,” I press. “And though you’re a stubborn arse, I think it has more to do than simply proving a point.”
He is full of dither tonight, something that doesn’t quite suit his cool air of confidence. His fists flex around the wood of the rail so tightly, I wonder if imprints will be left behind. The deep midnight blue splashed across his irises flash through the dim when he gives me a sideways look rife with agitation.
“You want the truth?”
“For once, yes.”
The corner of his mouth lilts into a subtly cold smirk. “That’s rich coming from you, Nymph.”
“Me?” I flutter my long lashes, twisting to crane my back over the rail until it gives a satisfying ‘crack’ of release through my spine. “I've been a picture of honesty, Pirate. You, however…I don’t think you have a candid bone in your body.”
That bitterness floods me again, sharp and hot under my skin. Memories of the night after the storm. Our kiss that followed. It all meant nothing. A game to get my emotion, my magick to come to the surface.
“You could always check.” His voice turns low and heavy, an undercurrent of daring as wicked as the trickster god he calls brother.
I see the resemblance for a moment in the narrow set to their noses, the high prominent cheekbones, and shiver.
He reaches beneath his leather coat, pulling free the blade strapped to his side. My móðir’s hunting knife. His clever fingers flip it so that the worn hilt points out toward me.
I don’t hesitate, not this time. Quickly, I grasp it and pull with a slashing movement at his throat. He jerks back in surprise, just barely missing the sting of its razor edge.
I grin wolfishly at him. Something gleams bright in his eyes.
“By the Crown, Nymph, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile.”
I shrug before taking another stab at him.
Miss.
“What can I say?” Miss. “The idea of hurting you is suddenly very…satisfying.”
Another lunge forward has him drawing his cutlass just in time to parry the strike. “Hurt me?” The steel of our blades meet again, sparking this time. “I’m not sure you have it in you. It’ll take more than steel. Call your fire, if you can.” He takes a swipe at my chest, a slash I narrowly avoid, dancing backward toward the steps that lead down to the main deck. “Or must I kiss you again?”
He’s taunting me now. The arrogance in his tone stings worse than any blade.
A howl rips itself from my lips. “You’ll underestimate me straight into your grave.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks.
Heat sparks to life in my palm, silver flame that licks its way up my arm—more powerful than anything I’ve called up since the cave.
It’s a rush more pleasurable than any drug can give to see his eyes widen a fraction of a second before I cast it at him.
If he was anything less than a god, it would have hit him straight in the chest. His movement is fluid, graceful despite his size. The silver flame shoots past him, arching down toward the sea water where it lingers a moment before sizzling out.
