Demigod Captive Read online

  Demigod Captive

  Godblood Prison Book One

  Lucy Auburn

  Contents

  Get Updates

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Read Next: Cain University

  Read Next: Phoenix Academy

  Also by Lucy Auburn

  About the Author

  Copyright 2020 Lucy Auburn.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Created with Vellum

  Get Updates

  Want three free books? All you have to do is sign up for my mailing list.

  I’ll email you a free book bundle as well as new release alerts, book sales, and the occasional fun newsletter.

  Download now!

  https://dl.bookfunnel.com/2mmiulv36m

  * * *

  Join my Facebook group to interact with me and other fans. It’s where I do cover reveals, spoiler discussions, and post deleted scenes and bonus material from my series!

  Thank you to all my lovely readers.

  You make writing the best profession possible.

  To keep in touch, don’t forget to check out my website:

  www.lucyauburn.com

  Readers can sign up for advanced copies of soon-to-be-published books on Booksprout.

  Author’s Note

  This book contains explicit sex, as well as blood and gore. It ends in a cliffhanger. Book two will be out soon!

  * * *

  My mother is Death. She cursed me with life. Now I'm in Godblood Prison.

  Apparently when you're the daughter of Death, saving people is against the rules. Rules Ares, the God of War and sovereign ruler of the Celestial Realm, strictly enforces.

  For the crime of saving a mortal, I've been captured. Chained. Imprisoned.

  And I can't say that I mind.

  No more godblood powers racing through my veins? Check.

  No more hunger for death nipping at my heels? Check.

  And while the guards who watch over this place may think they have the demigods within contained, the truth is, we make our own rules.

  We find our own fun.

  Sexy Vesuvius, son of the God of Fire. Stone cold Jasper, son of the Trickster God. Even mortal Damien, the god hunter who took me in... they all have things I crave from them.

  There are others, too. Demigods who rule this place. Who seek to destroy. To free themselves. Or, failing that, to simply kill each other.

  The politics of Godblood Prison just might undo me before I get up the courage to escape...

  But can I really turn my back on the people here, and the misery I've seen?

  I'm the daughter of Death. I'll do what I must to survive.

  Godblood Prison is a high heat, paranormal prison series full of steam, violence, and demigods who do what they please. Coming soon—and rapid releasing!

  Chapter One

  I've never been a very good person.

  Maybe because I'm not a person at all.

  "Stop coming back here if you're just going to get drunk and angry." The bartender whips his dirty towel in my direction as I stumble out onto the sidewalk, holding my middle finger up for his benefit. "You're a real piece of shit sometimes, Moira."

  "It's Mora," I mutter, but he's already gone back inside the bar and is locking the door. "Whatever. You wouldn't get what I'm named after, anyway."

  The Queens street he's pushed me out into smells like seasoned chickpeas, wet asphalt, and trash. That last scent is one you can't really get away from in New York City, not even outside the fancy apartment buildings on Central Park West—maybe especially not there. Whether it's piled up in alleyways in the outer boroughs, left at the curb on the narrow sidewalks of Manhattan, or getting picked through by a homeless person in Times Square, the city that never sleeps is defined by its trash.

  I think that's why I feel at home here.

  Getting thrown away was my first solid experience, right after being born.

  Taking a deep breath, I narrow in on the chickpea scent—this part of Queens, Long Island City near Astoria, is full of falafel and hummus—and pivot towards my next destination. Very few food carts stay open late in this part of the city; foot traffic only makes it worthwhile to hang their hat up after midnight near the tourist destinations, where they can swindle drunk out-of-towners by pretending they don't have change for a twenty. But there's one cart here, under an overpass that borders Sunnyside, that the owner keeps open late, parked right outside the home he shares with the generation that came before him and the generation after.

  I fast-walk in that direction, unconcerned about the occasional dark alleyway, strange pedestrian, or flickering streetlight overhead. The city can be a scary place if you're looking for it, but most of the time it's just a urine-scented walk in the park. Besides, I already know I'm the scariest thing around here—most of the time.

  As I head down familiar streets, I hesitate at a crossing. The fastest way to get to Omar's cart is straight through here, left a few blocks, then you're at the subway overpass, where he waits for people to take the stairs down to the street and buy his falafel. But getting there fast means walking past an urgent care clinic.

  It should be fine. It usually is. Sure, it's flu season, but people around here probably got their shots. The immigrants and working class families of Queens aren't the type to turn their noses up at a vaccination. They're not the moms of Orange County, California, believing in conspiracy theories and throwing measles parties to infect their kids.

  Besides, it's an urgent care clinic. Not a hospital or a graveyard. Low on the list.

  My stomach grumbles and my mouth waters, wanting that falafel. That settles it—I'll take the fast route. Cutting across the street diagonally, I fast walk through a break in the cars, my boots gripping the wet pavement beneath my feet. It was supposed to snow tonight, but the weather shifted just enough to turn it into a slush that gathers at the edges of the rooftops and turns grey as it melts on the dirty ground.

  This is New York. It takes a good three inches of the white stuff to make this dirty place look clean.

  I don't look in the windows of the urgent care clinic as I pass it by. Maybe if I don't study my reflection—black hair that shines blue in certain light, golden eyes that every human tells themselves are light brown, sharp cheekbones and a pouty mouth—I won't see her looking back at me. If I'm lucky, I won't ever see her again at all.

  I'm not lucky.

  She's standing right in front of me as I pass by the urgent care clinic. At over six feet tall, she's an Amazonian of a woman, her bronzed skin and thick black hair a throwback to early civilizations. There's a dancing smirk on her lips, as always, their shape the same pout as mine.

  If you didn't look closely, you might think she's human.

  But her hair turns into a black smoke as it trails down her back. The black, strappy dress she wears turns into black smoke as well, swirling around her bare feet
. Her lips are blood red, but not because of lipstick, and there's no mistaking the yellow-gold of her eyes for something human.

  Flicking out a finger tipped with a sharp black nail, she tilts my chin up and frowns at me. "You've poisoned yourself again. How boring. If you're going to die, my dear Mortem, you should do it properly."

  "It's called getting drunk. You know that." I swat her hand away, turning my face towards the clinic. In my reflection, there's no mistaking the resemblance. "Who died?"

  "A child with a lung infection. It went untreated for too long. The parents couldn't afford healthcare." She clucks her tongue, shaking her head. "I used to get hundreds, even thousands of those, especially in this place. This land has changed. The city of Cahokia... that was a beautiful one. Maybe one day I'll take this whole colony down."

  "We can only hope," I tell her dryly, trying to step down the curb and around her. "I've got somewhere to be, so if you could just—"

  "No." She grabs my arm, narrowing her eyes at me. I ignore the flare of pain that her touch ignites inside me, knowing that if anyone looks this way, they won't see her, won't even hear me speak to her. "You haven't fed with me in ages, Mortem."

  "It's Mora."

  "Nicknames are for fools." The hand on my arm squeezes tight, her sharp nails drawing blood even through my layers of clothing. "You'll grow weak at this rate. Mortal. Come with me somewhere we can feast—Yemen, perhaps. The war there is so very delicious. Bombs kill many at once, but others suffer from shrapnel and infection, spending ages dying. You could eat enough to last for years."

  As I try to think of a way to say no, I stall for time. "Yemen is far away. I have a life here."

  "Then come with me to Bellvue Hospital. There will be plenty to eat there." She leans close, until her eyes are inches from mine. "Or do you have some reason to object? They die either way, Mora. At least this way you'll lengthen your lifespan to something more reasonable. The path you're pursuing is aging you."

  It is. I can't deny that. My plump cheeks are melting away into sharp cheekbones, and my voice no longer has its youthful quality. Sometimes I don't even get carded, though the haunted, depressed look in my eyes probably has something to do with that.

  She adds, "I didn't give birth to you just to watch you wither away."

  No. She gave birth to me out of curiosity, to see what her blood would look like in a half-mortal's body.

  The gods are not known for their capacity to love their children.

  My mother is Death.

  I don't mean that in a melancholy, look-at-me-I'm-a-broody-teen kind of way. She's the literal actual embodiment of Death. When your gramps wheezes out his last cough, my mother is there, sucking the life out of him. She celebrated the Black Plague and got so drunk off misery during World War II that she still talks about it with nostalgia.

  We used to feed together, before I knew better. After she took me from my father—killed him for stealing me and keeping me from her—she taught me her ways, and I took to them like a baby bird takes to flying. For centuries I feasted with her. For years I looked at humans and saw only the ways in which they'd die.

  Things change. But not her desire to control me. Or her temper when I refuse to obey her will.

  "Can I feed my other stomach first?" I ask her, and my mortal body grumbles just in time, helping me with my excuse. "I'll meet you there."

  "Very well." She lets go of my hand, stepping back and tossing her chin up haughtily. "Don't dally. I have an appointment overseas. Bacchus is throwing another lovely party in the ruins of Syria, and I refuse to be more than two days late."

  The gods don't party for hours.

  They party for days. Weeks, even.

  At the end of their parties, there are almost always more children born like me: half-mortal, half-deity, cursed with blood that surges hot in our veins, drives us to madness and violence, makes us powerful and sets us apart.

  But though they make us, the gods rarely care for us. Usually they leave us with our mortal parents and walk away. What my mother did, stealing me back from my father and killing him so she could raise me, was unusual. The other gods all talk about her eccentricities—how the millennia have changed her.

  As she disappears in a cloud of smoke, I count my blessings. The gods have short memories for conversations with mortals, and little patience. If I delay for a few hours, don't show up at the hospital, she'll likely grow bored and head over to the party without waiting for me. She'll tell herself that her mortal daughter didn't make it because mortals are flighty and foolish—it'll never occur to her that she's been tricked.

  Deities, in their hubris, are sometimes easy to trick. Sometimes. As long as you have the confidence to do it. It's easier for those of us with godblood, though. Humans are often cursed by divine karma when they lie to the gods.

  Stomach growling, I return to my journey towards the falafel cart. This time, I make it a point not to stray too close to places where the dead pass away. I don't want to draw my mother's eyes. I don't like what I see when I look into them.

  Thankfully, food cures all. As soon as the scent of Omar's falafel hits my nose, I feel it wash away all the stress and bullshit of dealing with my mom. Good food will do that—it settles in your stomach and sticks to your insides. I didn't learn just how comforting a warm homemade meal can be until I struck off on my own and learned how to live without my mother's constant influence. Once I did, I realized there was more to live for than Death alone.

  But it's not just the food I come here for. As I round the corner, Omar looks up from his stall and grins at me, the expression warm and loving. I feel at home, pulling a wrinkled bill out of my jacket pocket and passing it over, my alcohol-fueled gut demanding a sponge.

  "The usual."

  "Is there anything else?" He warms up the falafel and spoons a heaping amount of basmati rice onto a styrofoam tray. "You look worn out. Don't tell me you got into another fight."

  Scoffing, I crack my neck and shake my head. "Less of a fight and more of a one-sided beatdown. At least until the bartender broke it up. I didn't even get my fourth gin and tonic."

  "What did the guy do?"

  "Put his hand up some poor girl's skirt." At the memory, I curl my mouth in disgust. "She was drunk out of her mind. Her friends had to take her out of the bar, but he kept following, trying to grab her. So I punched him in the face until he changed his mind."

  Omar laughs, shaking his head at my violent antics. "My youngest is like you. She'll get into fights on the playground, yelling at the boys. I swear I think she's going to grow up to be a hero. Same as you."

  I blink at him as I take my tray of warm food, the smell of rice, falafel, and tzatziki sauce making my mouth water as the steam hit my nose.

  "I'm no hero," I protest, wondering where he got that impression. "Just a bar rat with nothing better to do than to get into trouble."

  "Ah, Mora." Omar tsks at me, looking a little sad. "You're human, just like the rest of us. Don't get so caught up in paying attention to your flaws that you forget to see your virtues."

  That's just the thing, though.

  I'm not human.

  Not mortal. In the traditional sense, at least.

  Like almost all godbloods, I'm most likely infertile. The blood of our celestial parents running through our veins ensures that. In the animal kingdom, hybrids are rarely capable of producing viable offsprings. Same is true of the half-mortal children of gods.

  Omar doesn't understand that I'm a piece of trash. The daughter of Death, mixed with a little bit of mortality just to really drive the insult home. He looks at me and sees something I'm not—every human does. They don't know what I've done.

  Sometimes, when I stand across from good people like him, the urge to tell them everything bubbles up inside me.

  All the lives I've watched wither away.

  The death I've drunk from them.

  Years stolen to keep me looking young.

  He'd see then that I'm no hero
. I could punch a dozen drunk assholes in the face and that wouldn't change. I'll always be the offspring of the universe's worst celestial. No matter how far I get away from her, I see her in the mirror. I know I can't escape.

  None of this is explainable to Omar. I shoot him a little smile and pretend like his words have comforted me. "I guess you're right. I just get so melancholy when I'm drunk."

  He chuckles. "I'm the same way when I eat too much Korean barbecue. Chin up, Mora. You're young still. You'll figure it out. Trust me—when you're my age, you'll see that things were never as bad as they seemed."

  I take a bite of falafel to hide the fact that he couldn't be more wrong.

  Keeping track gets tough eventually, but I'm at least one thousand, three hundred and eighty years old.

  Nothing makes me wish I was human more than run-ins with my mother, but only until I remember how young they die. There isn't a single good thing waiting for me in the afterlife. This is it, so I might as well make it last.

  I'm just about to say an awkward goodbye to Omar and take my food around the corner to a nearby park bench—what do I care if it's dark and sketchy there—when the front door to his modest home opens up, and a woman with a red hijab wrapped around her hair brings a little girl out by the hand, both of them wearing thick woolen jackets and scarves so colorful they make my heart ache for Morocco in the springtime.