Demigod Captive Read online

  "But if we do that, we won't score any points," Leo objects, sounding upset. "It'll be an automatic forfeit. We won't win, we'll lose."

  "Do they kill you for that?"

  Yoric answers, "No." His expression is thoughtful. "You just wind up having to go into the arena for another round in two weeks, but there are worse fates."

  "There are," I agree with him. "Trust me, I know better than most what awaits you if one of those assholes runs you through with a sword. Don't forget that as long as Ares gold circles your wrists and ankles, you're as mortal as any human-born child. Even a small cut could get infected and kill you from sepsis."

  At their blank stares, I sigh and tell them, "It's one of the ways humans die. Tiny bacteria get into their blood and kill them. Slowly and painfully. Surely you've encountered things like this?"

  Garnet shakes her head, lips pursed. "Mortals aren't really something we concern ourselves with. Of course I've met plenty. I've always liked playing tricks on them." Her mouth curves up impishly. "It's so fun to send an errant wind up their skirts and watch them squeal. Or yank a book out of their hands. But I've never been around long enough to see one die—usually my brothers and sisters and I spend our days with each other, playing pranks or exploring the lower rim of the Celestial Realms. We don't really show up for... well, for death."

  Right, of course. Glancing at each of the misfit godbloods, from sulking Ferdinand to intense Yoric, I realize how different their outside lives must have been from mine. While I've spent centuries observing human pain and surviving, hearing their darkest confessions at their last moments and being weighed down by their greatest regrets, none of the others have ever had more than a passing conversation with a mortal. Even then, they would've played with them like they're living dolls or simple pets, not much more.

  They may be half-mortal, and some of them may have even spent early years with their mortal parents, but that time is over in the blink of a half-immortal eye. As soon as their gifts came on them they would've been drawn to each other.

  All godbloods find their own community with each other—brother with brother, sister with sister. Celestial blood calls out for like, and they make conclaves and societies of their own on earth. But they never really join fully with the human world. They prefer to play with humanity. Together they party and fight, fuck and drink, but they never stick around to see what life is truly like among mortals.

  My mother's decision to take me and raise me was unique among the gods. Even more so, her choice to let me live among mortals. Between wars and plagues, she would drop me off wherever she felt like it and leave me to play mortal with humans. In those times I learned all the mundane and heartbreaking ways in which humans die. Outside of wars, plague, and mass casualties from natural disasters, humans die in pain and torment in the discomfort of their own homes. Often with family, other times alone, almost always while cursing my mother's name.

  "Trust me," I tell the misfits grimly, "you don't want to die of an infection. Or a gut wound. Or, well, any kind of wound at all. The thing you need to learn to do is dodge a fist or a sword. Thankfully for you I've been in enough dirty fights with mortals to know how to get out of the way when a stool is thrown at my face. I'll teach you how."

  * * *

  The training room is far, far bigger than I expected. Set in the back of the prison, not far from where the arena apparently is, it takes up as much space as a few cellblocks. The wide double doors open up to the mouth of it; in the back, lockers line the wall, and signs point to showers for men and women. There are weapons in storage and hung on the wall on one side of the room, and training equipment on the other.

  With all of Vesuvius's warriors in here, it's not hard to be intimidated. The fiery demigod himself must be in the showers somewhere, but even without his might around, his underlings are no slouches in the muscle department. One of them is lifting enough weights to make me whistle in appreciation; two are boxing hard enough that bruises and groans follow each time their gloved fists connect with each other. A few others stand by the weapons and test the weight and grip of swords, their eyes on each other, looking ready to pounce.

  It's a wonder there isn't blood on the ground already. Then again, Ares would never let that happen. Bloodshed exists to feed him, after all—especially here. So he makes sure his people know to keep a close eye on the warriors chained in his prison.

  Four guards stand by the front doors.

  Two among the training equipment.

  Six next to the weapons.

  And one each by the restrooms, guarding those as well.

  My eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline. They must worry about fights breaking out here—and it's not hard to imagine why, given how many sharp, heavy, and blunt objects are in the room. The guards in here look far tougher than the ones who escort us to our meals and yard time. They're scarred, muscular, and imposing, and each has a pistol as well as their signature electric batons. One woman who catches my eye even has what appears to be a long leather whip with spikes attached curled up against her back.

  "That's Catrina," Garnet says, following my gaze. She sighs longingly. "It might look like it'd be fun to be underneath her, but trust me when I say that there's only one type of agony she's interested in. Too bad, considering the face and body on her. But trust me when I say you don't want to be on the wrong side of that whip."

  "I can imagine." The little pixie-like godblood's whorishness makes me laugh, though. "You sound like no one's been between your sheets in ages."

  "It's been a while, to say the least. Mostly because my ex was released—and before you ask, not for good behavior. But I'm sure the dry spell will pass. Especially now that we're training."

  "Training? What do you mean by that?"

  Before she can answer, one of the guards by the door impatiently gestures towards us. "Move! In or out."

  Ferdinand speaks up, motioning towards an empty space in the middle of the room. "Here—we might as well train without weapons. I doubt they'll let us get any of the good ones. And Mora said she was training us how to run, whatever that means. Not sure I can outrun a leopard or a tiger or whatever."

  Behind us, Portia calls out, "Good luck. I thought I'd stick around and watch, but then I remembered that sweat smells disgusting. Try not to stab each other with the pointy ends of your blades."

  She slips away before I can point out that we won't be getting swords anytime soon. Her brother was right—based on the guarded and irritated glances going our way, the Vesuvius team doesn't plan on sharing blades during their practice session. They look like they'd only give the misfits swords by sliding them into their fleshy middles.

  Nervously, Garnet asks, "Leo, are you sure we have the clear to be in here?"

  "Yeah, of course." He sounds just as nervous as her, though, and bounces on the ball of his feet as we walk into the middle of the room. "I asked the big guy. He said it was cool. Promised to teach me a few knife tricks if he had the time... he probably doesn't have the time."

  It feels strange having so many eyes on us from every side of the room. I feel like I'm being sized up. That, and more than a little checked out—not a surprise, given how many men are here and how few women. It must be rare to get fresh meat of the female variety in the prison.

  "So..." Garnet looks up at me nervously, her short stature even more obvious when I stand up straight. "Where do we start?"

  Glancing around at the fighters all around us, I think fast. I want to seem competent—no one wants to be the bottom of the totem pole in prison—but not like a threat. I've been in enough bar fights to know simple fighting tricks that are useful when you're dealing with a drunk; more than once I've had to punch a mortal hard enough to hurt, but not so hard it broke his face in. Now that Ares gold makes me completely mortal, pulling punches should be that much easier.

  "How about I teach you how to dodge. That should be simple enough—you're already short. Except for you, Yoric. I'll show you another way to dodg
e. The rest of you, line up, and I'll show you how to watch my body for signs I'm about to throw a punch. You'll want to lean back and duck low, like so."

  Over and over again, I show them how to bend their knees and shift their weight in order to dodge a blow from above. I have to correct Sasha's stance more than once; she wants to bend at the middle and lean back, but with a pointed shove I show her how this makes her off-balance for the next attack.

  "Instead," I tell her, planting my feet on the floor, "shift back at the knees and hips, and make sure your weight follows you. That way it won't be easy to tip you over."

  "Like this?"

  "Close." I push against her shoulder blades, straightening her up and forward, then place my hands at her waist. "Keep your weight centered. It's harder to push you over then. And it'll be easier to dodge back a second time if you're not flailing around and bending your back. Just remember to slide as much as possible, not step—use the balls of your feet to your advantage."

  As I'm about to demonstrate myself, a familiar figure walks out of the men's side of the lockers and dressing room. I'd almost forgotten Vesuvius was here, but now, of course, I can feel his heat. He's like a forge of banked coal: on the surface, everything is cool to the touch, but within a fire waits to roar to life with fury.

  Apparently there was a reason why he was back in the showers for so long. Now that he's joined the other warriors in the main room, he's wearing a specialized suit of armor with bronze-colored plates. Etched with various symbols and sparking red where the light catches its surface, the metal greaves and breastplate look like something out of legend. Beneath all of it is a stiff red-brown leather that has scars of battle on its surface. The suit of armor must have taken an extra set of hands to put on, because a tall, warrior-like woman with a brown complexion comes out of the back room at Vesuvius's heels.

  A wave of jealous fury burns through me, so potent that my fingers twitch towards my palms, desperate to make fists. I can only imagine what other things the warrior woman, who's wearing her own smaller, lighter suit of armor, must have done with the fiery demigod as they dressed each other. An image flashes through my mind of her reaching between his muscular thighs to stroke his cock to hardness and make him come. It's absurd how much I want to pull a knife off the weapons wall and gut her with it, given I know I shouldn't—can't—have the arena team leader myself.

  Vesuvius doesn't seem to be aware of my potent fury when he glances my way. Meeting my eyes, he raises his ginger brows. A pleased smile breaks out on his wide face. "Come to join us after all?"

  "No," I tell him, shaking my head firmly, even as the idea of sparring with him—then doing other things with him—is enough to make me swallow thickly. "I'm here to help train my friends. They're going to be in the arena during the next round of battles."

  "Ah." His eyes find Yoric leaning against a pillar, and he nods briefly, as if he recognizes him. The darkness-controlling demigod looks embarrassed but pleased. "Well, Mora, if you change your mind and decide to train with us after all, there's always a place for you here."

  "I told you, my powers are terrible for battle. I don't have the stamina or strength, either. I'm just teaching my friends a few dodges and tricks I learned on Earth, with the mortals. I've never been in more than a bar fight."

  He frowns, and I wonder if he's heard any stories of Death's only daughter riding a warhorse next to Ares' firstborn son, the two of us with swords in one hand and axes in the other, spilling blood in wars and celebrating the death. "Well, if you change your mind. You've got plenty of muscle tone—I'm sure you could find a place with us, with a little extra training."

  One of Bacchus' sons snorts, and I cut my eyes at him. "How can you tell, boss? She's wearing that stupid giant shirt. I bet there's nothing but sticks and bones beneath it. Looks like she's starving."

  It's an insult in godblood world, where the best, most attractive females are strong and powerful, or at least lithe and petite. With my height I can't pass for the latter, which leaves only the former for me—and the regulation Godblood Prison shirt Portia gave me after my shower does in fact come down to the bottom of my ass. It's been bothering me all day, but it's better than the grimy athletic shirt I got into a bar fight in before being arrested, which was ratty at the hem and covered in beer stains.

  "We can fix that." The woman at Vesuvius' heel speaks for the first time, her voice a smooth, deep melodic tone. "I have an outfit more befitting Death's daughter—something a warrior of mine left behind when she moved on to the great beyond. It looks like it would fit you, and it's a damned sight more comfortable than wearing one of those polyester shirts for days on end."

  Looking over at Garnet for her opinion, she shrugs and murmurs to me, "They don't exactly pickup our laundry on a daily basis around here. Well, unless you're Portia, that is. Most of the warriors have sweat-wicking clothes they wear for training, and suits of armor for the arena. You should probably take her up on her offer."

  "Also," Ferdinand adds, "the Godblood Prison shirts have trackers in them. Not that it matters much—no one gets out of here. But there's a reason why the other prisoners don't wear the regulation stuff."

  "And the guards just let that happen?"

  He shrugs. "I think they like knowing they can torture us for longer if we do escape. Every once and a while someone gets out to the parking garage, and they make a spectacle of it. I guess they enjoy the long hunt."

  Great, just great. I'm surrounded by sadists powered by Ares' gifts. It should've occurred to me that they might track us; if I'd removed my manacles with this shirt on, I would've been caught again in minutes.

  "Thanks," I tell the warrior woman. "I'll take you up on that offer."

  "Good. Follow me."

  She motions towards the women's showers. Striding towards her, I find myself standing next to Vesuvius, who for some reason has been watching me instead of joining his men in training. As my shoulder brushes up against him, he turns to me, and I stop involuntarily.

  Up close, the flecks of red-orange fire in his eyes are glowing, burning sparks. He radiates life and vitality from head to toe. I get the feeling if I drank of his little deaths, he would fuel me with life force for days. The hunger for it hollows me out in the middle.

  "You'll always be welcome in my training room," he tells me, a message that takes seconds to penetrate my brain, because all the blood flow in my body has rushed to other places. "Come whenever you'd like. And stay as late as you wish."

  He says the words as if they have another, much deeper meaning, but I can't seem to suss it out. "Okay."

  Releasing my arm, he strides into the training room and goes towards his warriors by the weapons wall. I have to shake myself off to forget the heat of his hand on my skin.

  "This way," the female warrior tells me. "My name is Lyonne."

  "Mora."

  "The outfit is back here."

  We stride into the wide-open women's showers, past the female guard stationed at the door. There are lockers in here as well, most of them half-open and in some state of disarray. Lyonne grimaces, then walks over to a storage cabinet against one wall and pulls a pile of black clothing out of it, a reverential expression on her face.

  "These belonged to Helena. She was magnificent." Walking over to me, she holds the folded-up set of clothing out with both hands beneath it palm-side up. I feel like I'm being given an offering. "Her finest battles were fought with these out. And some bracers and greaves as well as a thin breastplate, but those have already been taken by other warriors. You'll have to start with the cloth and work your way up to leather and metal."

  "Thanks," I tell her, taking the outfit awkwardly, "but I don't plan on fighting in the arena if I can help it."

  She nods sharply, her face full of grief. "A good plan, no doubt. Helena jumped at the opportunity to fight. She was certain she would win glory and approval from her father Ares if he saw her win in battle. In the end it cost her everything, and he never even spoke
her name."

  "You mourn her," I observe. "She must've been a close friend."

  "Very." She sighs. "Now, at least, I have Vesuvius. He reminds me of Helena in some ways. I've vowed to protect him from his own foolish bravery—not that I'm able to do much good. But before every arena battle, and even during training sessions like these, I etch what symbols I can in his armor."

  "Symbols?"

  "It's all I have." Lyonne holds up her cuffed wrists. "My mother Hestia didn't bestow much power on me, given she had little herself. I grew up in the Celestial Realms with her for a time, and the other godblood-blessed children were dismissive and cruel of my weakness. So I had to teach myself other types of power."

  It takes me a moment to see that her cuffs have been etched on the other side with faint, barely-visible lines. "Are those to weaken them?"

  "On the contrary, they strengthen them." At my confused expression, she explains boastfully, "I've caught many a blade in their grip. My arena armor is much more expansive than what I'm wearing now, and I've tied the cuffs and manacles into it with leather braces and ties. The Ares gold holds powerful magic inside of it, and with its help my armor is blessed."

  I whistle in appreciation. "Clever."

  "In here, you have to be." She motions towards my new outfit. "Let me know if you have any trouble trying it on. I'll be in the training room, selecting my blade for a match with Vesuvius."

  She leaves me alone in the shower room, standing in front of a tall, full-sized mirror that reflect my bedraggled self. I take it all in: my impressive non-mortal height, long shiny blue-black hair that reaches my elbows, dark eyes and tawny skin. The black Godblood Prison regulation shirt is big enough to hide my curves and muscles, just like the athletic shirt I wore to the bar, which was stolen from some gym bro I hooked up with.