Demigod Captive Read online

  I wonder dimly if this is what mortals feel when they go without a night's rest.

  It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the bright overhead light. We're in a parking garage, surrounded by identical rows of black vans with dark tinting, and similar dark SUVs. It's all very we-are-serious-types in a way that makes me want to laugh, if I had the energy for laughter. Of course Ares would outfit his little operation with the latest in four wheel technology. I bet all his squad have backup cameras too.

  Kayla takes the front position, and Damien the rear—though not my rear—as they lead me towards an elevator on the opposite side of the parking garage. The chrome doors open shortly after she pushes the button, and I'm escorted inside, watching with no small amount of humor as Damien pushes the button for the lowermost floor.

  "Huh." The redhead looks at me sideways, curious. "She's smiling."

  I actually laugh a little, which seems to annoy Damien, based on the way his dark brows crease further. "It's just so stereotypical! Where did War get his inspiration for this place from, an episode of NCIS? Next you'll tell me there's a penthouse office on the top floor where he drops by to make all his plans and bark orders at all of you."

  They're silent, which tells me all I need to know. A little snort leaves my nose. "He used to be more inventive than this back in the days. I may not be as old as my mother, but I remember a time when war was war. Mortal. Human. Messy. Full of blood and guts. Now you humans give the orders from far away and watch the human suffering from your tiny screens at home. Ares conducts his business the same way. I bet he doesn't even visit his little prison."

  Kayla comments, "It's not so little." I glance in her direction, and she shrugs self-consciously. "Just saying. The aboveground building may be modern, but the prison is pretty old. Maybe even older than you. It's been expanded on a few times. There's even—"

  "Hush," Damien censors her, sending her a quelling look. "Don't tell the prisoner any information she doesn't need."

  Ah, so they don't want me to know too much about the layout of the prison, or what it contains. That's interesting information. There wouldn't be so many secrets about it if no one had ever escaped. If other demigods have gotten out, that means I will as well—on my own timetable, of course.

  The elevator comes to a stop and briefly jiggles us. My stomach twists; hunger, fear, or curiosity—who knows which. Part of me is expecting the doors to open up and reveal a wall-to-wall torture rack. On the other hand, maybe the whole operation is as modern as the parking garage, and they'll put me in some chrome and glass box with a dozen security cameras pointing at me.

  Of course, the doors open to a kind of lobby.

  A guard sits behind a large desk. There's a set of turnstiles on either side of him, and metal detectors, as well as scanners that resemble the ones mortals shuffle through awkwardly at airports. On the other side of them, down a white hallway with dingy linoleum floors, is a set of bars that no doubt lead to the cells they'll put me in.

  I can hear a distant wail. Damien tightens the chains wrapped around my torso as we shuffle awkwardly towards the desk.

  "Hurry up. Dawdling won't get you out of this."

  Snarking at him, I point out, "I could move faster if I weren't wrapped in chains."

  "Try."

  "It's just that this is harder than walking in heels... also, my hair is caught in the chains."

  "Cry more, godblood. You think because you're a woman you'll get out of this?" He seems to have hardened himself off to me—and not in the way I'd hoped to make him hard. "I've put plenty of vicious, powerful, murderous female godbloods behind bars without a single regret."

  "Plus," Kayla says cheerily, "you're the daughter of Death. Turning you in will net us quite the cred. No way this one is passing that opportunity up."

  Damien shoots her an annoyed look, and I get the feeling she's let something slip yet again. If her partner needs to turn me in for some kind of approval from the higher ups, that seems to suggest that he's not in good standing now. That, or he's eager for a promotion—from street grunt to lead godblood torturer, who knows.

  But it's good information to have. If there are ranks around here, that means there are levers to pull. Mortals are easily manipulated when they're seeking power. They turn on each other almost as quickly as the gods.

  "Who do we have here?" The guard looks me up and down as we approach the desk. His eyes land on my breasts and he smirks jauntily, the jackass. "Quite the figure on her."

  "Careful," Kayla warns, "she might eat your rotting flesh. Or kill you with a look, chains or no."

  I roll my eyes. If only being the daughter of Death meant I could kill people with my eyes. I can think of a few who would be six feet under now.

  Damien tells the guard, "This is Mortem."

  "Mora," I correct, like it matters what they call me in here. "And yes, my mother did literally name me after herself. In Latin. Because she's maudlin."

  My mortal father had another name he called me. But it's been lost to memory for centuries, buried and forgotten beneath the many moments I've had with my mother, which have superseded all of that. Sometimes I dream that I can hear his voice calling my name, but when I wake I can't remember what it is.

  At times I wonder if my mother took the name from me.

  Shaking the thought off, I watch with curious eyes as the guard at the front desk hands four golden manacles over to Damien. Like thick bracelets, they hum and whirr with magic—the same kind of magic in the chains, only many times over. There are symbols carved into their surfaces that must hold some of Ares' godhood in them. I can practically feel the heat of war itself coming off of them.

  "These," Damien says as he turns to me, "are your manacles. They're connected to the rock that surrounds us, which has threads of gold running through it. As long as you have them on, not only will your godblood be subsumed, but you won't be able to leave this prison without agonizing pain. And trust me when I say you don't want that."

  He has Kayla help him fit them to my ankles, pushing up the existing chains to make room for them. I try flexing my foot to make extra room, but Damien just gives me a knowing look and pushes it back into place. While his partner unwinds the chains around my legs, he efficiently puts the second set of manacles around my wrists, tightening them until I can feel the pressure of the magicked metal against my skin.

  They're far more powerful than the chains. As they go on, I feel a little sliver of despair run through me. I may not be able to drain the magic out of these—some things I should've considered when I was captured.

  Then Kayla finishes unwinding the chains from my body, and I feel a little bit of relief. There's death inside these manacles; I can feel it, now that my godblood isn't being completely overwhelmed by Ares' chains. It'll take ages, and a lot of power, but I should be able to remove them.

  All I need is enough death energy to get me through this.

  "Follow me." Damien attaches a short chain between the two manacles and tugs on it, jerking me behind him roughly. "It's time for you to see your new home for the foreseeable future."

  Chapter Four

  "Wow, what beautiful accommodations. We're what, a hundred feet underground? And there's Ares gold going through the walls. You must be concerned about people escaping." I whistle, doing my best impressed voice and waggling my eyebrows.

  Damien doesn't seem amused—at all.

  "This place makes me feel fancy. Maybe I should go by Lady Death from now on. Unless that's too much." I pitch my voice into a British accent. "Tea time at two, cheerio."

  Kayla raises her brows at me. "What is that, a London accent? Because if so, you sound a little Irish. Try again."

  "Ta-ta. Why I do say, this is almost as nice as my Uncle Lord Farquad's castle."

  "You could try Southern instead."

  "I'ma goin' to the flea market to marry mah cousin."

  "That's just condescending."

  "Really? I thought I was spot on."
r />   "To Southerners, I mean. Though go ahead—I'm from Scarsdale, after all. Make fun of them all you want. Damien over here might not appreciate it, though."

  "Oh yeah? Is he from Bumfuck, Nowhere? That would explain the inferiority complex."

  Cutting his eyes at me, Damien tugs on my manacles. I manage not to stumble forward—I've gotten to the point where I can predict when he's going to yank on me. There's a certain kind of tension to his mouth and chin. If I try hard enough, I bet I can give him a wrinkle named after me.

  "This isn't a game," he says, as he pulls me down a hallway carved into stone, towards what will surely be my cell. "You'll see soon enough, the first time you're put in the arena. Even godbloods like you bleed."

  I'm well aware that I bleed. Red and everything. I've seen it plenty. It's just that bleeding doesn't tend to stick to us godbloods—the celestial stuff running through our veins puts a stop to that kind of mortal nonsense.

  What I don't get is what he's talking about. "Arena?"

  "Where the battles happen," Kayla says casually. "You'll see once a team picks you. If you get picked. If you're not so weak they refuse to recruit you. Though then again, you are the daughter of Death."

  So I've heard. My mind keeps going over what she and Damien have been saying, though. Everything I've heard about Godblood Prison mentioned that Ares runs it, and that more godbloods die inside its walls than ever make it out. Detention here doesn't exactly stick to the Geneva Conventions. The God of War keeps any demigods who step out of line behind bars until he feels like releasing them, which in a god's lifetime basically amounts to never.

  But I haven't heard of an arena. Or... teams? It sounds like some gladiator bullshit. What I do know is this: Death doesn't fight, and neither does her daughter. If my mother taught me anything, it's that we keep our powers well-hidden from our fellow gods, demi and otherwise. The last thing we need is the attention.

  "Let's not talk about the arena or anything involving it," Damien says, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. "You know the level ones aren't supposed to know about it."

  Kayla snorts. "You really think they'll keep her at a level one for any time at all? She's half-Death, not one of Bacchus' many, many drunken sons and ditzy daughters. I see her moving up the ranks the moment we place her in a cell."

  As she finishes her sentence, we wind up at the end of the hallway, where a large steel door is set into a solidly thick wall. There's thick, no doubt bulletproof window in the door, set at about eye height.

  On the other side I can see them.

  Demigods.

  Gathering in a common room with steel tables.

  Wearing golden manacles and cuffs around their wrists.

  Milling around, posturing, pacing, lounging, and of course, eating and drinking. None of them are wearing orange jumpsuits or black and white stripes—gods have never cared much for uniformity. I see a lot of black and grey, though, as well as a few standouts with color in their outfits.

  Through this window they're just a few blurs and vague figures. Once I'm on the other side, they'll be all around me: godbloods just like me. Abandoned by their powerful parents. Stuck in a cage underground with each other. Ares' metal around their wrists and ankles, and godstuff in the rock around them to keep their powers at bay.

  It's not hard to imagine them beating each other to a pulp in an arena of some sorts. I should've seen this coming. Ares is the God of War, after all; even the bombs and drones that have become ubiquitous right above our heads aren't enough to sate his incredible appetite.

  Kayla suggested the weak don't get chosen to fight in the arena, though. If that tracks, it should be easy enough to avoid that fate—I'm basically starving right now. And without my godblood powers, I don't have any physical strength to back my godhood up. I'm not a daughter of Ares or Nike, after all. There have to be half-gods on the other side of that door who are as tall and broad as the side of a barn.

  "Don't look so queasy," Kayla says, taking my elbow and the chain on my handcuffs as Damien steps forward to unlock the door. "It's not so bad on that side. Not like these SHUs up here. Behave and you might actually find out it's not so bad."

  She jerks her head back over her shoulder, and I glance down the hallway we just walked through with queasiness deep in my stomach. I didn't pay attention as we passed the rooms, with their thick doors and tiny slots in the wall; I just assumed they were... well, I wasn't thinking at all.

  But of course there would be cells for solitary confinement down here in Godblood Prison. A place to punish us further. There were godbloods like me in all of those cells, no doubt, but I didn't even hear their voices.

  No doubt they've given up on crying out for mercy or freedom.

  Because none will ever come.

  So I add another goal to my list: I'll weaken my manacles to free myself, make sure anyone in charge of this arena thinks I'm too weak to fight, and do whatever I can to stay under the radar. I don't want to be thrown into one of those dark, empty cells. There can't be a worse torture than being so alone.

  Then again, maybe I'd be fine in solitary. I'm not exactly a social person. I'm not a person at all. For all I know I'd prefer that kind of being alone—I've come close to it plenty of times in my half-immortal life. If the ruffians on the other side of this door turn out to be nightmares, maybe I'll get myself thrown in solitary and take it from there.

  "Here you are, Mora." My name is strange rolling from Damien's lips as he opens the door to the general cellblock and turns towards me, his eyes taking me in with a single judgmental sweep. "Welcome to your new home. Let's get going—we should show you to your quarters."

  Damien has a resigned tone in his voice. The crowd on the other side of the door is starting to crane their heads in our direction, but for some reason I can't take my eyes off the godmarked asshole in front of me.

  There's something stirring in his gaze, something strange looking right at me. I only just noticed right now that his eyes are a sea-foam green. The longer I look at him, though, the more his expression closes off, until he's jerking his chin towards the cellblock and tugging his black gloves further up his wrists.

  I make him nervous for some reason. Not just because I'm the daughter of Death and I say filthy things to him. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get to figure out why.

  "This way," Damien says, taking my chains from Kayla and pulling me behind him into the wide communal room in the middle of all the cells. "Time to meet your new neighbors. I'm sure you'll fit in well."

  Almost every eye in the room is on me as the god hunters bring me through. There are four metal tables throughout the room, every one of them bolted to the concrete floor. A number of godbloods are lounging at them with food and drink in front of them, while others mill through the room, leaning against pillars and staring at me noticeably.

  I feel like a rack of meat on display.

  Without the door and the tiny window in the way, it's hard to miss the fact that everyone here is at least a little bit of a god. The men are tall and broad, muscular and handsome. The women are so beautiful they basically glow from head to toe. Unlike mortals, with all their flaws, the godbloods all around me are perfect—at least physically.

  Inside is darkness and torment, though. I can see it in their faces: the anger, madness, self-harm and violence. One of the men at a table near me has dark skin criss-crossed with scars from knives and cigarettes, maybe half of them at most caused by others. A beautiful, fiery-looking redheaded woman curled up against one of the pillars is tearing at her beautiful hair, plucking eyebrows off and rocking back and forth.

  Around us, thick bars enclose the cells, and walls separate them from each other. Stairs lead to a second set of cells that surround us. Godbloods lounge up there too, leaning against the railing and staring down at the communal room.

  They're all physically perfect and magnetizing enough to catch any mortal's eye, but a few in particular draw my attention. Like a moon revolving around a planet, I find
my face turning to them.

  Down here among the tables, an impossibly tall, broad man with dark skin watches me boldly. His improbably ginger hair stands out against his dark skin, which is probably why he's shaved it down so short it's barely visible. Parallel Vs zig-zag across the sides of his scalp. Even from this distance, I can see the red-orange spot that glows in his otherwise green-grey eyes. Being a demigod, I have the ability to see the unusual glowing color—just like he no doubt sees the burnishing gold of my own godblood eyes.

  He has a dark, intense expression in his eyes, and is wearing an outfit made of close-fitting flexible black fabric that must be some kind of athletic wear. Bulging muscles stretch against the shoulders of his shirt and thighs of his pants. All in all, he looks like he could hold my head in his palms and crush it like a melon.

  I want to strip him naked and climb him, then drink his orgasm like it's the last death I'll ever taste.

  Another man, one leaning against the railing above us, is all that can make me drag my eyes away from the broad redhead. Unlike the brooding muscular man down here, the one upstairs has a jaunty smile on his face and a secretive look in his mischievous eyes.

  His hair is a bright blue that curls around his ears and turns into a shimmering silver in a blink of my eyes. Though he's one of the more muscular guys here, his distinctively pale skin hides quite a bit of his muscle definition. He's wearing a graphic T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of tennis shoes that have been painted on with cartoon characters. As I meet his eyes, I'm struck by the fact that I can't tell what color they are—green, blue, grey, or some mixture of the above. They seem to shift in front of me.

  Even the myriad of black ink tattoos on his arms and neck swirl and shift before my eyes. He must be a shapeshifter or illusionist of some sort, with powers that run through him strong enough to be apparent despite the Ares manacles around his ankles. His wrists aren't cuffed, though—just like the muscular ginger man, I'm realizing. Maybe that's why he can shapeshift; half his powers are free for some reason.