Demigod Captive Page 6

  So I left the children's deaths behind. I drank of the men, mostly ones with rifles in their hands, even ones being carried back by the armies under their many flags. I tried not to think of the cruelty of this war, a war that stretched behind and in front of us in small skirmishes that took everything from a people whose souls were a part of the earth we walked on so carelessly. The New World was proving to be cruel in ways the Old World couldn't have imagined.

  Afterwards, it was hard to look at my mother the same. I saw her smile at the beauty of mortality and get drunk off imbibing it, all while a sickness took root inside me. It wasn't that what we did was wrong—the mortals were the ones killing each other—but that in a world without predators and plagues, my mother had found a new way to get her fill.

  At a certain point, long after I'd parted ways with her, my mother had a falling out with Ares. Now there's a strange tension between them. She's warned me many times in the past few years to stay well clear of the God of War—but for whatever reason, the other night she changed her mind and threw me to him.

  I just have to hope he doesn't look too quickly at his own prison or his god hunters' latest find. There has to be enough war across this godforsaken Earth to distract him from what's happening beneath his nose. Because if my mother really did offend him in some way, or worse, show him too much of what we're capable of, there's no worse place to wind up than in his arena.

  "How have you stayed clear of the arena?" I ask Portia in a low voice. "Other than your father, I mean. Surely someone has tried to recruit you for the fights. Isn't that how it works?"

  "You know so little," she says with scorn, as if it isn't my first day here—my first hour, even. "I'll obviously have to explain everything to you, but you're lucky I don't mind. It just means that you'll owe me favors later."

  Of course. This is one of Plutus' offspring I'm speaking to after all. No opportunity to create a debt will be ignored. "I'm not sure what I could possibly do for you, being so new and... weak myself, but I'll do what I can."

  "We'll see about that," she says, her eyes taking me in with surprising keenness. I get the feeling that beneath her primped, shallow exterior, Portia has the clever mind of a Wall Street investor. "As far as the arena goes—yes, they have tried to recruit me a few times. But I've kept the team leaders away from me by elevating champions. If you're able to send someone to fight in your stead, you don't have to go in yourself. Of course that requires a certain amount of wealth."

  Great. Something I don't have. A half-swallowed dumpling sticks in my throat. "Does everyone have to fight eventually?"

  "Not exactly, but most do. It's that or face the pits." She shudders. "Thank Dad it hasn't come to that for me, but it's been close a few times. I'd rather face those beasts in the arena than go into solitary. The ones that come out of there aren't quite right."

  I'm about to ask her more—about solitary, these arena beasts, and the team leaders—when a sudden shift in the air draws my eyes towards the cell blocks emptying out into the communal area. More godbloods are lining up for dinner, men and women alike, and some command attention in ways that make a shiver go up my spine.

  There he is again: the handsome, broad and muscular man I saw when the god hunters first dragged me here. His skin has a faint sheen of sweat on it, which he somehow makes hot instead of a turnoff. There's a cloth bandage wrapped around his right forearm, and he absentmindedly rubs his shaved head with a free hand.

  I swear, something about him almost glows. As soon as I figure out what favors I have to trade to get some kind of privacy—or maybe even if I never do—I'm going to peel his dark sweatpants off him and ride him like the stallion that he is.

  "You can't seriously be drooling at Vesuvius." Portia frowns at me, and I jerk my eyes back to her pretty face and delicate features. "He's a hotheaded idiot. Hephaetus forgot to shove a brain in his head when he made that one. You're better off with one of the guards, if dick is what you're craving, for whatever ungodly reason."

  Raising a brow at her, I ask, "Not a fan of dating on the inside?"

  "Not at all." She sniffs, tossing silky blonde hair over one shoulder and pushing her soup to the side. "None of these idiots are worth a damn. They're in here after all."

  So is she, an obvious fact I refrain from pointing out. With her wealth and privilege this prison probably feels more like a spa. I won't be shocked if her Daddy Warbucks manages to spring her before I get myself out of this place—especially since I plan on taking my time.

  "I wasn't planning on marrying him," I tell her, leaning close as the line to the food snakes by us, the presence of Vesuvius like the sun at my back. "Just looking for a little fun."

  "Suit yourself. Just know that the floor of the training room would probably shine brighter than the sun if you used a blacklight on it. Guess some people are into that, though."

  I have no idea what she's talking about, yet again, and I'm about to ask when I feel another tug of presence in the room. Turning towards the cell blocks, I feel a tingle of anticipation, expecting to see the dashing man with the colorful hair from earlier.

  Instead Damien walks in through the doors, dragging a prisoner behind him on golden glowing chains.

  A prisoner I recognize so well that my heart stops for a moment, and all I can do is stare in open-mouthed horror, my stomach churning like a stormy sea.

  Chapter Six

  He was dead. Is dead. I remember it vividly. I felt his life fade from my hands. Stared into his violet eyes as they lost their glow. There was no life left in him as I brushed my fingers through his hair one last time.

  I'm the daughter of Death. She named me Mortem, because she has a very literal sense of humor. When someone dies, I know it. A thready pulse on a heart monitor doesn't fool me. Mortality is my bread and butter.

  Yet here he is. Aleksander the Gruesome. Alek the Bold. Xander the Brave. The first boy I ever loved. First man I grew to hate. The Warmonger.

  He was his father's son.

  He died at his father's side.

  The father who beat and brutalized him.

  The father whose cruelty woke me to the world.

  I was sure I'd never see him again. That's what it is to be dead. Even for a half-immortal.

  Now he's being dragged into Godblood Prison, bruised and bloody, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, by a tired-looking man with gloves on, his redheaded partner at his side.

  If someone had a feather, you could knock me over with it right now. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't notice even if that sexy broad-shouldered Vesuvius grabbed me and smacked my lips with a kiss right now. Hell, I'm not even sure I would see his dick if he whipped it out and started jerking it in front of me.

  "Wow, look at that." Portia whistles low, staring at the same scene as me, but for different reasons. "Mars must be really, really mad to send that one back here."

  "Back here?" My voice comes out a shadow of itself; I have to clear my throat, eyes tracking Alek as Damien marches him to a cell. "What do you mean, back here?"

  Portia gives me a funny look, then sighs, rolling her eyes in my direction again. "Don't you know? That's Ares' eldest son." That part I knew, but she doesn't need to find out why or how, or any of it. "He angered him and was cast out of his inner circle sometime... oh, during the Great War. Or World War I, whatever the mortals are calling it these days, I can't keep up with current events."

  I have to bite my lip to keep from demanding she tell me more, all the details, now. "He sent him here? To Godblood Prison?"

  "Yeah. It was before my time, but apparently he showed up all... wrong. Like, in the head or something. Everyone was surprised when Ares sent him down into the arena. Apparently he was soon joined by some of his other brothers, who made the God of War mad at some point too, and they formed a fighting team. Until then the arena was a free for all—but I guess Ares' son was some kind of natural born general." She shrugs. "It's all old news, as far as this place goes."

  My mind r
aces. Is it possible that the whole time I thought Aleksander was dead, he was actually here? But no—that can't be. I felt his soul pass through his body. Saw it happen at my fingertips.

  But then my mother dragged me away, and insisted we leave the battlefield before Ares arrived and grew angry at us for trying to interfere...

  Portia continues, "I guess his dad released him at some point. Probably because he was about to overthrow everything. Wonder why he's back." She sounds like she doesn't care, only to suddenly sit up, a sparkle in her eyes that reminds me of the glint off a gold coin. "Maybe I can elevate him as my next champion. He's been here before—he could survive a few rounds. Enough to get Jasper off my back, that prick. Speaking of the devil."

  Her eyes flick towards the dining hall line, followed by a roll towards the ceiling. Glancing the same way, I startle a little, realizing that a new group of prisoners has arrived. I was so wrapped up in Aleksander's reappearance that I didn't notice time passing. I feel as if the earth itself tilted beneath me the moment I saw him, and I haven't come down from the adrenaline jolt yet. My heart is still beating fast enough that it feels like it might shatter my ribcage in two.

  Among the group of prisoners is the other man who caught my eye when I first came here, the lanky one with colorful, constantly changing hair. It takes a long moment for me to recognize that it's still him; he has a swirling tattoo on each of his biceps now, and dark eyes with dark hair. The scar on his ear is still the same, though, and there's something about the smooth way he walks and the arrogant tilt of his chin that's unmistakable.

  He looks my way, our eyes meeting across empty space, his gaze skipping past a dozen other godbloods to land on me. The smirk that curves his lips is haughty and confident. Tilting his head, he raises a brow at me, and I stare blankly back.

  If I weren't feeling so out-of-sorts, maybe I would get up, walk over to him, and flirt a little. Put my fingers on his shoulders. Drag my touch down his skin. But I'm still trembling and wrung out from seeing Aleksander.

  "My father will never change. This world will change to suit him. He'll see it all destroyed and never blame himself for its downfall."

  Shaking the memory off, I realize belatedly that Portia is hissing my name—and has been for a while, if the peeved-off expression she's wearing is any indicator.

  "Mora! First Vesuvius, now Jasper?" I turn towards her, stirring my dumpling soup idly. She's got such a tight grip on her spoon that it looks like her circulation is cut off from it. "I thought you didn't want to fight in the arena."

  "I don't," I murmur, yet again confused.

  "If that's the case, you should probably start trying to lay low around the team leaders." At my blank stare, she sighs and explains, "Vesuvius and Jasper lead the two biggest arena teams. Them and a few of those Bacchus idiots, but their teams are the strongest, with the longest rivalry. Keep looking at them all doe-eyed and you'll wind up dead because of them, just count on it."

  Great, just great.

  Out of all the godbloods in here, the three that have gotten most of my attention—and my admittedly growing lust—are a dead man and the two men whose notice I most wanted to escape.

  My radar must be broken. Usually I don't find trouble with my loins this quickly. If I'm not careful I'll wind up screwing one of those thrice-damned god hunters, or getting the attention of Ares himself.

  I have to stay away from the hot, mysterious Vesuvius and Jasper, or I won't ever make it out of this place.

  So I turn my attention fully to my chicken and dumplings soup, even though a little internal radar inside me manages to track both of the men out of the corners of my eyes. I'm also on high alert for another sighting of Aleksander, so when Damien and Kayla leave the men's cell block without him, I feel something inside me droop. They leave without much fanfare, though Damien does briefly glance in my direction, his expression inscrutable, collar stiff against his neck and gloves pulled up to his long black sleeves.

  I'm starting to think that it was all a fever dream.

  Dead demigods don't come back to life, after all—as far as I know. As far as I hope I know. So how...

  I almost wonder if it wasn't him. Surely there would be a commotion if Ares' eldest son was brought here. Alek always commanded attention everywhere he went.

  It was him, wasn't it? Portia even said that it was. I'd recognize him anywhere.

  He didn't look at me, though. Then again he was too injured to look at much of anyone or anything. His eyes were so swollen over that I couldn't even see the startling hue of purple in his irises.

  The first time he looked at me with banked heat in his gaze, I felt a hunger like I'd never known before. His hair was long and flowing, his bronzed skin warm from the summer sun. There was always a glisten on him—sweat, oil, or even dirt looked good on his muscular form.

  When he spoke, entire crowds fell into hushed silence. Men and women alike went into a stunned stupor. Soldiers raised their swords, spears, and guns to him.

  I could see him standing in the middle of a Byzantium army, commanding words falling from his full lips, his thighs astride a warhorse who whinnied and kicked its hooves. He made me wish for a set of paints to capture his likeness on canvas. And for a chance to tear his clothes off and mount him, no matter who his father was or what might happen if we dared to break the tension between us.

  No, it had to be him. I could never mistake another prisoner for Aleksander, no matter the resemblance. He always had a presence to him. Whatever is going on, it must involve the gods—and their motives are never purely good.

  If he's alive, it changes everything.

  Including what I thought I knew about Death.

  "—so anyway, there went that particular warrior, and, hey, you're not even listening, are you?" Portia annoyance jerks me back to the present. "I was giving you arena tips, since you seem hellbent on getting involved with the team leaders. But I guess you don't want them. You must already know everything you need to know."

  I bite back a sigh and the urge to slap her. Whoever chose to put me with Portia has a sense of humor or a deep well of sadism, because I couldn't imagine someone more my polar opposite. Wealth has never mattered to me—money and death, for all their dancing, never quite meet. No mortal I've feasted on has ever longed for more time with their bank account balance, though plenty have died because of what they lacked.

  It's clear that Portia's life has revolved almost entirely around what she has, what she wants, and what wealth can do for her. I have to wonder how it is that she's here in the first place—maybe her father Plutus, for all his influence, was unable to keep her out of prison. Or maybe he was suffering under the delusion that she'd become a better not-a-person in here.

  He's a fool if so. A cage never made someone better. Even the mortals know that when they punish their criminals, none of them come out the other side as better people.

  I'll have to keep on her good side if I want to know more about this place—at least until I make other contacts. Aleksander, once he's well enough to leave his cell, could be one of them. There must be others, some godbloods who aren't Bacchus' drunken offspring or Ares' warmongering soldiers.

  Scanning the common area, I look for signs of them: women with the full hips of Aphrodite, lean hunters who must be the fruit of Artemis' womb, a few shiny offspring of Nike, and others whose origin I can't quite place.

  Vesuvius, of course, must be the son of the God of Fire, Hephaestus himself. The red hair and glowing warmth in his eyes gives him away. Harder to place is Jasper—there isn't a God of Shapeshifting, though there are plenty of gods who have changed form at will. Zeus, long dead centuries ago, couldn't have sired him—but maybe one of his sons did, making Jasper a rare quarter-blood demigod. Most of them turn out human, with a bit of a twist for flavor, but every once and a while a godblood has a child with a mortal who inherits their powers.

  Demigods can only reproduce with humans. Two godbloods have never had children together, or
if they have, the gods have buried the knowledge. We're like mules—when we mate with each other, no offspring are produced. Given how horny and drunken Bacchus' many children are, it's probably for the best. They would have covered half the globe with godbloods by now if their seed was that potent.

  My eyes find a group of godbloods at the end of the dining hall line, loosely mulling around, none of them quite like the other. While most of the prisoners here seem to keep with their fellow half-siblings, congregating according to the god that produced them, these are all unplaceable. One has golden skin that must make him a son of Plutus, like Portia, but the others are just strange: a short girl with pixie-like white hair, an impossibly tall man with a dark complexion and yellow eyes, and two redheads who resemble identical twins, except that one is clearly female and the other male.

  They look like the kind of group that might welcome me into their fold: odd ones out, with godblood that doesn't predispose them to being warriors or leaders. What's more, if I set myself among them and act as weak as possible, no one will want me to fight in the arena.

  And while none of the misfits are as alluring as Jasper or delicious as Vesuvius, I could make do with an opposite gender twin sandwich to sate my hunger for death. It might even be enough to give me the ability to remove these wretched cuffs, then move on to the manacles after that.

  Licking my lips, I turn back to Portia and dare to ask her another question. "Who are those prisoners there—the four at the back of the line? I can't quite pace them."

  "The losers?" She scowls at me scornfully, and shakes her head. "No one you need to bother knowing about unless you plan on making a sacrifice in the arena. They'll be beast meat before you know it."

  "That one looks like a brother of yours."