Demigod Captive Page 9

  "Seriously?" Ferdinand snorts dismissively, just like his sister often does. "How would he see her powers in action—stab a guard and have her listen to his dying wish? That's not realistic."

  "With Jasper it is," Garnet says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. "You know how he gets sometimes. He's like a little mortal kid aiming a magnifying glass at bugs in the sun just to watch them burn alive. Death already fascinates him. Death's daughter must be doubly fascinating to a guy like him. Don't be shocked if he tries something else to test you, Mora—and don't believe everything he says."

  I nod at her, frowning a little at this news. Jasper seems clever, yes, but cruel—well, I didn't see it, but maybe that's just my inner horny side fooling me. He wouldn't be the first impossibly handsome, alluring man I've been fooled by because of sexual attraction. There was even a woman in the 1930s who convinced me she was an heiress and brought me to her bed only to rope me into a long con that nearly got me arrested for bank robbery.

  Sure, I'd robbed the banks with her. I just didn't think we would get caught. Probably because all the orgasms made me stupid.

  Knowing me, I'll try my best not to repeat past mistakes, yet somehow wind up failing completely.

  Unless I get out of this place before then.

  Even though that means my godblood burning in my veins again and my ever-present hunger for death returning.

  Even though the only thing waiting for me in the outside world is my same old problems and my mother's distant disapproval.

  Staying in means being forced to fight in the arena. It means eventually getting Ares' attention. And, worst of all, having him remember what I did to him—and why he loathes my mother.

  I have to get out, even if I'm not sure the outside world will be any better than this, or freer for me at all.

  The question is: which would I choose, if I had that ability?

  My fingers curl around one of the golden cuffs, and I weigh my options, unable to decide, in the end, what I truly want.

  * * *

  Laying awake in my bunk bed, I listen to Portia's surprisingly pig-like snores and fiddle with the gold of my cuffs. There's death in them alright; every magical item has some of it. Ares' gold has more than most, given their creator.

  If I drain a little bit of it, it'll sate my appetite.

  If I drain too much, the cuffs will stop working.

  That means unleashing all of my powers—or at least most of them. The heavy manacles around my ankles will still keep much of my power at bay. And worse, as soon as my powers are unleashed, the hunger will come back.

  Godblood burning in my veins.

  Death rising up inside me, begging to be fed.

  All those moments rush through my mind: the twelve-year-old girl who shivered and cried as she passed of sepsis, a village elder in West Africa who was bit by a snake, a young pregnant woman hit by a car in Iran, and all the countless children killed by bombs and drones. Soldiers young enough to cry as they died slowly and in pain. The many countless dead in work camps and boarding schools, from Natives in the Americas to aboriginals in Australia. Every Jewish victim of the Holocaust, the Roma Genocide, disabled children tortured to death by those who didn't understand them.

  They died too soon, all of them, old and young alike. With so many around them who mourned them—or worse, with no one alive to remember they ever lived. There were no final sighs, no moments where they gave in to Death. She came along and took them whether they wanted to go or not, because when it's your time, nothing can stop her.

  If I undo my cuffs and the hunger comes back, the part of her that's inside me will come to life.

  The desire to drain life force as it leaves a dying body and life passes over to death.

  And now I know something terrible, a horrible thing I dared not to admit to myself: I can stop the death if I truly want to. I did it for Omar. I could do it again.

  How can I embrace that side of me now that I know I have the power to choose other options?

  I can't survive without eating mortal life force. I need some kind of death to fuel my immortal side. The little deaths that sexual release produce won't be enough to sustain me indefinitely.

  Once, when I was young, before so much loss of life changed me, I embraced being like my mother. I reveled in war zones and rode through carnage with Ares' sons, feasting my soul until it was full, then filling my body with food, drink, and sex. Those days blur together so much that it's hard to pull them apart. I can't even remember most of the mortals whose lives I fed from.

  Freedom means becoming that person again, or starving myself until there's nothing left. There's no way to get out of these cuffs and manacles without embracing the worst parts of me. The parts I've tried so hard to move beyond. Who I wanted to never become again.

  The Mora who feasted on the dead would have never saved Omar. She wouldn't have even looked at him twice. People were nothing to her. Lives were meaningless.

  I rub my fingers around the gold of the cuffs, feeling the death inside them, and wonder who I am beneath their thick metal. Before I stumbled out of a bar in the middle of the night and made my way to Omar, I would've said that I was a mess doing the best I could. Now I don't know the answer anymore.

  Eventually I fall asleep, the cuffs still in place, my godblood silent in my veins, nothing more than mortal with only simple mortal worries.

  Chapter Nine

  I could live like this forever, I realize as Portia and I follow our cellblock guard through the twisting hallways. It didn't occur to me until I woke up this morning, but I don't have to escape just because I can escape. As long as I stay away from Ares and the arena, this could be the rest of my life.

  There were no nightmares last night. I didn't wake up in the darkness to my godblood surging against my skin, hot and prickly. My body doesn't feel hollow with the need to devour life force anymore. I'm no longer forced to use my powers in order to drain the celestial from my half-mortal body and feel comfortable inside my own skin.

  In short, for the first time in my life since I turned my back on Death, I'm alive. I can feel good again. I can even imagine my future: time spent out in the yard exercising, more dumpling soup, listening to Portia prattle on about her feud with her brother. As long as I keep my head low and stay out of trouble, this could be it for me.

  Maybe captivity has been the answer all along.

  "You seem cheery," Portia says, giving me an annoyed look. "Especially for someone wearing two-day-old clothes who hasn't had a shower."

  Giving myself a sniff, I shrug. "I don't smell that bad."

  "Just because you can't smell it, doesn't mean I can't smell it." She frowns, her petit lips turning into a little button. "You're mortal now, Mora. As long as you have that Ares' gold against your skin you'll sweat like a mortal and stink like a mortal. So do me a favor and take a shower after our yard time."

  Amused, I tell her, "Sure, whatever you want, boss."

  "Hmph." She crosses her arms, walking faster to pull ahead of me in line. "Some people. I swear, if Father doesn't get me out of here soon..."

  Tuning her mutterings out, I take note of the route we're taking out of the cells and through the back of the prison to the great outdoors. Our straight-backed, impossibly tall female guard unlocked our cell doors this morning, and now as she leads us through hallways with a slight incline towards the surface, she gives us a series of warnings.

  "Time outside in the yard is a privilege, not a necessity. It will be revoked if it's abused. That includes trying to escape, attempting to fight, starting a fight, fighting of any kind, any movement towards the fence, any attempt to remove your cuffs or manacles, and any abuse of privilege at all. Your cellblock is permitted thirty minutes of outside time today, no more. Your next block of yard time will be one week from today.

  "If anything goes wrong," she sweeps us with her dark eyes, face brooding and serious, "I won't hesitate to use my powers to subdue and control you."

 
Well, I'm starting to feel more like a prisoner now. It didn't quite hit me, what with all the casual clothing and nice food. Maybe I was wrong about sticking around here for a while. Then again, it's not like I ever really liked going outside during the day—the night is more my time. Death thrives in the shadowed places the sunset creates.

  Eventually we come to a large commercial-sized elevator, and our guard takes the time to chain our cuffs and manacles together, while a second guard who was guarding the rear of the line keys a code into a keypad by the elevator. I try to crane my head around to see it, but as I do so Portia leans in towards me and says, "They change it every day."

  "You know that?"

  "I know a lot about this place," she comments, watching the tall guard work her way down the line and come to us. "Just keep your head down today. They always get on edge on yard day. I don't know why we even get it anymore, but I guess some of the elemental demigods need the sunlight to survive."

  "Ares is a finicky warden."

  "You don't know the half of it. I swear the rules around here are made up day by day. They change more quickly than the codes on the doors out of this place."

  As we're herded onto the elevator, it occurs to me that maybe there's a reason for all the inconsistent rules and privileges: it keeps us all confused. We're allowed to wear whatever clothes we want, and eat nice food, but at any minute the on-edge godmarked guards in this elevator might zap us with their electric batons or "subdue" us with their powers. Without defined rules, Ares and his followers can make decisions on a whim—and no one can question him, not even the gods who parented all of us.

  It takes a long time for the elevator to reach the surface. My chains were tightened on enough that my wrists start to chafe, and I shift my weight uncomfortably. Glancing around, I take note of all the godbloods in here, and try to sort them into categories.

  Three daughters of Artemis, with their short hair and tawny skin, wearing deerskin and fur in their clothes. Two women laughing in the corner and sneaking a flask back and forth who must be related to Bacchus in some way. An impossibly pale, white-skinned girl with ice blue eyes and dark blue hair who may be related to one of the elemental gods; most likely Boreus, God of Winter, who rules over the North Wind.

  There are a few more I can't place, though. One has multicolored hair and is snoozing in the back of the elevator, head tipped against the wall; a second has a dark, almost bluish complexion and black hair long enough to brush up against her hips. A woman in the corner with large muscles and a cleft in her chin reminds me enough of Kratos, the God of Strength, to make me think she might be a rare daughter of his, while a tanned girl wearing nothing but a string bikini must either be completely nuts of a daughter of the Sun Goddess, Helius. Her skin practically glows, and she's so excited as the elevator reaches the surface that she pushes towards the front doors.

  "Back!" The guard by the doors snaps at her, whipping out her electric baton and igniting it. "I swear to Ares I'll leave marks on you this time if you don't give me space, Jana."

  Cringing back, the golden glowing girl nods and shivers. Alarmed, I spot a bruise across the back of her neck in the shape of four fingers, and narrow my eyes at the guard. Feeling my glance, she looks over her shoulder and meets my eyes head-on.

  I frown. She narrows her gaze. "Got a problem, new girl? What's your name?"

  The first guard answers, "That's Mora, the Death one. Might have to teach her a lesson today." Her eyes skim towards me, and I feel a churning nausea in my stomach as I realize there are no rules for them at all. "There's Ares' gold in the fence outside, newbie, and an electrified net overhead to keep you lot from getting any ideas. So don't think someone is going to come and save you. Especially dear old Dad."

  "It's Mom," I tell her, unable to keep myself from mouthing off, even a little. "Death is a woman. I'm surprised that didn't occur to you, but then again—"

  Portia elbows me in the stomach. Hard. Coughing, I glare at her and curl my palms over my middle. As I do, the elevator doors slide open, and the guards step out to face us, batons at their hips and electrified.

  Over their shoulders, I see the most pathetic excuse for a "yard" ever. Thirty feet long at most, it's just a sad gathering of grass, dirt, and mud positioned in the middle of three tall white brick buildings that must be the aboveground part of the prison complex. There are no trees or bushes, no birds or bees. Even Manhattan has better green space to offer than this. Hell, even the shittiest parts of the Bronx have trees.

  "One at a time," the guards say, sliding their eyes to me and smiling at each other. The tall one, who I was starting to like, adds, "Be thankful you get to outside at all."

  Right. Prison. I'm in a prison. The chicken and dumpling soup fooled me. Or maybe I fooled myself, wanting so badly to be able to have everything: to get away from my mother and my own reflection, have peace of mind and body, and forget who I am for a moment. I'm stupid to have forgotten. This isn't a retreat or a spa.

  The sun-loving girl goes out into the yard first, making a beeline around the guards with worry in her eyes. Her chains drag along the ground. I find myself wondering how a daughter of the sun survives at all underground.

  A few more go. Then it's time for me and Portia. My cellmate steps forward first.

  "Don't fight it. Just go along, no matter what."

  Portia strides out into the yard before I can ask her to explain what she means. As I step out of the elevator, though, it quickly becomes clear.

  It starts with one blow to my middle. Then another to my shoulder. As I fall to my knees, my neck is next, and my back, my sides...

  Over and over again, the guards electrify me with their damned batons. The current runs through me, hotter than my godblood at its worst, more painful than anything I ever felt when I was a demigod before Ares gold took my powers away. My teeth clatter together and my jaw clenches with pain and fury. Current pulls me and pushes me, tortures me cell by cell.

  I can't move. I can't think. My mouth is open. I'm sure I'm screaming. But the sound of my own voice never even reaches my ears. It's pain and torture without an end in sight.

  Then all at once the pain abates. I gasp and sob, shivers going through me. My insides feel like liquid and my skin is on fire.

  "Get up." The guard kicks me in the side with her boot. "Or we'll start again."

  Somehow I find the energy to stand. It's anger that motivates me more than anything. Anger and the desire to kill—an intense, overwhelming desire that I haven't felt in nearly a century.

  If I didn't have these manacles on I would show this bitch what Death's only offspring can do.

  Instead I jerk myself around, shaking and stumbling, and force my body to move out into the yard. Portia is watching me, waiting against one of the fences, her eyes wry and her arms tightly clenched in trembling fingers.

  "I told you," she says, voice soft. "Our guard, Tia, isn't exactly the kindest around here, and the rest are nearly as bad as her. Survival means avoiding their attention. Keep your head down and your mouth closed. This is Godblood Prison. Whatever happens here, whatever the celestials know goes on inside this compound, they don't give a fuck unless it affects them. You're not a demigod anymore—you're a mortal. Start getting used to it."

  Sliding to the ground, I lean up against the fence beside her and close my eyes in shame and exhaustion. I can still feel the live current buzzing through my body, burning in ways my godblood never could. Suddenly I wonder if this was what my mortal father felt like, what every mortal feels like every day: weak, helpless, and afraid.

  * * *

  Even hours later, I can still feel the electricity buzzing through me. It was worse than the night the god hunters caught me. As if my mortality, created by Ares gold, has made me impossibly weak.

  So when Tia, our guard, comes by to take us to lunch, I flinch. And she laughs, the sound of her voice cruel and hollow.

  I hate her.

  And I hate myself for reacting.
/>   Even more, I hate how powerless I feel. It's a strange sensation. I didn't realize that giving up the burning godblood in my veins or constant thirst for death would also mean feeling so weak and hollow. Even my mother, Death herself, never made me feel as small as this god hunter of a guard.

  It makes me want to kill her even more than before.

  "Here for another round?" I ask, sweating even as I mouth off. "I won't scream too loud this time. Promise."

  But Tia just smirks. "You look terrified. Finally tame, are we? Good. Maybe now you'll see that no matter what whore opened her legs to make you, in here you're nobody. Nothing. And Mommy isn't coming to save you."

  I have to turn away to hide my reaction to that, because I have the feeling that if I laugh in the guard's face she'll electrocute me again. I've never called Death mommy, and I've certainly never expected her to save me from, well, anything. Least of all her selfish bullshit and the curse her blood made run through my veins.

  Portia heads out of the cell first, and I follow her. After the incident in the yard this morning, she's been unusually quiet. If I didn't know her better—and I think by now I have her pretty much completely figured out—I'd say that she was upset by my being attacked.

  But I don't think that's it. Really I think it's far more likely that Plutus cut off some of her privileges. She's wearing the same dress as yesterday, without a new one appearing at all, and when I asked her if I could borrow any of her clothes after my morning shower she just threw a regulation black Godblood Prison shirt at me and rolled her eyes dramatically.

  Now begrudgingly wearing the shirt with my frayed, worn-to-death athletic shorts, I walk behind her and study her from head to toe. Her posture is still that rigid, straight-backed haughtiness you'd expect from a daughter of Wealth, and she still lifts her chin, rolls her eyes, and snorts derisively as we pass by prisoners who have apparently earned her derision or disdain. Despite all that, I can't help but notice a few new habits she's picked up, like the way she runs her fingers along the edge of her manacles and twitches every time one of the guards raises their voices.