1. The Young God Who Steals Souls
1
THE YOUNG GOD WHO STEALS SOULS
Cassian
The Past
The breeze rustled through the wisteria blossom’s long, wispy branches, tickling Cassian’s cheeks. Determined to enjoy the stillness, he lay in the lavender stalks, hand propped behind his head.
Focus on the present moment .
Nathaira constantly lectured him to do so, but it was something he could rarely afford due to his ever-growing worklist—meetings with the Council, curse this god for whatever line they’d crossed, imprison that god for their wrongdoing—and then there were the daily duties that came with running a realm full of souls.
Cassian had lived for over five thousand years, but that length of time had not brought him anything but redundancy. As the Ruler of Death, his days were all the same.
He kept his eyes closed, but his mind continued to work, scribbling a mental list of to-dos: visit the souls in the Paradise of Rest, welcome the new ones at the River and those who arrived with the Errai—deities of Death who shepherded the souls through the gates—and check in on the progress of those wandering the Grove of Mourning. He often worried about those in particular, struggling to heal from the trauma they’d endured in their mortal lives.
“My lord.” Mavros’s voice appeared behind the swoosh of his arrival.
Cassian kept his eyes closed but could sense his attendant’s presence awaiting behind him.
Mavros was quiet and reserved, but possessed a dark, prominent aura. The kind fearsome to mortals and apprehensive to deities. One only a god of death possessed.
Mavros had been at Cassian’s side for well over three millennia. Their formal relationship turned cordial over the tedious years of operation among the Land of the Dead.
“My lord,” he repeated with an exigency in his tone.
Cassian lifted into a sitting position with his elbows on his knees. The wisteria blossoms tangled in his hair and clung to his shoulders.
He inhaled their sweet fragrance before climbing to his feet and sauntering through the lavender at his ankles.
The two made their way down the knoll and into the waist-high stalks, weaving between wandering souls, who minded them no attention as they passed, too occupied with their thoughts and the beauty provided by the Lavender Fields of Healing. These were all souls who had recently arrived in the Land.
Some walked aimlessly, unaware of their surroundings while processing their deaths and the mortal life they’d left behind. Others strolled with luxurious patience, the bloomed lavender catching between their fingertips, pausing to soak in the streams of sunlight parting the frothy-thick clouds.
Mavros’s footfalls shuffled behind Cassian, nipping unusually frail nerves within him. A sign of burnout, greatly in need of the downtime Nathaira had recommended.
He casually slipped a hand inside his trouser pocket, and amid his next step, he vanished in a black chiffon puff.
The sole of his boot touched down on the bridge overlooking the River of Souls. The hazy lilac current carried the souls forth to the landing bank. From the distance, Cassian could see Nathaira, draped in sparkling green lace, adorned with wildflowers along her sleeves and neckline and sprinkled all over her sandy locks as she offered a hand to the next emerging soul.
She was a middle goddess of nature who greeted those arriving from the River.
“My lord.” Mavros appeared at Cassian’s side, insistent.
Cassian sighed. “Is there an issue, Mavros?”
He slid his other hand in his pocket, the position forcing his shoulders to relax, and glanced down, surveying the spirits in the stream below the bridge. Their forms were amorphous, like apparitions trapped below glass. Some clung and writhed against the current, their sorrows wailing like tail-end whispers.
Mavros cleared his throat. “I have news regarding the matter of missing souls.”
“Do tell.” It came out as a mutter of unenthused petulance as Cassian continued to stare at the souls, admiring the way their mystic glow resembled the luster of spilled paint swirling together.
The second that the High Goddess of Fate cut a soul’s thread, it belonged to him. He could feel it floating, waiting for guidance, tethered to him. A feeling all deities of Death were familiar with. The Errai used the sense to find those freshly departed and lead them to the Land.
Daily, they reported corpses with missing souls when they arrived to collect. The river gods occupying the waters in the Land of the Dead protected the souls, and none had disappeared on their watches. Which meant the missing souls weren’t making it to the River in the first place.
Then, there were the souls in his Land that disappeared without a trace.
When the issue first arose, it was only a few souls sporadically. Now, it was hundreds, consistently.
“Well, my lord, it is…” Mavros’s hesitation only meant it was more severe than he led on, for it was the only occasion when the attendant spoke like a broken instrument. “There is a young god stealing these souls.”
Cassian turned his head to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You have my attention.”
Mavros’s waist-length dreadlocks were tied up today. He concealed his joined hands in front of him in the long sleeves of his robe, and his eyes kept blankly fixed ahead, respectfully avoiding Cassian.
It was normal protocol for deities to never look directly at a High God, though Cassian never minded. In fact, he found it more troublesome when they looked away, as if he were conversing with statues.
Cassian rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his flexing jaw muscles, annoyed by the information. “Does this young god have a name?”
“He does.” Mavros’s stoicism did not alter.
Cassian dragged his hand up over his face and through the longer strands of his hair, swallowing the urge to bite his attendant’s head off. “Mavros, spit it out. I may be immortal, but my patience is not.”
Mavros’s gaze snapped to him then. “I believe it will only spoil your rather delightful mood.”
Cassian dropped his arm back down to his side, pinning Mavros with an unenthused look. “I do not appreciate your sarcasm. Now tell me before I act on my urge to curse you to Moros.”
A beat passed before Mavros said through a stifled breath, “The young god’s name is Finnian.” His brow pinched, bordering on a look of pain and exasperation. “The High Goddess of the Sea’s youngest child.”
A breathy, unamused laugh shook out of Cassian.
Of course, her son is the one stealing souls.
He gripped the railing of the bridge and glared down at the River.
It was foolish not to assume Mira was behind the action. Perhaps she goaded her son’s power as a threat. Cassian wouldn’t put it past her to act out in such a vindictive manner. He was the one who entrapped her beneath the Kaimana Sea in the first place.
Or it could be a spiteful attempt to diverge Cassian’s wrath from her onto her offspring. A rather cold action, but there were no limitations to Mira’s virulence. She was the type to toss her child to a shark if it brought her gain.
Regardless, the young god was dabbling in death, a realm that did not concern him, stripping souls of their peace in the afterlife. Something Cassian could not let stand.
“What relic is he using? I confiscated the Rune of Nekromanteía years ago.”
“About that, my lord,” Mavros said, “there is something else you should know.”
“What?” he grumbled.
“The young god is also a mage.”
Cassian turned to his attendant again. Nothing about Mavros’s somber expression suggested that he was jesting.
No such deities had been born with the ability to do witchcraft. Deities were born with divine power, never magic. Why hadn’t the other Council members mentioned this? Surely, if they were aware, they would have.
“Why am I just now learning of this?” Cassian snapped.
“The god was confined in Kaimana until recently. My presumption is that he kept it a secret. According to my insights, Lady Mira banished him five years ago after learning of his ability to use magic.”
It appeared a graver matter took priority atop his never-ending to-do list.
Cassian squeezed the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he wished the young god had been abusing the power of an ancient relic instead, for the sake of a simpler solution. It was a shame he did not make use of the downtime beneath the wisteria moments ago.
“What shall you have me do?” Mavros asked.
Cassian straightened and peered out along the River’s edge where Nathaira stood. She reminded him of a forest fairy in the folktales that he enjoyed reading in his spare time. Grace and tranquility seemed to be inherently passed down in deities of nature—traits Cassian naturally gravitated to in moments of stress. Nathaira’s presence provided a sense of grounding.
All too similar to a dear friend of Cassian’s, who was now imprisoned in Moros.
Perhaps Cassian would pay the High God of Nature a visit to complain about how much of a nuisance his youngest son was proving to be. Vale would be amused and provide a vexing amount of pride, no doubt.
A pang of guilt caught in his chest. The last thing he wished to do was curse his oldest friend’s son.
“I’ll take care of it,” Cassian said, tone taut. He slipped his hands back inside his trouser pockets, fidgeting with the tips of his fingers. “You are dismissed.”
Mavros bowed his head and stepped back into the inky cloud stirring at his backside, disappearing with the sound of a fractured gust.
Cassian adjusted the starched, crisp cravat around the neck of his high-collared linen shirt. His hands itched to smooth out the wool material of his waistcoat. He double checked for any lint clinging to the lapels of his velvet tailcoat.
It had been ages since he’d stepped foot on Mortal Land. He’d used minimal glamor and shortened his height to an average male human, dulled the sheen of his divine complexion, and warmed the blond of his hair.
There were no rules amongst deities that said they could not show themselves to mortals, but it was not something one often did. Deities typically morphed themselves to show a completely different appearance.
Mortals tended to better worship what they could not see. The illusion of what they believed to be true about their god or goddess fed their hope and prolonged their commitment to prayers.
Not only that, but Cassian had never crossed paths with the young god, giving no reason to worry about being recognized.
Though, despite his efforts to blend in, a quick sweep around the crowded mortal street where he stood was plenty to notice the passersby gawking. Just as he was doubting his decision not to listen to Nathaira and dress a little less lavishly, the door to the apothecary swung open in front of him.
He side-stepped the mortal exiting the establishment, but the elderly man gave a polite smile and held the door open for him. “Here you are.”
Cassian quickly analyzed the man’s leathered, wrinkled skin and yellow tint in his eyes, calculating his time until death. Souls growing old in their mortal bodies hardly seemed fair. He wanted to assure the man that death would be a relief, but he was sure that it’d only make the man suspicious.
Taking a step, Cassian grabbed the edge of the door, giving the mortal a slight head bow in a gesture of appreciation.
“Have a good day, Mister.” The mortal turned on his heel and hobbled off.
Cassian watched his backside grow smaller in the distance, wondering what sort of illness he had that had led him to an apothecary. Or what sort of intentions the young god stealing souls had with sick mortals to be working as an apothecary? Poisoning them, perhaps, simply to revive them for his undead army, or using their hair or blood for some kind of nature-bending ritual.
Cassian gave one last look at the outside of the apothecary—the overgrown ivy, the chipped brown paint of the windowpanes.
He inhaled a breath and relaxed his shoulders on his exhale before stepping through the threshold.
A pungent aroma of herbs greeted him. The inside of the establishment was small, only enough room for a few bodies to stand in front of the large wooden counter. On the wall behind it were rows of metal shelves running up to the ceiling, full of clay and glass jars crammed with an assortment of dried herbs and plants.
“Welcome,” a young man said from behind the counter, busy at the workbench stationed against the wall.
Cassian assessed the backside of the man. His apron revealed a tall and lean build, and his long black strands were tied back and hung between his shoulder blades.
“Hello.” Cassian positioned himself a few steps to the left to get a better look at what the man was doing with his hands. There was a pestle in his grip, and he seemed to be crushing up something in a matching mortar.
Cassian stood there for a beat, waiting for further acknowledgement.
His unhurried manner bit at Cassian’s nerves, and he stepped closer to the counter, eyeing the variety of broken stems and dried greenery spread out around the bowl. “A friend recommended this apothecary to me.”
The man placed the blunt tool aside and brushed his hands off on the front of his brown apron. Several silver rings glinted in the midday sunlight that streamed through the windowpanes. “What is it that you seek remedy for?”
Cassian glanced around, pretending to make sure the apothecary was empty before leaning in. “A remedy to raise the dead,” he said in a quiet voice. “I heard there is a young man employed by this apothecary who possesses a gift in such areas.”
The man lifted his chin slightly, flicking his eyes all over Cassian’s face. They were a muted shade of green, similar to a withered leaf that had been under the sun for too long. Clearly glamor, much like the matte complexion of his tan skin.
Cassian was sure of it. This man was the young god. But before Cassian could curse him, he first needed to verify it was, in fact, the correct god. Mavros had only provided a location and a physical description—black strands, slender build, and eyes the color of an emerald.
The young god’s expression held like a slate of stone, giving none of his thoughts away. He blinked in slow strides, once, twice, leaning back and crossing his arms, scrutinizing Cassian. Perhaps one had to be worthy of his secret talent? Or maybe he, too, could sense Cassian was a deity. Suddenly, he regretted not putting more effort into his glamor. He should’ve shape-shifted.
To Cassian’s surprise, the young god spun around and fished for two ceramic mugs on the second shelf. Nothing about his body language suggested Cassian’s request unsettled him. “Was it someone special to you?”
“Yes.” Cassian resisted the tugging at his fingers to trace the brass buttons of his waistcoat. He placed his hands inside the pockets of his tailored trousers to cap the urge. “Very much so.”
“When did your loved one pass?”
Assuming the answer to the question required a specific timeframe, Cassian was careful with his response. “A few days ago.”
The young god moved towards the steaming pot on the corner of his workbench. “Tea?”
Without waiting for a reply, he poured two glasses and placed one in front of Cassian.
He glanced down at the steaming mug in front of him, a pleasant tropical fragrance wafting up his nose, and forced out a grateful smile, perturbed by the god’s inability to form full sentences. “Tea sounds refreshing.”
The young god tapped his long fingers on the surface of the counter, not touching his tea. “Tell me more about your loved one. Was it a relative or a romantic companion?”
Cassian took a small sip—notes of rose hip and sweet pineapple danced across his tongue. “Family. I do not have a lover. Is that a requirement?”
“I do not believe in the loneliness in which death provides, therefore no. There are no requirements.” The look of indifference was an uncanny contradiction to the deep topic he spoke of. “All I request is that you bring me the corpse, and know that I cannot repair the mind of the person you care so deeply for. Their mental state is up to the soul alone.”
“You believe loneliness plagues those who step into death?” Cassian blamed his interest in the matter on the calm ambience, the comfort of herbal scents permeating in the air, and the sweet, refreshing flavor of the tea on his tongue.
He had zero motivation to know whatever preposterous reason the god had for resurrecting the dead. At least, that is what he told himself as he awaited the young god’s reply.
Finnian leaned in and his upturned eyes shrunk into slits that made the skin on Cassian’s cheeks prickle. The dark specks of his glamor spritzed through his emerald irises, glimmering like river stones beneath.
“Why don’t you enlighten me on the topic, Lord Cassian?” He tilted his head, an irritating smirk slicing across his mouth. “Do you consider yourself lonely as the Ruler of Death?”
Cassian’s jaw pulsed. The young god was dangerously close, and that either made him foolishly arrogant or extremely na?ve. Cassian could snatch him in his grip like the jaws of a predator before he even had time to register the act.
The thought lingered steadily as he stared at the young god, studying the features of his face—a pronounced brow-bone, hollow cheeks, somber eyes, pointed like the end of a dagger, framed by chin-length bangs.
Cassian had underestimated the young god’s prowess of observation. A mistake he would not make again.
Cassian shed his glamor, revealing his true appearance. His height grew, and he slightly towered over the young god. “Good. We can move past the coy remarks and get to the point. You are violating the dead. I cannot allow that to go on.”
Something flashed in the young god’s gaze, brazen and defiant. “And if I do not stop?”
His ego was ridiculous.
Cassian held his glare nonchalantly. “Then I shall curse you. Precisely how I cursed your mother and father.”
At the mention of Vale, a fissure of emotion struck the young god’s face. It flitted away as quickly as it appeared, like a crack sealing up within seconds. If Cassian hadn't been watching closely, he’d have missed it.
“I must say, I’ve been eager to meet you.” Finnian turned and began cleaning his workbench, moving the mortar and pestle aside and sweeping up the pile of crushed leaves and broken stems with his hands.
He tossed the remains in a trash bin beside his foot. “I first heard of you when my sister told me of our uncle Xerxes, and how he was put into confinement due to the insanity you forced upon him. Then I learned how you cursed my mother beneath the sea.”
Cassian watched the shifting of muscles in the backs of his shoulders as he reached for a jar from the third shelf.
“From what my sister told me,” Finnian continued, “Uncle Xerxes was a moron who never knew how to keep his nose out of places it did not belong, and our mother was most deserving of her imprisonment. I really could not decide if you enjoyed flaunting your superiority, or if they merely had it coming.”
Finnian’s arms went still.
The silence was loud with the traffic of carriages and trotting horses on the street, muffled chatter from those passing by on the sidewalk. Cassian could feel the air gather with a tension that nipped at his skin. A charge of swelling energy sparking against his pores.
Magic.
“Then you sent your executioners to take my father away, and I had my answer.” The contempt in the young god’s tone was subtle. He aligned his chin with his shoulder, and his eyes sharply cut to Cassian.
It’d been a few centuries since Cassian had faced a mage. He was never particularly fond of their unpredictable qualities. The explosion of the countertop in front of him was a swift reminder of this.
Shards of wood speared through his arms, cut across his cheeks.
Cassian’s divine energy seeped into the air like a puddle of oil, and his form warped into a curling mass of black and gold tendrils as he materialized across the room and out of the line of fire.
The spot where Cassian landed shimmered. Runic symbols glowed around his feet. He stepped to move, but he was bound to the spot, an unnatural gravity keeping his boots glued to the sigil.
Gods, I despise witchcraft.
Finnian stepped around from behind the counter, his hand lifting. “ Colligo .”
The splinters of wood from around the room gathered in front of him, levitating and aiming their sharpest ends at Cassian.
With a single snap of Finnian’s fingers, he sent the barrage of shrapnel forward.
Cassian glowered at the flying objects, not bothering to dodge them.
Speared fragments lodged deeply into his arms and torso.
He reared his arm up and caught a splintered chunk of the wood. Slivers mangled in the palm of his hands and the underside of his fingers.
He sent the sharp piece in his grip flying across the room.
It impaled straight through Finnian’s shoulder, and he stumbled backwards into the workbench from the impact.
The commotion settled, but dust still swirled in the air.
“What a little nightmare you are.” Cassian plucked the wood from his flesh and then smoothed his palm over the lapels of his tailcoat.
His wounds closed within seconds, but cherry-red stains bled through the material of his tunic beneath his waistcoat.
He clenched his teeth at the uncleanliness, the disorder of his outfit, it being anything but pristine.
Through the rubble of the counter and broken glass and clay stood Finnian, assertive and fearless. Stupidly so. The chunk of debris still jutted out from his shoulder.
“You stole my father, so I steal your souls,” he sneered.
“It seems you have inherited your mother’s vindictiveness.” Cassian glanced down at the markings on the floor, noting how their glow faded.
He inched forward, testing the boundary of the sigil. The magic within it had died.
Lovely .
“I inherited far worse from her.” Finnian cocked his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “If you wish to curse me, Lord Cassian, then you must catch me first.”
Cassian snarled and lunged for him.
A clean slice of distortion ripped through the air. Tendrils of ruby smoke furled around Cassian’s fist.
Disturbing laughter bubbled up his throat.
His stomach knotted with a deranged mix of irritation and euphoria.
Smug, little ? —
He lowered his arm and gripped his hip.
Grounding his jaws, he glared down at the shambles of the apothecary.
He would chase the young god, catch him, and be his reckoning.