Chapter Two #4
I snort. I can’t help it. I should help it, because this woman holds my career in her hands. If she and the rest of the Hellhounds hadn’t taken me from the Chimeras, I don’t know where I’d be. I probably could’ve gotten in with another team, but to be here, home—it’s everything.
Roesia smirks. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes. You’ve had a bit of bad press recently.”
It’s Drach’s turn to make a rude noise, only his is an aggressive throat clear. I study him, and when he shifts on his chair, his gaze meets mine with a disappointed stare I’ve seen enough from my mother to recognize.
Great. He’s on the lawsuit is a sign of weakness side of this whole debate. Though, being a rep for the church, it isn’t at all surprising.
Roesia flicks her shrewd eyes at him. “Would you care to touch on your church’s run of bad press as well?”
My chin jerks back and it takes me a beat to realize that she’s reprimanding him?
Maybe I do like her.
Drach’s face flushes but he doesn’t back down. “In due time.”
Wait—Urzoth’s bad press? Does she mean that nonsense with the Galaxrien cultists?
Once Roesia regains command of the room, she looks at me again.
“One of the things that had the Hellhounds most interested in you is how adored you are by the public. I do not believe you will be down for long, no matter the opinions being bandied around. That being said, this is an incredibly important year for the Hellhounds. With our roster, we are poised to bring home the championship win for the first time in more than a decade—which is why we invited you on board. Your talent is one of the many pieces that will go toward reasserting the Hellhounds’ place in rawball history. ”
The Hellhounds might not have taken home the end-of-season championship in years, but they’ve still ranked well in other regards. Of course, all players hope their team will make it, but with everything else going on, I hadn’t let myself dream that far ahead.
The Chimeras won it last year. But it never felt like it’s any part my win.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, sincerity prickling through me. “I’m ready to put in the work.”
“I’m glad to hear it. All eyes will be on the Hellhounds—and as such, we cannot afford bad press.”
My shoulders flinch. “I know, ma’am. And I apologize for the negative—”
She waves her hand. “Do not apologize, Mr. Monroe. You helped weed out unworthy members of the magical community. You have done nothing wrong.”
My eyes widen.
She … she supports me?
Gratitude tries to make my chest take flight, and I barely restrain myself from blubbering embarrassing thanks. The backs of my eyes heat and I blink quickly, refusing to tear up here, now.
But if Roesia believes me, if she’s on my side, then the rest of the team’s management probably is, too. And they won’t tolerate the other players being dicks about it.
My hands unclench for the first time since—gods. Maybe they’ve been clenched since the lawsuit began.
But Drach aggressively clears his throat again, sitting up taller, making himself look bigger. It sucks some of this supportive energy right out of the room.
For being all brute strength above all, no one does passive aggression like Urzoth worshippers.
Roesia looks briefly annoyed, but she smooths her expression and picks a nonexistent piece of lint off her pants.
“As I was saying,” she continues, “we cannot afford bad press. Which means all such instances are being taken with the utmost seriousness. Therefore, we will be working toward changing how the public views you—and you, inadvertently, gave us the perfect way of doing so.”
“I did?”
Roesia picks up a tablet from the coffee table between us. She taps a button and speaks into it, “Ask Mr. Warden to begin making his way up here,” and then clicks at different things on the screen. “Are you on social media?”
She’s talking to me again. “No, ma’am.”
“Good. Don’t bother; we have a whole department whose job it is to juggle that world. But apparently, last night, you made quite an impact on several outlets.”
Roesia turns the tablet to face me and my head tilts in confusion.
It’s a picture of me with Alexo.
The two of us are talking close, bent into each other, so it must’ve been after the guy left.
At the sight of Alexo, my skin grows hot, and something dangerously close to possession frissons through my body.
I knew people took pictures of us. Between the hangover and this meeting, I hadn’t gotten to the realization that I could access those pictures. That I could see him again.
But just as quickly, I run my tongue over my teeth. These pictures are online. And the way Roesia’s talked, they’re everywhere online. Strangers are goggling at us, at Alexo.
My arms cramp with the sudden instinct to dive in front of an attack, only the target isn’t here, and the threat is in the ether.
“Urzoth works through you,” Drach says, noting my tension, and it forces me to relax.
This has nothing to do with Urzoth.
“I—” I swallow again, my tongue suddenly huge. “And this was … good press?”
“Indeed,” Drach says. “An Urzoth worshipper using his strength to save someone? The reaction has been effusive, son. Fans love you.”
My brows go up in surprise that that’s what Drach focuses on—the fact that I actually helped someone.
Roesia flips through a few more slides, images of Alexo and me. Images of me facing off with that asshole. Even a video of me talking with Alexo, and you can see everything I say thanks to Marlow’s subtitle earring, so I’m clearly asking Alexo if he wants to go with this guy, if he’s okay.
My eyes run over his face. The gold glitter across his nose. The streaks of it on his collarbone like neon lights.
“You’re a hero,” Roesia says. “Which is exactly the shift you both need.”
Both?
Roesia looks at Drach with a distinctive NOW you can talk expression, and Drach clears his throat. Normally this time.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the uptick in Galaxrien Vossen summonings,” Drach says.
He doesn’t stop for me to respond. “The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn has responded to those how we always respond: with appropriate severity as dictated by the threat of a demonic uprising. The demon lord Galaxrien Vossen cannot be allowed to emerge from the Demonic Plane, and as such, his cultists cannot be allowed to summon him out of his hellish prison. We are protecting Earth from his—”
“Reverend Drach.” Roesia gets him back on track.
“The frequency of those summonings and therefore the frequency of our responses has led the public to begin voicing displeasure over what they mistakenly view as a feud between two gods. Our approval ratings have taken a hit. We find ourselves in a similar position to yours, Mr. Monroe, and as such, we have been in contact with your team management the past few weeks to explore ways of improving both our images. After last night, we have a proposition for you.”
My knee bounces.
He goes quiet, and Roesia stays quiet, and I’m left sitting here dumbly asking, “What kind of proposition?”
Whatever it is, no.
I didn’t come here to ingratiate myself even more with Urzoth.
They need me more than I need them—I can improve my image on my own, thanks.
My bad public opinion came because I stood up to my childhood abusers; their bad public opinion came because they rationalize burning down people’s livelihoods in the name of stopping absurd cult ceremonies.
In lieu of answering, Roesia hits a button on her tablet. “Is Mr. Warden here?”
A voice comes through, “Yes, Ms. Sombercrown.”
“Send him in.”
Fantastic. Another church rep? Is this Urzoth’s way of trying to punish me for—
The door opens.
There are several patron gods for rogues, gods of stealth, thievery, and swiftness.
But one is unpopular to the point of being almost forgotten, which should be reason enough for them to be the most popular rogue god, but they aren’t taken seriously—because their name is just screaming really loud.
It undercuts the point of being a god for sneaky people, but they’re the god of being taken by surprise, a whole dogma built around that moment when you’re going upstairs and you miss a step, or you’re hammering and miss a nail.
The jolt of shock, the rush of endorphins and adrenaline in tandem; fight, flight, or freeze.
My brain fills with that god’s name now, a long, drawn-out scream, as Alexo walks into the room.