Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Septimus came to my door the next day, I gave him a cold, tight smile.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “I think I’ll be on my way.”
His brows rose. “On your way? Oh no, dove. I’ve come to take you to the training ring.”
“Training ring?”
I did not bother to hide my revulsion. Septimus seemed to find this amusing. His eyes glittered like gemstones.
“Of course. Look at yourself. I’m impressed that you’re even standing right now. Did you think I was going to just send you off with, what, a sketch of the mark and a fistful of coins?”
That was exactly what I thought he was going to do.
“I’m a bounty hunter,” I snapped. “That’s usually how it works.”
“You’re not hunting some lowlife this time. You are hunting gods. I didn’t make it this far by leaving factors to chance. We aren’t leaving the Salt Keep until I know you’re ready.”
Four sentences and by the end I’d lost track of all the different things to which I wanted to object. But above all, I was stuck on one word:
“What the hell do you mean, we?” I said.
{What indeed?} Zefiah added, appalled by the thought.
He cocked his head, the corner of his mouth curling. It was, in this moment, the most obnoxious expression I’d ever seen on another living being’s face.
“I have great personal stake in this. So yes, I plan to personally see it done.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. Besides, you’ll be grateful to have me along.
I have plenty of useful information that you’ll need along the way.
You can’t expect me to just hand you all my secrets and let you leave.
” He leaned against the doorframe, tapping the wood impatiently.
“Speaking of which. We are going to be late, and your instructor will not appreciate it.”
“An instructor to teach me about killing gods? How many gods have they killed? Fewer than me, I’d imagine.”
Septimus’s smirk bloomed to a full smile, fangs and all.
It offended me with its flawlessness. These interactions were by far the longest I’d ever gone in close quarters with a vampire without attempting to kill it, and I hated that his otherworldly beauty struck me the way that it did.
Just another reminder of what vampires were, at their core—predators, designed to lure prey.
My stomach turned at the idea of remaining with this man for the entirety of this job. Traveling with him. Letting him see me vulnerable. I’d have to watch him sleep and somehow keep myself from sliding Zefiah between his ribs. The very same creature as the ones who had killed them.
“He has killed fewer gods than you,” he conceded. “But he still has plenty of value to offer. You got lucky with Shiket. You’ll need to master some other techniques if you want a chance at the others.” He gestured to the hallway. “Shall we?”
I hated everything about this.
But there was one thing I hated more.
I thought of Nyaxia as I had seen her in Hegaella. Floating in the sky, surveying her handiwork with such satisfaction.
I imagined how her blood would look running down Zefiah’s blade.
I gave Septimus a forced, icy smile, and began walking.
Septimus’s gait was smooth and graceful; somehow leisurely, even though he managed to be just fast enough that I had to hurry to keep up.
A combination I resented, especially since it forced me to admit that he was right—I was in no condition to sail off to slay gods.
I was out of breath by the end of the hall.
As we walked, his gaze dragged from my feet to my head in a way that made me feel shockingly naked.
“You’re no use to me if you keel over,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
He looked unconvinced.
We passed a priestess—not the first—wearing long violet robes with a matching blindfold over her eyes. Her gaze, covered as it was, still lingered on me as we walked by.
{One of Acaeja’s,} Zefiah said.
The queen, apparently, was not an isolated instance.
I’d seen several of the priestesses here even in this brief time.
Confusing—because Glaea had been captured more than a decade ago by Nyaxia, and the priestesses were acolytes of Acaeja.
Under normal circumstances, this would mean that Acaeja would leech her magic from the land, if not immediately, then over the course of years.
Certainly, she would take it from those she’d consider traitors, such as those who were—seemingly willingly—living alongside vampires.
“What is this place?” I asked Septimus. “A temple?”
“Of sorts. This is the Salt Keep. Once the home of the Arachessen, a cult of Acaeja. Interesting organization.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “Impressive what they can do with a little sacrifice.”
It was the same for every god. They all relished in the blood and pain of those they claimed to love.
“The Salt Keep is isolated in the mountains of Glaea,” Septimus went on.
“Inaccessible by most. Safe from prying eyes, mortal or no. There are no doubt some powerful beings that are very interested in finding you, god slayer. Another reason why I cannot allow you to leave just yet. The minute you do, you’ll be the recipient of all kinds of unwanted divine attention.
The sooner we have you back in fighting shape, the better. ”
It was, I would begrudgingly admit, a fair point. When Atroxus was killed, the gods quickly capitalized on it. Now, after ten years at war with each other, Shiket’s death would likely have them scrambling for weapons against each other. And what weapon would be more valuable than me?
I felt vaguely nauseous at this thought, so I pushed it away.
“I am in fighting shape,” I said.
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
He led me down a winding stone staircase. At the bottom, he pushed open a heavy wooden door that let into a large, plain room.
It was so dark that it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Metal lined the walls—swords, axes, daggers, bows.
The floor was dirt and stone. There were no windows.
A single bookcase stood in the corner, shelves cradling ornate boxes with prominent gold locks and an assortment of vials and bottles.
Only two small lanterns lit the room, gold light dancing over the shadows.
The center of the space was empty, sand scattered over the stone, though it would likely do little to break a fall.
“An armory?” I said.
“Like I said. The Salt Keep is a good place to hide things.”
My eyes drifted back to the bookcase. To the boxes locked there. Zefiah shivered, her attention drawn to them, too.
{There is immortal power in this room,} she said, with a tinge of disgust. {Stolen power.}
Let’s not be so judgmental, I told her, and she was silent, conceding my point.
“You’ve discovered something useful,” Septimus said, crossing the room. He went to the shelves and kneeled. “The gods are often weakest to magics of their own creation. Poetic in a sad sort of way, isn’t it?”
He rose and turned around, now bearing a long, thin object sheathed in heavy black fabric, perhaps the length of my forearm. He held it out to me.
The object was unassuming, and yet, even covered, its presence commanded the room. God-touched, certainly. I could feel this one whispering to me in the back of my mind in a language long lost.
“Take it,” Septimus said. “Unwrap it.”
Because he couldn’t. It would be uncomfortable for a vampire to touch, let alone wield, a weapon of the gods of the White Pantheon.
Zefiah hissed, possessive, as I picked up the object and slid the sheath free.
A rod of gleaming copper. It was warm, as if it had just been pried from someone else’s grip. I jumped when, as soon as I touched it, the length sprang to twice its size, a spear bursting from one end with a mechanical melody of clicks and ticks.
“Careful,” Septimus said, too late, having casually stepped backward. He had already managed to light another cigarillo, vanilla smoke imbuing the room.
I’d seen all manner of beautiful machinery and weaponry.
But I still found myself intrigued as I examined this one.
I looked closer at the rod, which was engraved with Srana’s ancient glyphs—distinctive in their blocky angles and straight lines.
Upon close examination, I realized the weapon was in multiple parts, rings separating stretches of metal.
I slid my hand down the handle, and when I felt the indentations of a new stretch, the spear blade let out another melody of ticks, snapped back into the handle, and re-formed as the curved blade of a scythe.
Another twist, and it re-formed as a powerful axe.
My brows raised. Despite myself, I was impressed. The weapon was a marvel of Srana’s magic—a combination of machinery and magic and smithery that was impossible by any one of them alone. Valentina would lose her mind if she—
Grief flooded through my heart, sharp and scalding, making my breath seize. I bit down on my tongue hard until the physical pain distracted me.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is a weapon.”
“It’s a god-touched weapon.”
A glint in Septimus’s eyes. He said nothing.
“It’s a god-made weapon,” I said.
“Created by Srana herself,” a deep voice said from behind me. “Retrieved directly from her forge in the deadlands.”
I spun around to see a man emerging from the darkness.
No, not a man—a vampire. He had to be, to move so silently, so swiftly.
Zefiah railed against his very presence.
There was something strange about him, I knew immediately, before I even looked at him long enough to discern what it was.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a long deep-red coat and a black shirt; fine clothes that all seemed a bit disheveled, like he was too busy doing physical work to take care of them.
He had long, sleek hair, half tied back, which could be either ash blond or silver—I couldn’t tell in the darkness.
I blinked in surprise when I saw what was nestled in it: horns.
Black horns, starting just past his hairline and curling back.
Now, that was interesting. I’d never seen a horned person before, vampire or no.
How does that happen? I asked Zefiah, curious.
{A curse,} she hissed. She was practically screaming for his blood.
All Bloodborn vampires are cursed. But they still don’t usually have horns.
It occurred to me that it took a special kind of loyalty to run around serving the goddess that had damned you, but then, I supposed that was no different than humans.
Septimus let out a low chuckle. “You stole my entrance,” he said to the newcomer. “I’m glad you’re learning a flair for the dramatic.”
The vampire stopped a few feet short of me. He said nothing as he looked me up and down, like he was inspecting a piece of meat.
“She doesn’t look like much,” he said to Septimus.
“What a charmer you are,” Septimus said. To me, he said, “This is my rude, humorless cousin, Atrius. King of Glaea.”
King. Interesting. This one didn’t even bother with a crown, not even a little coronet like his . . . wife? Did that then make Sylina his wife? A human-vampire couple ruling a kingdom that held followers of Acaeja alongside Nyaxia’s children. I wouldn’t have believed such a thing could exist.
Atrius had no reaction to Septimus’s ribbing. Cousin. I could see the resemblance—though Atrius’s features were stronger and Septimus’s more refined. They both had those eyes.
I said, “You must be the fun one at family gatherings.”
Atrius gave me another unimpressed once-over, then said to Septimus in Obitraen, “You think this is the one?”
“I speak Obitraen,” I said, offended.
At last, Atrius met my eyes. “I know.”
Then he drew his sword and lunged at me.