EPILOGUE
Theon stood atop one of the many stories of the Blood Heretics’ compound, looking out at the main floor.
It was just like old times, in the basement at the Foxglove Brewery—tables with cards spread out over their surfaces, suit jackets swaying on the backs of chairs, smokes hanging from teeth, glasses of alcohol floating around.
Laughter swarmed the room. Comforting faces bounced from one end to the other. The setting was so familial that nostalgia cracked inside Theon’s chest, an unexplainable melancholy.
The Blood Heretics had always been more of a family than his own. He’d left that life centuries ago, and he never thought that he would have to see their masked faces again. A bitter taste coated his tongue at the thought.
His phone vibrated in the front of his coat, and he fished it out.
Ronin: Meet me in my office.
Theon sent a thumbs up in response and started that way.
He kept his hands in the pockets of his pants, reflecting on the trauma that the compound had undergone during Soren’s attack. The members were hard at work, rebuilding what was damaged, but unease circulated around the place like a pestilence.
Unavoidable dread had infiltrated the organization, its members knowing that Soren and others attacking the city would become a regular occurrence.
The whole situation was bullshit, considering the position Naia and Ronin were in with the Council. As much as Theon loathed to admit it, having powerful deities on their side was favorable, though it did not erase the cynicism he still felt toward them.
Theon came to a set of doors at the end of the open corridor. The frosted windowpanes prevented anyone from peeking inside, but Theon had sat in the level below many times, watching Ronin lean on the railing overlooking the compound.
His friend had been appearing more exasperated lately, despite his immortality.
Theon let out a long breath, mentally preparing himself for the conversation that he was going into.
A few days ago, he’d requested that Ronin and Naia give him the okay to go investigate Soren, unable to ignore the nagging in his gut. There were too many unanswered questions.
Who was the witch that created the monsters Soren had disguised? Why were they working together? And why the fuck did they want Ash?
Theon wouldn’t sit around and wait for Soren to attack again. They needed to be preemptive this time.
That was how his brother had slid through—with planning, and with his illusions.
Soren rarely ever made a true appearance. It was a part of his image, always using his Trickery and Mischief to make his foes question everything. He got off on mind-fucking those around him.
The perpetual annoyance from Theon’s childhood clawed back up, recollecting all the times he fell for Soren’s deceit.
With Marina as Ash’s protector, Theon knew the child would be safe. The High Goddess had proven herself trustworthy by dying for Ash. Blood for blood. Though he still couldn’t stand her, she was a frightening goddess that would rip anything to ribbons that so much as threatened Ash.
It was time for him to leave Hollow City and take care of his brother.
The question was, would Ronin and Naia agree to it? If they didn’t, what would Theon do then?
He ran a hand over his mask, assuring himself it was still intact—an old habit he’d adopted in his early years, due to the strict rules of the Morte clan.
With another long inhale, he entered Ronin’s office.
The distressed brick was decorated in old pieces of artwork left behind by Finnian. It was a way to preserve the memory of Naia’s brother, when everyone assumed he would remain locked away in the Land of the Dead.
Much of the compound still held his touches—the oak bookshelves on the third floor stocked with grimoires, the conservatory filled with cultivated, high-maintenance plants and herbs, and the random occult knickknacks: animal skulls, crystals, twigs tied with twine into runic shapes.
One hung behind Ronin’s desk on the wall, directly over his head, formed from thin willow limbs. Finnian had said that it was a totem for strong intuition, something he himself used during his time as the city’s leader.
Ronin sat on the leather furniture at the side of the room, munching on a rice ball and downing a can of coffee, old habits he’d brought into his eternal life.
Only, he wasn’t alone.
Sitting across from him was Solaris, the High God of Fire.
Theon’s jaw flexed at the sight of him.
It wasn’t that the High God’s presence was anything new. He regularly made appearances in Hollow City, never letting himself become irrelevant.
After his redemption on Nohealani Island, Naia welcomed him.
Ronin treated him with respect, but it took years for him to actually acknowledge the High God.
Theon assumed it would have bit at Solaris’s patience, but it never did.
He was oblivious to Ronin’s reservations, continuing to chat away as if Ronin cared about what he had to say.
Five years later, Solaris was a close friend to the Blood Heretics.
Theon, however, was still skeptical—as he was with all deities. A breach of trust was near-permanent in his eyes.
Or maybe it was seeing Solaris, another god, swarmed and honored by members of the Blood Heretics that scraped at his nerves in ways he didn’t want to delve into.
The idea of holding even a modicum of jealousy was so childish that it made him want to vomit.
Ronin and Solaris both stood in greeting.
“Theon, right?” Solaris stretched out an arm to offer a handshake.
Theon responded with an unfriendly look. As if the motherfucker didn’t know his name in the five years he’d been hanging around. The High God showed up for a visit every other month, but when they were under attack and his presence could’ve been useful, he was nowhere to be found.
What a grand fucking convenience.
Solaris scratched the back of his neck. “Okay,” he mumbled, shifting around awkwardly.
Theon eyed Solaris’s glamor that dimmed down his divinity, to his collared shirt, tucked into tailored slacks, and down to his loafers. The High God’s posh style only further vexed Theon.
Ronin cleared his throat, flashing an amused look Theon’s way. “So, uh, about what we discussed the other day…”
Theon snapped his eyes onto his friend, his pulse accelerating with the passing seconds. Why was he bringing this up now? In front of the Fire God?
Ronin sighed, and Theon’s stomach gnarled, sensing his hesitancy and where it led. He knew Ronin. Better yet, he knew Naia, and this idea had her name all over it.
“No.” Theon shook his head repetitively, clinking the hoops in his earlobes. “Fuck no.”
“Theon, just listen,” Ronin said.
“Nope.” He cut his gaze onto Solaris, imagining all the time he would have to spend with this blowhard, egotistical god. Just the thought made his stomach sour.
The High God regarded him with his flashy smile, unfazed by Theon’s rejection. “It would be my privilege to—”
“Not gonna fucking happen,” Theon said with an iced finality. He respected Ronin as the boss of the Blood Heretics, but this would drive him insane and leave him mentally weak to Soren’s deception.
Ronin massaged his temples, openly displaying his fatigue.
“Look, I agree that we need to find more answers, but you aren’t going alone.
” He placed his hand on his own chest, looking at him.
“Naia and I would both fucking worry ourselves sick. So, if you want to do this, Solaris here,” Ronin threw an arm around the High God’s neck and gave him a pat on the chest, “is going with you.”
They both stared at Theon—Ronin with his shit-eating grin and Solaris, all teeth, like he was trying to sell Theon a fucking car.
The room fell quiet as Theon contemplated his options. Worrying Naia and Ronin would only distract them, and Theon needed them to be levelheaded with their focus on Ash.
He could request someone else—Avi, even—but Theon understood why Naia had suggested the High God.
Despite his insufferable arrogance and annoying charisma, he was strong and immortal, someone Theon wouldn’t have to worry about getting gutted during a confrontation with Soren and his mysterious witch.
In fact, the image brought him an inkling of joy.
Theon glowered, grinding his molars.
Fuck me.
He looked at Ronin, ignoring Solaris’s shining gaze. “Fine.” Then, he turned away to leave. “I depart tomorrow.”
He’d need to take up meditation or some other mentally expunging activity to keep from turning the High God’s blood to frost.
Theon strolled down the hall at a leisurely pace, the gravity of Ronin’s words sinking in.
The chilled air hugged around him, a draft that snuck in through the doors as members came and went. Once he departed, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone from the place and people that he considered his home.
As he walked, he peered over the railing, down into the lounge at the full tables and—
“Naia was worried that you wouldn’t go along with the plan.” Solaris jogged up to his side. “Thank you for agreeing, and for not making us beg.”
Theon snapped his head up, glaring at the High God.
In the five years that Solaris had been coming around, Theon did well to pretend like he didn’t exist—leaving the room when he appeared, casually falling into conversation with someone else when Solaris was nearby, walking past him as if he wasn’t there at all.
Theon tried showing the High God that he was not someone he wished to even call an acquaintance.
However, it never managed to enter through his thick skull.
Solaris tilted his head down, amusement twinkling in the bastard’s grin. “You’ve never been chatty with me. Why is that?”
Theon said nothing as he walked, hoping Solaris would take the hint. It was Theon’s last night of respite. The last thing he wanted was to spend it fighting the urge to carve off his own ears.
Solaris continued in stride alongside him, lifting his arm. “Your shirt is—”
His finger brushed over Theon’s nipple piercing and flicked the unfastened button of his shirt.
A jolt of uninvited pleasure swam down his middle.
He halted in his step and snatched Solaris’s hand.
The energy between them intensified as ripples of Theon’s divine power etched cold cracks across the back of Solaris’s knuckles. A warning.
Solaris stared at him for a beat, not making any movement to retract his hand. His gaze was the shade of clouds right before a thunderstorm, framed by dark hair slicked over to the side of his forehead.
Heat surged in the pads of Theon’s fingers, like he was holding on to a hot stone. The rime melted and glided down Solaris’s wrist before turning to vapor.
“With all due respect, I’m going to need you to please fuck off for tonight.” Theon released him, gritting his teeth.
His fingertips burned. He despised anything too warm. Perhaps that was some of his opposition to Solaris—it was so inherent for Theon to hate the things that made the High God, well, himself.
Solaris smirked, the gesture arranging his sharp features into a fucking sculpture. Amused, he pointed at Theon’s shirt. “Was just trying to say that you missed a button.”
Theon glanced down at the lone button, exposing a glimpse of his chest. Quinn’s doing, he presumed.
He’d ventured to Feloures earlier, a popular bar tucked on Bogart Street, the home of the infamous black market, and found quick stress relief in one of the dancers. It was a mutual arrangement between the two that had developed after the witch stole Ash’s stupid toy cat.
Sighing, Theon paid it no mind and continued down the shadowy hallway. “An astute observation.”
Solaris chuckled, annoyingly unfazed by Theon’s scornful attitude. “Can’t wait for the weeks ahead. Nice talking to you, Winter.”