Chapter 54
Cat
Ithrew my hands over my ears, the tips of my claws pricking my scalp as I tried to block out the piercing screams of the island’s dead.
All the people who died in the name of Nightmare’s power, Cruelty’s delusion, and Violence’s greed.
I had to wonder if the death toll was intentionally high for this moment, so he could drain the power from their souls and become something more than a god.
Joanna caught my eye and widened hers. Right. The drop of power. But how the fuck was I supposed to get to him when power crashed from the hammer driven into the muddy ground? I forced a step forward, hands still over my eyes, and the magic shoved me back.
My skin prickled, then burned. Gods, this was a lot of magic, and Violence stretched his arms out on either side of him, soaking it up. Becoming the king of gods as he’d craved. I hope he choked on his power.
I forced another step forward, teeth gritted when magic crackled up my arms and across my face. I screwed my eyes shut, but tears leaked from the corners. All that power ripped from the restless dead he and his sister murdered. An endless supply of magic, manufactured by them.
I had to clench my jaw when the next step turned the crackle to a burn, and my skin reddened, scalding, flaking—
Violence stumbled. Grunted. Blood splattered the white shirt of his shirt.
And I realised that while I’d been forcing my way closer, so had the other death gods.
They’d ripped the hole wider in Violence’s shields, just big enough for a person to fit.
Just wide enough for Orwell to come through, and pierce the razor-sharp tips of his fingernails into the back of Violence’s neck.
I gasped, remembering that day in Death’s garden when Orwell drained Tor’s strength.
“Do it,” Orwell said through gritted teeth. Because Violence was more powerful than a god, swollen with it, like a mosquito gorged on blood, and it was only a matter of moments before he gained control.
I fumbled in the dirt for my scales, tore them from the mud, and forced so much fury and hunger for justice into them that sound rang from the metal, as clear and sharp as a bell.
There was a drop of life somewhere within this evil carcass, and ripping it out was the only way to restore balance.
Light cleaved his chest, punched through bone the same way light had ruptured through the ground from his hammer, and it was there. The kernel of life that animated him.
“Rip it out,” I urged, raspy, weaker than I expected.
The scales did no such thing. Instead the light engulfed that seed of life, chomped down, and ate it.
I stumbled back at the same time Violence roared and turned on Orwell.
Neglect was right behind him, forcing her way through the gap and wielding a sword that looked comically large in her hands.
It must have been heavy, even made of magic, but that didn’t stop her driving it into Violence’s chest. Others followed—Hunger, Passion, Wrath, a beautiful woman with onyx skin I recognised as Fear, and then strangers, people who’d answered our call, gods who refused to bend to the whims of a king of gods.
For a split second, I searched the new faces, as if I’d see someone familiar, and my chest tightened. But then light flashed from the hammer driven into the ground and I twisted away.
Violence got there first.
“Bastard,” I hissed, wrestling him for the instrument.
“Release it,” he ordered, raking scratches across the backs of my hands. My arms had only just healed from the burns; scratches were nothing, and they weren’t going to deter me.
I gripped the hammer so hard it hurt, refusing to surrender even a fraction of its power to Violence. “Give me my husband’s heart, and I will.”
“Fine,” he spat, and dug the heart from a swath of shadow, tossing it to the ground.
I released the hammer and dove to catch Pain’s heart. It was gilded in places, gold replacing flesh and blood. I cast around for him, choking on panic when I still didn’t see him anywhere.
“Cat!” Orwell yelled, giving me enough warning to secure Pain’s heart in a pocket of shadow and summon a swell of death magic. I honed it, compacted the magic into a shield, and flung it up just in time to catch the business end of Violence’s hammer.
The ring of noise made my whole head shake. Blood trickled over my bottom lip.
I angled my shield to knock the hammer from his hand when he came at me again, but all it did was sink the pointed end into the ground—and magic thumped from the hammer once more.
It seemed to suck in all light, to muffle all noise, yet forced out oppressive waves of energy that pressed my skin to my bones and shook the air in dense pulses.
Not just sound, but more. Violence distilled to its purest form.
More blood dripped from my nose and I lifted my shield to—the gods began to scream.
Wrath first, then Fear, Hunger, Passion, Neglect, and the others.
And just when I thought being a new goddess meant I was immune, pain carved through my skull into my brain, scythed down my throat into my chest, and attacked my organs.
The magic shredded me from the inside, and I coughed up blood right as I began to scream.
Only Orwell and my dad were unaffected, but it was terrifying how easily Violence took them down. My dad didn’t move. He splayed there in the mud and didn’t move. I tried to sob, but I was screaming too much to make the sound.
I ended up on the edge of the lake, silvery water crashing into my knees, but the pain was so crushing I couldn’t feel the cold liquid drenching my clothes. The lake should have been still, but it thrashed like a sea. Violence’s base had been under the lake. What else was down there?
Orwell thumped to the ground beside me, and my scream turned ragged when I stared into sightless, dead eyes.
Pain pinched my chest, joining the rest of the agony ripping me apart.
I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. Orwell came to help every time we asked.
He never abandoned us. And now he was dead.
A dozen avian screams filled the sky, and I screwed my eyes shut when human roars followed them. The winged creatures. The Stalkers. They were all screaming. And then came a familiar voice, roaring Orwell’s name over and over. Duncan.
If I could remember how to cry, I would have.
I shook with the force of Violence’s magic, pressure drowning my head, crushing my chest, bowing my bones until I waited for them to break.
The gods were still screaming, and I was suddenly very glad my husbands weren’t here.
We would all die, but they’d live. They could fight for the domain, save our home and—
Death wouldn’t. He was clinging to life, wasting away every day, every hour. Miz would survive. Tor and Madde would. Pain would survive if he found his heart. But Death would join me wherever gods went when they died.
Would I be rewarded with a new life, a clean slate of memories, like my dad? Or would there be nothing left of me?
A fresh wave of agony crashed into me and my back bowed, my fingers tipped with jaguar’s claws as I scrabbled at the mud, out of my mind with pain.
My teeth were sharper, limbs straining oddly, but I didn’t have enough strength left to shift.
Maybe I didn’t have magic left, either. Maybe Violence had drained it all from me, the way he drained the spirits.
I told myself to fight, to crawl through the mud and get my scales, to unleash their judgement upon Violence, but I’d tried. So many times. And I was tired.
“How wise,” his repugnant voice floated over my head, as cold and composed as ever, “to kneel before your king. If I didn’t hate you so much, I might let you live if only to make you kneel every day. Cruelty would enjoy watching you kneel, Cat. Or should I say Kitty.”
There was enough left in me, just a scrap of control, to flinch. Violence didn’t even try to hide his laugh. His sick chuckle rippled over my skin like the poisoned touch of a hemlock plant.
“Get on your feet,” he commanded.
A fist grabbed my hair, ripping tears from my eyes as he forced me to slide through the mud, forced me to find my feet even as my legs shook and caved in. “I’ll enjoy breaking you before I wipe every trace of your miserable existence from the world.”
I didn’t care that I was crying. Didn’t care that I wasn’t fighting. What was the use? I’d given everything to battling him, weakening him, injuring him, and it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough, even if I gave my last breath.
“So cooperative now,” he taunted. “Put your hands on my shoulders. Touch your king in supplication, subject.”
The word rang through my ears, shot through my muscles in another flinch.
The double meaning was clear, the reminder that I was a beast, that he was the reason Poppy had that vial of my blood, that I changed.
Even if I didn’t resent my jaguar now, even if I enjoyed the brutality and severity…
it had changed me. They had changed me. Twisted me so far from the innocent, anxiety-ridden girl that stepped off the boat my first day in Ford’s End.
I wasn’t sure that Cat would recognise herself in me. No, I knew she wouldn’t.
I hesitated, my vision swimming, but it was as if he'd grabbed the dial of my pain and turned it all the way to maximum. A scream ruptured my throat, white blinded my vision, and for a long moment there was only the pain. No Cat, no magic, no judgement, only pain.
When it released me, I sank to my knees at Violence’s feet, and I hated him.
“So sweet of you to kneel once more,” he said, making my skin crawl when his fingers sifted through my hair. “But your king gave you a command.”
“Just kill me,” I breathed, tasting blood as my lips cracked. “I’d rather die than touch you.”
Violence’s laughter this time was a low, delighted rumble. My heart collided with my ribs, not because of his laughter, but because a shadow stirred behind him, low to the ground where he wouldn’t see. Tears burned and dripped down my cheeks.
“If I—” I gasped, trying not to look at that shadow as I reached within the dark pocket where I’d put Pain’s heart. “If I touch you—will you let me live?”
He was pleased with the question. “I’ll consider it.”
I shook as I scrambled in the dirt and pushed to my feet, disguising the flick of my wrist with the motion. I couldn’t look to see if Pain caught it, couldn’t see if he placed it where it belonged. A pained heart returned.
But if playing along with Violence’s cruel whim bought Pain time, meant he survived, I’d do it.
So I rose on my unsteady legs, and reached out shaking hands, setting them on Violence’s shoulders. I breathed through my mouth, my stomach roiling, lurching.
“Embrace your king, Kitty,” he commanded, victory shining in flat eyes. I knew this was for Cruelty, knew he wouldn’t be content until he snuffed out every last glimmer of hope, until he broke me for good.
But for Pain, I slid closer in the mud, and I hoped I did throw up; I hoped I puked all over Violence’s designer suit, so he wore both muck and vomit.
“I should have broken you months ago, instead of letting Cruelty play with you,” he mused. He didn’t lift his arms to hug me, didn’t touch me at all. It wasn’t about that; this was a power play. Forcing me to be his supplicant, as he’d taunted.
Pain must have his heart by now. Maybe with all but one task complete, it would be enough to stabilise the domain, to keep Violence from stealing any more power.
More shadows, right on the edge of my vision, but I didn’t dare look. Not as Violence’s vile mouth curved into a faint smirk. “Now kiss your king, Kitty.”
I knew. Of course I knew where this was leading, that he would demand a kiss next.
He was determined to break every last part of me, and stealing this would shatter the parts of me that remained.
He’d send me to my death with every last thing poisoned.
A non-consensual kiss to taint all the memories of my treasured kisses.
Hideous touches to taint the memories of my husbands touching me, me touching them.
Control and coercion to smother love and softness and care.
He didn’t just want me dead. He wanted me ruined. Broken in the way a horse could be broken but still useful. Or broken but even more useful.
“Kiss your king, Cat,” he repeated, steely, cold.
And it shook something loose.
Snapped something back into place.
Changed everything.
“If I kiss you,” I whispered, my mouth dry, “you’ll let me live?”
“I’ll let you live,” he lied.
Fortunately, I wouldn’t extend the same courtesy.
I could see I’d surprised him when his eyes flared, satisfaction basking his features in a sick light. I kept my hands loose around his back so he couldn’t feel the prick of my claws. I kept my canines covered with my lips as I pressed my mouth to the offensive line of his and forced them open.
He laughed—he actually laughed when I spat in his mouth, as if he thought I’d gotten carried away kissing him, as if this was a kink I’d chosen to indulge with the worst monster on the planet, the most despicable excuse for a living being. He laughed, and grinned, and then he choked.
When I stumbled back, my legs gave way, and I returned to the ground. Foul mud had soaked through my clothes into my skin. But I was alive. Agonised and bruise-headed and with a scream building inside my chest. But I was alive.
And Violence was dying.
He ripped at the collar of his shirt, his face turning blue. His head whipped from side to side as if that would get more air into his lungs, as if it would stop his organs shutting down.
“Venom,” I managed to rasp with the last of my rapidly fleeting energy. “Creature venom.”
I may have been dead, and a goddess, but I was still the creature he, Cruelty, and Poppy had made me. And I’d just used it to get vengeance for all of us. No god was immune to a creature’s venom. No god except me.
Violence choked once more, and then crashed to the ground.
And did not move again.