Chapter Two
Snapping the book shut, I stare at the fire, my mind reeling.
Lies.
All of it.
It has to be. Netharis cannot be powerful enough to create and control a goddess.
The book confirmed Celesta as my mother.
She had given birth to Vaelyn and me as a mortal, a winged fae.
Not because she fell in love with the god of death.
No, nothing quite so romantic. She signed a contract in which she was required to give Netharis an heir.
Making Vaelyn and I half-demon. Not the agreed upon creations between two gods I’d assumed we were. For nearly twelve centuries I’ve existed believing myself to be the abandoned construct between the moon goddess and the god of death.
Half-demon, half winged fae.
The fact alone rattled my entire world, but as I read on, it got worse.
Celesta and her mate were some of the last of their kind, living in Erus. At some point, her mate fell ill. Details in the book were vague surrounding this, but did mention the rapid spread of a sickness partly responsible for the decline in winged fae populations.
In her desperation to save her mate, Celesta appealed to multiple gods—Gaia, Nektos, Indui, Atia, Helias… None answered.
But Netharis swooped in, primed to feed on her misery and despair. My father is the only god known to answer the prayers of mortals and only when they’re hopeless enough to sign a contract with little regard to the terms of the agreement.
Celesta did exactly that.
She became one of the damned souls I’m sent to collect.
Netharis promised to grant her the power to save her mate, but she failed to read the fine print of what Netharis would gain in return. Unsurprisingly, Celesta grew angry, refusing to be a host, a vessel to grow and birth demons. In that time, her mate grew sicker.
The contract outlined she would not ascend until she had delivered on her half of the agreement first. She watched her mate grow closer to death with each passing day until finally she relented. The day Celesta delivered, the day Vaelyn and I were born, her mate died.
Whether their death was due to the sickness or Netharis’ influence, the book doesn’t clarify. But honestly, knowing Netharis, the mate’s death is because of him. Netharis is a spiteful god.
She gave him his heir and he took her mate anyway.
I couldn’t bring myself to read the last two chapters.
Not after all of that.
Resisting the urge to hurl the book into the fire, I toss it, face down onto the table beside me and sigh. Fighting sharp waves of nausea, my jaw tightens.
If Vaelyn and I had been born in the living realm, we should have been given the opportunity to live.
I’d occasionally wondered why Celesta never made herself known in the hells when so many other gods had—and now it makes sense.
I wouldn’t want to see or acknowledge children I’d been forced to have either.
Netharis’ preference for Vaelyn makes sense in the context of the hells, a patriarchal hierarchy. But I fail to understand why he would pull me into the hells when he has no use for a daughter.
I could have had a life.
Gods know what kind of mortal I’d be.
I sure as the hells wouldn’t be anything like the creature I am now.
Growing up in the hells is a strange thing. I can’t honestly call it ‘growing’ as nothing grows in this realm. Vaelyn and I simply came into existence one day and began to learn our roles within the demonic hierarchy. Oft times it was a trial by hellfire, quite literally at times.
Vaelyn learned everything he needed to rule the hells. I learned how to serve it. Nothing more than a tool to my father, he uses me to secure contracts, tempt Layer Lords, and reap souls of the damned.
An untouchable trophy.
That’s how I serve my House.
All of this information about my mother begs the question why her? Why would Netharis, the god of death, choose a mortal winged fae to mother his heir? It doesn’t make sense. Not when his subsequent children were mothered by goddesses.
There has to be something I’m missing.
Some answer I’m overlooking.
Letting my head fall back against the chair, I stare at the high ceiling and sigh. My head is filled with questions I’ll never ask Netharis and thus never find the answers to.
“Oh good, you’re still here!”
Jerking upright at the sound of Ylara’s voice, my head whirls over my shoulder. Ylara sprints toward me, her dark eyes lighting up as they meet mine. Her pin-straight, black hair swirls about her face and chin, and I can’t help but feel she’s cut it yet again.
She crosses the library in a matter of seconds, halting abruptly beside me and kneeling. The broad grin on her face is ridiculous.
“What are you doing, Ylara?” I ask, weary.
She curls her hands over the armrest of my chair. “Please tell me you’re finished with your reapings,” she breathes, not because she’s exerted herself, but because she wants to be dramatic.
Staring at her, my concern deepens along with the crease between my brows. An excited demon, even if it’s little Ylara, is always good reason to give pause.
“I finished earlier, yes,” I answer with a slight nod.
She springs to her feet and I recoil, leaning away from her.
“Perfect!” She nearly shrieks the word, clapping her hands. “I’m almost finished with my list, and the next—”
“You haven’t finished?” I hiss at her, peering over the back of the chair toward the library entrance, half expecting the god of death to appear. Sliding my eyes back to her, I give her a withering glare. “If Netharis finds you here—”
“Ves, listen!” She shakes her head. “My next reaping is in Ollora.”
Ollora, the capitol city of Erus.
I blink.
A moment passes and the bitter sting of jealousy settles into my veins.
I haven’t been given reapings in any of the major cities in two centuries, reapings at night for half that. Ylara announcing her reaping in one of my favorite fae cities during what would be the dead of night wraps itself around my lifeless heart and squeezes.
“I didn’t take you for the cruel type, Ylara,” I manage, not masking my hurt.
Her expression shifts with concern and confusion. “What? No. Ves, I want you to come with me.”
“What?” Surely I didn’t hear her correctly.
She grips the back of my chair and gives it a shake. “Yes! Netharis has already said you could come with me.”
My confusion transforms into laden fear.
Netharis never gives freely.
“What did you agree to, Ylara?” I shift in my seat to see her better.
The excitement from her eyes fades, but her smile remains. “Nothing of substance,” she answers.
A lie.
“Gods, Ylara, why?” I huff, rubbing my brow. “Nothing is worth signing for. Especially not five minutes in Ollora.”
Her smile falters, growing somber. “Vaelyn mentioned you were in a mood and I know what that means.”
I should be touched.
I should be warmed by the fact my youngest sibling has signed yet another contract with the god of death to grant me the opportunity to walk through the veil in a city I adore. Instead, I’m angry. She should know better than to ever agree to anything Netharis offers.
“Did you go to him with this or did he come to you?”
“I went to him.”
That makes it worse.
And poor Ylara, she’s barely three centuries old.
She hasn’t learned what I’ve learned, despite my best attempts to teach her.
Some lessons can only be learned by making mistakes, regardless of how costly they are.
If I don’t go with her, it makes her new contract pointless.
She’ll be forced to pay her end of the agreement either way.
“Godsdamn Vaelyn and his mouth,” I mutter to myself.
I’m going to do more than hurl a book at him the next time I see his damned face.
“You’re a fool,” I relent with a slow toss of my head.
“Make it worth the agreement, Ves,” she pleads, her black eyes pinning against mine. “Come with me to Ollora. See the night sky. Walk through the city you love. Get out of the hells, even if it’s only for five minutes.”
It’s tempting.
Especially after today—the dream, reading about Celesta, I need the distraction. For five minutes, I could forget about all of it. I could lose myself in the beauty, the architecture, the night sky.
Gods, I could stare at the night sky for eternity.
Shoving the nagging worry back into the dark depths of my being, I turn my attention to the fire. It continues to pop and crackle behind the screen, the thin metal barrier keeping one stray spark from turning all these books to ash.
“I’ll go,” I finally relent and Ylara’s smile returns, broader than before.
“I’ve never been to Ollora,” she says, her excitement palpable.
Dragging my eyes to hers, I give her a soft smile. “I hope you hate it.”
Her face pinches with confusion.
“Because it hurts to fall in love with a place you’re never going to be a part of,” I finish, my voice quiet.
I don’t often express my innermost thoughts, but the words had fallen out of me before I was able to stop myself. My innate tingles, a gentle reminder that despite how alone I may feel in the hells, it will always be with me.
Or perhaps it’s a warning.