Divine Descent (The Labyrinth #2)

Chapter 1 Isha

ISHA

I’M UTTERLY still when she enters her home, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright—so alive. I would almost hate to see that light go out of her.

Almost.

“Hello?” she says, glancing around as if expecting someone.

She couldn’t possibly have expected me, and her eyes pass over where I sit, draped in shadows and silence.

When she receives no answer, her brow creases in puzzlement.

I don’t reveal myself, content to observe her as she turns a full circle, searching her quaint abode.

She’s yet unafraid, vibrant in a pale green tunic belted with flaxen rope at the waist, her chest twined with the same fibrous bonds, tightly accentuating her form.

The rope also winds around her forearm in a cuff that I know isn’t mere decoration, but coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

Ready to unleash the pain that brings her power.

Briefly, I imagine my own cuff there. The fear I might inspire in her eyes.

When she finds no one, she goes to the window to peer outside, her red-bronze hair glowing like embers in the stream of afternoon sunlight slanting inside. She braces one arm against the counter, gripping the marble edge, her other arm ending in a stump below the elbow. Showing me her back.

How easily I could wrap my hands around that slender neck of hers from behind.

Instead, I only shift my legs where I recline, crossing them at the ankle as I allow myself to fully solidify on the mortal plane.

She must sense my presence, though she tries to hide it—out of cleverness or simple terror?

I doubt the latter. The spinning wheels of her mind are silent, but the sudden tension in the graceful line of her pale shoulder gives her away, bared by the split curtain of her hair, and her knuckles whiten on the counter’s edge.

Such small details don’t escape me. My eyes scan her body as if she were a temple with an unknown dedication. But I know whom she worships.

Is she looking for him outside, even knowing I’ve come? Knowing it’s too late?

“Did your boy god leave you alone?” I ask casually, by way of greeting. My voice is a dark breeze that sends a shiver over her skin that once again only I can see. “You may look upon me without turning to ash, if that’s your concern.”

Most gods are made of pure aether, and in their true form they tend to incinerate those mortals who are unfortunate enough to spy them with the naked eye. I’m mixed with a darker substance.

She surprises me by speaking before she turns. “I know why you’re here.”

She finally looks over her shoulder—Sadaré, the name she’s using now whispering through my mind—her green eyes sharp in the soft, pleasing angles of her face.

I wear my own face for her, pieced together with enough contrast to be interesting to me, if confined: strong, pale contours; a short black beard matching my straight, neatly bound-up hair; eyes the color of polished iron.

I hear I’m beautiful. I usually don’t care.

To her credit, I barely hear her intake of breath at the sight of me, though I know how I must appear to her, cloaked in the grace of finality and the perfection of the unchanging.

Never mind that I’ve made myself thoroughly at home, sprawled in a black robe in the boy god’s favorite leather chair, a cup of their best vintage already in my hand.

She shakes her head as if to deny what she’s seeing. Deny me.

I take a sip of wine, my lips curving in a sly smile. “Not surprised to see me?”

“You want Daesra,” she says, swallowing. Her mouth is dry.

She must not understand that I can’t take him—not anymore, after what he’s become. And yet I’m curious how she imagines this ending.

All I say is “You sound parched. Would you care for some wine?” As if this were my house, not theirs. She the guest, not me.

Though I’m hardly a guest.

She doesn’t answer, only stands with that coiled tension.

“Are you going to try attacking me with your witch’s magic?” I ask, as if that could be a pleasant diversion. It would be amusing at the very least.

She must know those tricks won’t work against me, because she only glances once more at the window. I don’t bother looking myself, because he will most certainly be too late.

Instead of answering any of my questions, she asks me another. “Why are you so bent on claiming him?” The frightened press of her lips somehow tilts into a smirk. “Seems there are better uses for your time.”

She’s brave, I’ll grant her that—and perhaps an explanation as well, though it’s usually beneath me to justify my actions. After all, she doesn’t know me. Yet.

I wave my hand lazily in the air. “You’re a clever enough girl, so you must know I have endless time.

And what better use of it could there be than to punish those who so thoroughly break the rules—my rules, specifically?

His very essence is defiance, but I am the ultimate reckoning.

I am the inevitable. So many forms he has taken to flee my grasp, and yet I will always find him: Deseus, the half boy, half god who became a daemon.

Daesra, your twisted reflection. Deonyus, I would call him now.

New god in an old tongue, as if such a transformation could disguise his true nature.

Boy god might yet suit him better, but even I would accord him a name befitting his station, little though he deserves it.

Either way, he will be mine in the end.”

“His name is Daesra,” she insists with a determination that makes my jaw twitch imperceptibly. Less imperceptibly, her hand begins to rise, slowly, subtly. She’s reaching for something. My eyes shoot to her neck, where she wears a silver ring threaded on a leather cord.

My hand closes over the ring first. Because I’m no longer reclined across the room, but standing before her in less than a blink of a mortal eye.

She gasps in truth and lurches back, but not far, pinned between me and the marble counter as she is, the cord at her neck pulling taut.

I don’t relax my grip, even though I risk marring her neck.

It’s my right to leave my mark on her, if I desire. And I do, especially in the face of her defiance.

“What’s this?” I ask, glancing down at the ring held trapped in my fist.

“Just a trinket,” she breathes, her voice effervescent with fear.

I like the texture of it.

“Come now.” I jerk the cord playfully, though it bites into her neck. “I thought you were clever, which means you shouldn’t take me for a fool.”

She scoffs out a breath that’s closer to a laugh—not what I expected. “Fine. Daesra gave it to me, as a symbol of the bond between us. He would have me wear it on my finger, but I’ve kept it there.” She nods at my fist. “Kept him waiting.”

“And yet you were reaching for it.”

“I toy with it when I’m nervous.” She tosses one shoulder, calmer now. “You can have it for all I care.”

I snap the cord from her neck, lurching her forward.

She can’t help careening into me, steadying herself with her palm against my chest. I stand immovable, merely raising my brow as she looks up at me.

It’s not only her pained surprise—the flinch there and gone—that I see windowed in her wide eyes, but her rush of pleasure, which she quickly blinks away.

And yet I caught it, as surely as a hunter to a skittish hare.

It’s true, then. She likes pain. It’s not only a means to an end for her magic. She enjoys it.

I may very well enjoy this.

My hand swallows the ring, stealing it away to my realm. I can’t sense anything peculiar about it, but if it’s significant to him, it’s significant to me, whatever it is to her.

She tries to shift around me, but I plant my hands on the marble on either side of her, penning her in. She presses her hips against the edge in a futile attempt to back away. For a moment, I imagine what those curves would feel like under my palms.

Not yet.

“I would offer my thanks,” I say, holding her wide eyes as I lean forward, forcing her to lean farther back, “but I’ve already taken it. Just as I will take Deonyus or Daesra, whatever name the boy god wishes to give himself. You must understand”—I tip my head at her—“I always get what I want.”

I’m about to add eventually when what she says next gives me pause, especially with how resolute her voice is:

“Take me instead.”

My heavy stare weighs on her for a moment. She attempts to straighten, which only brings her closer to the question upon my lips.

“Tell me, why would I want you, Arinae?” Her offer to once again grant me what I’ve already claimed leaves me curious about her thoughts, when I’m rarely curious anymore.

“Sadaré,” she insists. “My name is Sadaré now.”

There will be time to punish her for her stubbornness later, so I only reach up to tug a lock of her hair, making her flinch. I smile in return. “Then I ask again, Sadaré, why you? You’re a mere mortal. He’s the true prize.”

No lies, just a question and the facts. She’ll know my intention soon enough, if she doesn’t already.

Her words come slightly breathless. “You know how it would hurt him, to realize I’m with you.”

Oh, I know, but I pretend to consider the possibilities that I’ve already imagined hundreds, thousands of times, twisting the strand of her red hair around my bone-white finger before letting it drop.

I want a fistful of it tangled in my grip, but now isn’t the time.

“An appealing prospect, I must admit. However, much as with the ring, you’re not offering me anything I can’t take already. ”

“It’s not what is offered but the intent behind it. I gave the ring willingly, and you would prefer I give myself to you willingly, as well. I can tell.”