Chapter 4 Sadaré #2
It’s him, of course. The god. I try not to think about what he’s the god of for at least another moment, willing the trilling panic in my chest to calm.
Fortunately lightning flashes just at that moment as if to distract me, sparking in the dark mass of clouds outside the window and striking into the sea.
Or maybe it’s not so fortunate, because for a split second the bright flare illuminates the silhouette of something monstrous swimming within a colossal wave, its sinuous body bigger than any whale I’ve ever seen, and with many more jagged fins. I can’t help shuddering.
He senses my reaction, since there’s hardly any space between us.
He rests a soothing hand on my shoulder while, with the other, he reaches around me to tap the glass with one of his long, pale fingers, making me flinch at the sharp report.
He’s strong—no surprise, for a god—even if the hand on me is gentle.
“I don’t recommend going for a swim,” he says in that rich, deep voice that hints at both amusement and greater depths. It would be a seductive voice if not for who he is. What he represents.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say with admirable calm.
“Good, because I have other plans for you.” Suddenly the presence at my back is gone, releasing the tension around me like a held breath. At least I can finally breathe and move again.
I turn to find him standing across the room in one of the double doors, now open, his powerful figure leaning with deceptive ease against the frame. I heard as little of his retreat as I did his approach—which is to say nothing at all, as if he simply appeared both times. He probably did.
From a safe distance, I let myself study him with equal parts fear and curiosity—and, reluctantly, no little appreciation.
He’s undeniably beautiful. He appears as he did in the mortal realm, his bone-white skin as smooth and flawless as marble along his steep forehead, sharp nose, and angular cheeks, his strong jaw shadowed by a trim black beard.
His black hair is perfectly straight, pulled into a high, folded tail on his crown.
In continued defiance of color, the robe he wears is black, though it’s embroidered in dark silver at the edges to highlight the iron of his eyes—a predator’s metallic gaze.
And yet the cloth hangs utterly still over his undertunic as if he’s set apart, untouched by outside forces that might otherwise affect him.
His feet are bare, as they were against the stones of my house when he killed me.
He’s one of the most alluring beings I’ve ever laid eyes upon… but also the deadliest.
He is, after all, the god of death.
He appears barely into his fourth decade from one angle, but then ageless from another. I don’t know exactly when the gods coalesced, but his years would be measured by the thousands, tens of thousands—a number I can’t even comprehend after a certain point.
He gives me a sly smile with equally seductive lips that may very well be hiding a viper’s fangs. Watching me watch him. Taking in my response. He obviously knows I’m afraid… and that I find him attractive.
Anyone would, I tell myself. He’s stunning. Or maybe I’m a special sort of fool. I willingly pursued a daemon for power, after all, when most people would have run screaming. Why not throw myself at the god who killed me to survive my afterlife?
Still, physical beauty loses its sheen if it only masks something horrible beneath. Daesra’s covered up a deep, dark wound within, but he had the horns and red eyes to show it. And the cracks in his mask only sharpened his beauty—for me, at least.
I wonder what this god is hiding.
I’m unsure why he looks human when the other gods don’t—gods other than Daesra, that is.
Perhaps he, too, abides by different rules because of his unique position in a realm separate from both the divine and mortal worlds, but one yet touched by mortality—one that’s built upon the bones of mortality.
Literally. I resist glancing at the walls again.
“Have you rested long enough?” he asks with seeming consideration, though his iron eyes don’t soften. “It can take a moment for souls to collect themselves.” His tone turns wry. “And you have the baggage of your memories.”
Not to mention the ring, which I of course don’t mention. Before he can offer to relieve me of those memories, I raise my new shadow-made limb. “And this.”
“I gave that to you upon arrival. Do you like it?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “It suits you.”
“You didn’t need to do that. I was fine without it.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice. Of course it’s useful, but I already bear enough marks of his ownership with the cuffs and collar. Now it’s as if he owns a part of me.
Never mind that I’m supposed to want all of this, not just the shadowy limb.
“He took it from you,” the god says, shrugging. “I gave it back. He’ll never harm you again. I take care of what’s mine.” The words are calm, matter-of-fact.
He wears an air of casual elegance as well as that of intense dominance—and can somehow manage both at the same time.
His arrogant poise would be irritating if it weren’t so damned hypnotic.
I remind myself of the potential—no, the inevitability—of the hidden fangs behind those enticing lips, and I smother any admiration in my incredulous regard.
“You do?” I choke on a laugh. “You killed me.” I supposedly came willingly, but I can’t escape the irony of it.
“And in death you are preserved—at least here, under my watch.” His metallic gaze flickers as he tosses his head, but the folded tail of his black hair doesn’t stir.
While it’s eerie, it only adds to his aura of untouchable beauty.
“Come, I’ll show you. Allow me to give you a tour of your new home.
” It’s not a request as he gestures the way through the open door. “And call me Isha.”
Also not a request.
“Does it mean death?” I ask, making my tone flippant as I force my feet to carry me toward him.
“Master,” he says, not seeming to notice when one of my steps stutter. “I am Isha Aggatar, Master of Death. But simply Isha will work for you.”
Simply master—master of me. There’s no hidden meaning there.
These walls might protect me from whatever is outside, but despite his calling this my home, these walls are not mine.
I am not my own. As he waits for me to come to heel in the doorway, it becomes clearer than ever that I’ve only had the illusion of choice since I met him.
But I can pretend I’m choosing this life with him—this death, rather—so at least he thinks I’m eager.
That I would actually choose this, if I had the choice.
Without needing much encouragement, I let my eyes openly sweep across his broad shoulders, along his firm jaw, and down the wide plane of his chest as I precede him, giving him a small smile.
His sharp, predatory gaze follows me before the rest of him does, and I feel his presence like a shadow at my back.
I have to pretend as if I’ve forgotten Daesra so I’m never forced to.
I can’t help hearing my mother’s words as I start down a long spiraling staircase of bone, Isha trailing me like a tall, dark shadow: Always bear any burden placed upon you like a queen, especially the less choice you have.
Even after my father beat her, my mother would smile at him and go to his bed, just to maintain her queenly status. What will I do to maintain my illusion?
At least there’s no chance I’ll ever love the god of death, like my mother seemed to both love and hate my father. For me, there’s only hatred. Hatred so strong it might as well be radiating off me.
Isha’s voice jerks me out of my reverie. “You’re quiet. I expected more questions. More vexing commentary, at the very least.”
I startle guiltily, as if he somehow caught me in the wrong. I suppose I was wronging him in my thoughts, even if I wasn’t vexing him aloud.
And yet it almost sounds like he wants me to vex him.
“I’m still taking it all in.”
“But you’ve seen nothing yet.” He gestures the way forward after we finally reach a door at the bottom of the stairs, which opens onto a long arcade lined with windows.
“This leads to the west wing of my fortress. Your room is at the top of the outer western tower, which is connected by this covered bridge—safe from the elements. Each wing has an outlying tower.”
So he’s keeping me in an isolated tower, at a distance.
At least that explains the lofty vantage I had, even if the view was dismal.
I wonder if the rest of the underworld looks the same, and can’t help wandering over to the line of windows on my right to gain a different perspective.
My eyes trace a snaking orange glow in the gloom outside, hungry for any light in the dark landscape.
What I first take for a line of torches or some other sort of procession is too far away for that, across a tumultuous span of sea, and not made of individual flames but a continuous line of fire.
It’s a river of fire, winding along the base of jagged mountain peaks before curving and sinking between them.
Isha’s low, velvety voice comes from directly behind me again, and I manage not to jump this time.
I’m already getting used to him sneaking up on me.
“The River of Fire drops into the Pit of Hell. It’s where the worst sort go—wretched mortal shades, beastly abominations that barely have souls, and even daemons that I’ve managed to claim. ”
I don’t rise to the bait with his obvious reference to Daesra. “Creative names,” I murmur. Perhaps all gods are as literal as their own designations when it comes to naming other things.
I can hear his smile—and can already picture the sensual curve of his mouth, as if those hidden fangs are already sinking into my thoughts, if not my flesh. “I can use the old tongue if you wish, but I kept it simple for your sake.”