2 #2
The houses and plants thin the farther we walk beneath the already sweltering mid-morning sun, until only we, the creosote, and prickly pears adorn the worn path.
Our boots crunch along the bone-dry ground.
I focus on the sound, trying to make it stomp away every fear and worry boiling through my head.
“How have you been?” he finally tries.
I hate that Morrigan sent him instead of a messenger. I hate the sound of his voice. And worst of all, I hate that once upon a time, I loved it.
“Come on, Callalie,” he laments. “I’m trying to be civil here.”
“Who said I craved civility?”
Niall gives up, like Niall often does, and we continue our trek in blessed silence.
It’s hard not to note the differences in him. Time has chiseled away every soft trace of youth. His auburn hair is cut as precisely as his body, where it used to fall into his green eyes and curl at his nape and ears. I used to love the silken feel of his hair under my fingertips.
He flicks his eyes toward my leg when Abuela’s oil wears thin far too soon and metal scrapes metal once again. But he matches my slowing pace and wisely keeps his thoughts to himself.
How many months has it been since I saw him?
Almost one year has passed since Carina was slain.
My heart caves when I realize I likely won’t be there when Abuela burns the copal resin in her memory. I nearly cry when I realize I forgot to put something on her grave before I left.
How could I forget that?
Before long, the portal gleams in the distance. Our eyes are forced away by the bright glint of desert sun on the gold rim. There’s no one around when we reach it.
The only time desert dwellers leave the burnt earth no one else wants is when they must. Those who make their homes here have learned through hardship that the lush prize on the other side isn’t worth the price you’ll pay to have it.
My thoughts slide to my brother again. Cillian uses this doorway more than anyone I know, traveling back and forth through the portal to his apprenticeship.
The first time he left the house to work in Olympus, he didn’t tell me he was going and slipped out of the house before I woke up.
When I found out he was gone and where, I had a panic attack, then cried until I vomited and was sick for hours, assuming he would be killed like Carina was.
And worse, we wouldn’t have a telecaster to even know.
But he walked through Abuela’s bright door that evening. And the next. And every day he’s been required to work in Olympus since.
Carina died because of me. If Cillian suffered the same fate, Abuela wouldn’t survive it, and I wouldn’t want to.
I fish Morrigan’s missive from my pocket, as does Niall. Portals carry mortals from realm to realm as the person pleases. Seals aren’t required, but this wax holds our goddess’s power. It will draw us straight to her – wherever she happens to be.
Every conscription she sends bears this seal.
I was terrified the first time I traveled through one of these things.
Portals look like enormous gold doors with no frame or knob. I glance away from my reflection while I press the dark seal against its surface. Morrigan’s will is absorbed and the gold begins to swirl and thin until the portal glows, almost transparent.
Morrigan is at her home, in the realm she created and keeps. Damp air bleeds into the arid day around me. The scent of lush grass and petrichor greet me like an old friend.
Our orders, hands, then bodies are drawn in, and we’re swept away.
Drizzle falls from moody, swollen clouds. We stand at the edge of a cliff. One that kisses a frothing gray sea that slams against the rocks at its base again and again, relentless in its stubborn pursuit to wear away the stone. Cool wind drags our clothes and my hair sideways.
The change in temperature, though abrupt, is welcome. The desert sun in summer is punishing – especially when wearing Morrigan’s dark uniform.
The goddess swoops over the cliff’s edge in the form of a raven, landing in the verdant grass beside us.
Niall startles when she shifts into her female body. She may look human, but divinity wafts from her.
I turn to face her, my knee protesting.
She curls a lip at the appendage. “Why are you screeching?”
I gesture to the offensive joint. “My prosthesis is worn beyond repair. I requested a replacement. Your acolytes replied, saying I’m on the craftsman’s long list.”
“I’ll have it handled immediately,” she snarls. “The grating sound will reflect poorly on me.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. If I’d known appealing to her ego instead of focusing on my need for a functional prosthesis would work, I’d have worded my request differently.
This leg wasn’t even made for me. It belonged to another female soldier, and because we were close enough in height and build and she died and didn’t need it anymore, it was hastily altered to fit my thigh so I could learn to walk again as quickly as possible.
Morrigan didn’t allow her soldiers time to grieve any losses.
We returned to duty as soon as a healer said we were on the mend – not mended.