14
August is practically vibrating with fury when he comes to stand in front of me. “What can I do?”
I shake my head. And because of the stress of the situation, I start to cry. I’ve fought many people in battle. Women and men of all ages and from all bloodlines. All of them met me with honor.
Torsten had none. He was a coward. Pretending to leave the party to plot and strategize with the championed, only to come here and ransack my house and attack me when he didn’t find what he wanted.
What did he tell the other contestants who’d followed him from the temple? Did they know he was coming here to steal the spear? Did Niall?
“Thank you,” I blubber, standing up straight and gingerly retreating into my ruined home.
August steps over everything littering the floor and gathers me against his chest. He rests his chin on my head.
“I almost wish the sand locked us in again and kept everyone else out like the first night,” I whisper. But then Cillian and Daedalus couldn’t have visited me.
Music still cascades from the hilltop where the party continues. A waterfall of pretty notes.
“What did he do?” he softly asks, holding me a little tighter.
My voice is weak. “He wanted the spear. He tore my house apart searching for it. When he couldn’t find it, he waited for me to come home.”
August’s back tenses under my hands. “You’re not staying here tonight.”
The floor is littered with glass shards, strewn and torn clothing, the splintered pieces of my last remaining chair, the broken bed and shredded-to-ribbons mattress. A pool of Torsten’s blood glistens wet on the tile. Its coppery tang fills the air. My stomach turns.
I stare at the exposed mosaic of Carina and me and nod. “Okay.”
Would she have deemed this a victory or a defeat? Because as August brings me out of my destroyed home, defeat is all I feel.
“Do you want to bring the spear?” he pauses to ask outside.
“No.” I’ll retrieve it before our next trial, when I’ll inevitably need it. Until then, it’s safe.
Besides, if Torsten, his little followers, or the gods who champion them are somehow still watching us, they’ll learn where it’s hidden, and that spot might come in handy again later. It’s apparently a good one.
I glance over at Niall’s house as we start down the sandy path.
August’s gaze follows mine. “Did he know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You were right about him if he did,” he tells me.
“I’m right about him either way.” Even if I wish I wasn’t.
The wind plasters the back of my blood-soaked dress against my skin as we walk to August’s oikos. His door is wide open, showing how he’d come running the moment he knew I was in trouble.
It’s warm inside, well-lit, and… oddly tidy. August immediately goes to the bathing room basin to wash his hands. They and his forearms are stained with Torsten’s blood. So are his shirt and slacks.
I’d erroneously assumed all guys were like my brother, Cillian, who is a pig. His room always looks like Torsten’s been searching for something in it.
August’s, on the other hand, is neat.
When he emerges, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I can run back and find something for you to wear, or you can borrow something of mine.”
I want to go search the wreckage for my lost feather. Just… not tonight. My nerves are shaken and I don’t want to go back while it’s dark. I also don’t want August to leave me to go look on his own.
I offer a sheepish smile. “I’ll borrow something of yours, if you don’t mind. When the sun rises, I’ll go clean up the mess he made.”
August crosses the room to his chest, tosses open the lid, and rifles through his clothing. While he’s busy, I wander across the room to look at his fresco.
Starting from the left, I see August on stage at one of his concerts, his fingers expertly plucking guitar strings. Sweat dampens his face and hair and plasters the shirt to his body. The crowd roars, hands in the air.
I move to the right and the image shifts. He’s on the same stage, wearing the same clothes, blowing a kiss off his palm. Girls always scream when he does that, wishing his kiss was meant for them.
“No wonder the gods are jealous,” I murmur. “It’s like they’re worshipping you.”
August stiffens, and his hand tightens on the white tee shirt in his hand.
“Is that why you’re here?” I guess.
He stares at me for a long moment, a question on his brow, before waving me toward the bathing room. “Does what brought any of us here matter in the end? We’ll all be exiting their games one way or another.”
Win them. Defeat every other mortal here. Make them fall as you rise. Or die.
In the bathing room, he places the shirt on a small table along with a towel and wash cloth. “Need anything else?”
When I shake my head, he inclines his head and moves toward the door. His bathing room is tiled from ceiling to floor, like mine. It’s not the same turquoise tile as in my oikos, but rather tiny squares that match the pale tan sand on the shore when the sun burns it into powder.
“Actually,” I say, watching his back muscles tense, “can I use one of your chairs?”
“Of course,” he agrees, bringing one in before excusing himself again.
I settle it on the tile just inside the shower, strip off my torn, blood-soaked dress, along with my undergarments, and sit on the chair to remove my prosthesis.
Daedalus’s magic releases its grip. Thankfully, my new sheath isn’t ruined.
The remaining feather in my hair comes free with a tug. Blood stains the barbs.
When I stand, the movement triggers a cool cascade from the shower head. It spills over my sore scalp, shoulders, and back. The water warms and scours my skin. The mess swirls around my foot and down the drain.
I wash Torsten’s blood from my feather.
Some of the other unchampioned contestants also have weapons. Were they robbed tonight, too? Were they beaten, or worse?
Gods damned Torsten. I hope his nose and balls ache for weeks and every time he takes a step or breath, he remembers who dealt his pain.
He won’t forget this. When he faces Freyja with bruises and a cracked nose, he’ll have to explain where he got them.
I need allies, not enemies, but here we are. He chose violence tonight and left me no other choice.
Sighing, I lean against the cool shower wall, working bergamot and citrus soap into my hair with tired hands, then scrub until my flesh is red and raw and I smell like August instead of iron.
When I sit in the chair again, the water stops pouring. I reach out and grab the towel, wrapping it around my body before wringing water from my long hair. I stay seated until my skin dries, then pull his shirt on.
I lift the collar to my nose, sniffing the fabric. It smells like him. And I’m not sure what to do next or how to leave the room. I bite my thumbnail. I have no bra or panties. And my leg… should I put my leg back on? I probably should.
Two soft knocks on the bathing room door. “You okay?”
I clear my throat. “Do you have any extra underwear?”
He says something that sounds like shoot and hurries away. I hear the creak of the trunk’s hinge before he jogs back. “Can I open the door and throw them in? I won’t look, I swear.”
I smile. “That’s fine.”
When the door opens, his eyes are covered with one hand and he blindly tosses the underwear in my general direction before closing it again.
I fight the urge to laugh, then my insecurity rears its ugly head. “Hey, August?”
“Yeah,” he answers, still waiting outside the door.
“Do you want me to wear my prosthesis? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Why would that make me uncomfortable?”
My mouth opens and shuts. “Some people just are.”
“I won’t be.”
My shoulders relax. “Okay, then, would you care to be a human crutch for a minute?” I grab my feather as the door opens.
August, who’s proved himself to be a true ally yet again tonight, strides to my side and helps me to the bed.
“I can sleep in a chair or on the floor,” I protest.
His head ticks back. “No, you won’t. You’ll sleep here and I’ll sleep there,” he says, pointing to the other side of the bed. “We’re adults.”
He’d pulled the blanket back while I was showering. I perch on the edge of the bed and cover my lap with the quilt.
August sees my residual limb but doesn’t say anything. “I’m going to shower. Yell if you need me.” He grabs a folded pile of clothes and enters the bathing room.
His second chair is wedged under the handle of the front door, making a lock of sorts. I lay down and burrow under the blanket, getting comfortable, staring at the wall until his fresco calls to me again. Curling forward, I study it.
It’s like the concert Carina and I went to when we were girls, but I bet most of his shows look like this. Nothing stands out about the venue to distinguish it from any other. A stage, his band, their instruments, amplifiers, bright lights, and him.
The gods wouldn’t have dragged him into this just because we went to hear him sing, would they? I toy with the fringed edge of his blanket. How would that have angered them?
It must be his talent. They’re famously and ridiculously jealous of the gifts they bestow on us. Especially if we use them well.
After a while, August’s shower water shuts off. I hear him move around. He brushes his teeth. My toothbrush is lost in the mess next door, and I didn’t find an extra one in his bathing room. I just pray my breath isn’t horrible and that it won’t be in the morning.
“Callalie?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
“You want me to wear a shirt?”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “What?”
“Are you good if I don’t wear a shirt to bed?”
I throw an arm over my eyes. Seeing August Aymes shirtless? Not a hardship in the least. “Do what you want. We’re adults, right?”
He chuckles.
My voice is hoarse. The skin on my throat is getting sorer by the minute now that the hot shower water isn’t easing the bruises.
A shirtless August Aymes opens the door and steam follows him from the room. Blue shorts hang low on his cut hips.
I clutch my quetzal feather tighter.
In Morrigan’s army, I’d seen my share of men. Modesty wasn’t an option when we all had to get dressed together. But none of them could hold a candle to August Aymes.
Every inch of him is toned. He crosses the room, tossing the outfit he wore tonight in the corner next to the trunk. Firelight plays along the ridges of his chest and stomach, back and shoulders.
“Can I get you a glass of water or anything?” he asks when he reaches the table.
I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
August pours himself a glass from the carafe, savoring it for a moment in front of the window. His hair is already starting to dry. The lamplight gilds it, too. When he finishes his drink, he turns to me. “Do you want to leave the lamp burning?”
“Will you be able to sleep if you do?”
He nudges the pillow over to my side of the bed, pulls back the blanket on his side, and slides in, bending an arm behind his head. “If I can’t, it won’t be because of the light.”
“You should use the pillow,” I croak.
“I don’t need it.”
Silence stretches between us.
He stares at the ceiling. Breathes in and out, in and out. “I’m glad I trusted my gut.”
I smile. “Me too.”
“I heard something break,” he explains. “I didn’t know what it was, but I went to the door and looked over at your house. When I saw you hadn’t lit your lamp, I knew something was wrong.”
I sighed. “He came at me from behind and hooked an arm around my neck. I fought back, but he lifted me off the ground and flung me around when I dug my nails into him. I broke his nose and clawed him pretty good, though.”
“And busted his balls,” he reminds.
“And busted his balls.” I can’t help but smile.
“I wish he’d drowned,” he tells me. “Or been eaten.”
I blink at his honesty, as refreshing as the clear water he just drank. “Me too.”
“We should file a complaint about the leniency of the watery guard dogs,” he teases. A beat or two of silence. “What bothers me most is that I was happy to see him crawl out of the stairwell tonight. I was glad he’d made it. I was impressed he managed it.”
I nod.
August calls him a foul name and I laugh.
He smiles. “That’s the best sound I’ve heard all night.”
“Why are you so nice?”
“Did you miss the part where I tossed Torsten into the monster-filled water?” he asks, wiggling his brows.
Another laugh tears from my chest.
His grin fades little by little and he scratches his jaw, his stubble rough under his nails. “Why did you think I’d mind seeing you without your prosthetic?”
“Why’d you think I’d mind seeing you without a shirt?” I wag my brows this time.
“Seriously,” he adds.
“It bothers some people.” I shrug like it’s not a big deal. It’s a very big deal.
August is quiet for a long moment. “Your family?”
I shake my head. “No. My family’s great.”
“Then who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, though,” he insists, his blue eyes studying mine.
I know it does. And I know it shouldn’t hurt after so many months, but it does.
“After the battle, when the healers had done all they could and sent me home, Niall came to visit.” I feel his body tense. Feel him bristle. “He couldn’t handle it.”
I don’t tell him that Niall said as much.
Or how I screamed at him to get out of my house and never come back.
That I told him and everyone within earshot I hated him and never wanted to lay eyes on him again.
And I hadn’t until he showed up on Abuela’s doorstep to bring me to Morrigan and these trials.
August turns onto his side to face me. He moves a wet strand of hair that’s caught in my lashes. “He’s an idiot.”
My heart aches at the tenderness in his voice.
And it cracks when he softly asks, “How could he have ever let you go?”