by Jen Printy
“From the looks of him, Muan’s been wondering where you were, too. His head’s been on a swivel ever since we arrived. I imagine he’s hoping to get another crack at you. He hasn’t forgiven you for beating him. What is it now? Five? Or is it six times?”
“Seven,” Artagan says, a slight smile visible on his lips. “But who’s counting?”
“Not you.” Otmar’s white teeth gleam in the candlelight, and they exchange a long glance. One of Artagan’s eyebrows flicks upward. Otmar nods. From their brief glances in my direction, the internal discussion is likely about me, a recap of my behavior. Behavior that should earn me a gold star and, hopefully, an early release from my babysitter.
I smile, waiting for word of my reprieve.
“Jack, stay with Otmar,” Artagan says, heading toward the shadows.
“What? But I’ve been—”
“You heard me.”
My glare tracks him into the darkness, but like the obedient little pointer my father had when I was a child, I stay put.
“He didn’t always have that ramrod shoved up his ass.” Otmar chuckles and leans forward onto the railing, which creaks in mad protest.
I glance at him, not sure I believe him.
“It’s true. Artagan was a different man when he was with Olluna. She was a lovely woman, full of vim and vigor, and good for him.”
“You knew Olluna?”
“Oh, aye. I went to their wedding. Beautiful ceremony. Free of all the pomp and circumstance because the village had no priest.” Otmar cranes his neck to light his cigarette in the flame of the closest candle. He takes a long drag before continuing. “A woman, the midwife if I remember right, bound their hands, and Artagan and Olluna declared themselves married. Artagan called it a tethering of their hearts and souls. He was quite the romantic back then. They loved each other. That was evident. I half expected him to join her once the whole debacle with Vita was finished. But maybe he figured out what I’ve been telling him all along.”
“And what would that be?”
“Valhalla’s doors won’t open for the likes of me. No heroic battles wait on my horizon. Who’s there to fight? And no heaven either. I’m not repentant, even though I’ve broken every commandment, every law of human decency,” he says with grim relish. “I think we all have. Haven’t you?”
Not all of them, but he’s right. I have broken my share. I grimace. “So we’re damned then,” I say, my voice barely loud enough to hear over the drone of conversation flowing up from the nave.
A long, throaty laugh rumbles through him, lighting up his eyes with humor. “Damned? Praise Odin, no! On Earth, we are the gods.” He takes a puff on his cigarette and smiles. Wispy plumes of smoke drift from between his teeth.
I snort and then turn away before I say something that might get me into trouble.
Below us, Artagan strolls in Death’s direction, addressing Akio and the tall, fair-haired man from Thanatos’s family line before stepping into Death’s audience. Artagan says a few words and holds out his hand in greeting then waits while Death stands staring and unmoving. After an extended pause, Death accepts the gesture, and the tension vanishes. The assembly shifts into a sociable mood once again.
A few moments later, a young woman dressed in moss green advances to Death’s side.
“That’s Rebekah,” Otmar says. “Kemisi’s protégé. Just as beautiful as her master.”
Rebekah bends to Death’s ear and speaks briefly before walking away. A bright smile curls Death’s lips, and in a ringing shout, he announces, “Dinner is served.”
I follow Otmar down the stairs and trail him through a small door at the front of the sanctuary where the last of the council members have just disappeared. Otmar ducks his head under the arch, and we step into a dimly lit room. The polished, dark wood-paneled walls gleam with flickering candlelight. In the center sits a table that would befit the richest king—place settings of gold, bowls brimming with food. It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the building, so grimy and unattended.
By the time Otmar and I arrive, the other council members are all seated. I notice, with a sense of relief, that Domitilla is absent, Serevo joining us in her stead. Otmar leads me to the last empty chairs at the foot of the table, while Death sits at the head, Leah in the place of honor to his right. I catch her eye, giving her a smile before I take my seat.
A handful of servers, dressed all in gray, stand along the far wall. From their varying ages, at least half of them aren’t Endless. One of them—a spry older lady with hair grayed to platinum—fills each stemmed glass with water. When she steps to my side, Otmar grins at her. “How old are you now, Sonya?” he asks.
A flash of panic shows on her face. “Eighty-nine, sir, but still going strong. I’m able to work rings around these youngsters.” She smiles, not looking Otmar in the eye, and moves on to fill the next glass.
“Most of them are mortals,” Otmar murmurs. “Servitude for immortality. Some will do anything for a chance to live a little longer, even wait on our sorry asses.”
“But will Death honor the deal?”
“Oh, aye. As long as they keep up their end of the contract.”
Otmar slaps a hunk of rare beef and a scoop of potato on each of our plates then gestures to my large goblet. After I hand it to him, he pours a generous portion of light, tawny liquid. I thank him and lift the cup to my lips. A sweet, delicate nectar flows over my tongue, followed by a tingling burn. It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.
“Mead,” Otmar says. “Smooth, isn’t it? I made it myself.”
I nod, indulging in a rather long gulp.
“Careful, or the morning will find you under the table,” he says.
I smile. Otmar underestimates my tolerance for alcohol. I take another large sip, this time closing my eyes, intoxicated by the mead’s heady aroma.
As the night flows on, to my surprise, the council acts very much like a family with all the banter and relaxed conversation that goes with it. There’s a camaraderie I hadn’t expected. Even Artagan, the self-proclaimed black sheep, has his place. He leans back in his chair, laughing at something Kemisi has said, a glass of Scotch hanging surprisingly forgotten in his hand. Still, something in his demeanor feels forced, as if he’s putting on a show.
Despite the amity, some fissures aren’t so easy to hide. From the others’ turned shoulders, Muan is more an intruder here than I am. Death is the only one at ease in the Soulless’s presence. My gaze wanders back to Leah. She sits forward in her chair, listening to Kemisi. From her carefree demeanor, she appears unaware of the fractures revealing themselves around her. That, too, I deem a performance.
“Would you mind?” Lost in my thoughts, I missed what Thanatos said. I turn to find him staring from across the table. Thanatos must read the question in my eyes because he speaks again before I can ask him to repeat himself. “I find this whole phenomenon of soul immortals remembering past lives fascinating. I didn’t have time to ask questions on our last two meetings. But now, would you mind?”
“Not at all,” I say with complete sincerity, hoping my openness will lead to newfound knowledge about the soul immortal abnormality.
Thanatos seems delighted if a tad surprised. “Are there many parallels between them? Besides the memories.”
I explain the handful of similarities between Leah and Lydia and then go into detail when telling him about their mountain of differences. Thanatos sits transfixed, nodding now and again at something I say. But throughout the conversation, I get the impression Thanatos’s knowledge of the soul immortals is sparse at best, strengthening my assessment that Kemisi is our best shot within the council. Then again, I suppose it is just as likely Thanatos is holding information back, not wanting to share any family secrets with someone who is a stranger.
“So Leah looks exactly like her predecessor? Not just the eyes?” Thana
tos asks then forks up a mouthful of potato.
I nod.
He chews slowly, regarding Leah. “That must have been unexpected, for lack of a better word.”
I laugh. That’s an understatement. “Yes, at first. But after the initial shock, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Kind of like coming home after a long journey,” I say, surprised by my frankness. Much like Leah, Thanatos has a way about him that makes me feel at ease—a fact of which I need to be both wary and vigilant.
From Thanatos’s side, Mosi snorts, eyes still on his plate. Until this point, Mosi has been silent, more comfortable ignoring Leah’s and my presence than acknowledging our existence. “You talk about this girl as if she’s special, as if she’s the cosmos itself. May I be the first to say, I don’t see it.”
“Mosi,” Thanatos chides.
“It needs to be said.” Mosi lifts his gaze from his plate to meet mine. “I suppose our expectations were high. Too high. She’s a smart, determined young woman. I’ll give you that, but she’s also very ordinary.” He glances to Serevo and then to Leah like he’s comparing the two. Both seem unaware they’ve become the topic of conversation, eating their food and chatting with the surrounding guests.
“Very ordinary,” Mosi repeats, a note of disapproval flitting across his face.
I stare at him, the muscles along my jaw going taut.
“According to Artagan, Leah is doing exceptionally well,” Thanatos states.
“Yes. According to Artagan, I’m sure she is.” Mosi’s lips twitch with amusement when his gaze returns to me. “Take no offense, Jack. I only meant there is no sign of the notable traits you spoke of in the catacombs. No extraordinary merit that would cause the devotion you were willing to show. If Vita hadn’t disrupted the bargain, it wouldn’t have been an even exchange. Now the girl is just an Ignorant turned immortal.”
And nothing that should have provoked Death to choose her over Serevo. I read the sentiment in his eyes. I focus my attention on my uneaten plate of beef and potato.
“Well, damn, Mosi. How on earth could the boy take offense to that?” Otmar leans his bulk back onto the arm of his chair. “Judging from his expression”—he gestures in my direction—“you should sleep with one eye open.”
Thanatos flickers a reproachful glance at Otmar, and then he smiles at me. “What I think Mosi is trying to say in his candid way—”
“Pardon me, but I understood his meaning.” My attention swings back to Mosi, who now grins under a veil of innocence. “I’d wager Death is more inclined to agree with my assessment of Leah than yours.”
Mosi’s posture stiffens, the cords in his neck going rigid. The indicators vanish as quickly as they appear, but both are telltale signs that Mosi doesn’t agree with Death’s decision of choosing Leah over Serevo. The wordless confirmation brings concerning questions to the forefront of my mind. Under the guise of acceptance, how many of the others feel the same way? Domitilla, for sure, but who else? And what if most of the members agree? Might that embolden Serevo to follow Vita’s example, secretly killing a council member who gets in his way?
“Others may see Leah as ordinary,” I say, “but to me…” I want to quote E. E. Cummings—“You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” Leah is my everything. But I refrain. “Some things are worth dying for.”
“And therein lies your problem,” Akio interjects, animosity and recrimination coating his voice. He sets his glass down on the table. “You still think as a mortal and not as the demigod you are. Maybe not as powerful as us, but you’re a deity nonetheless.”
Stunned by the rapid shift of the conversation, I choke back a laugh. “I’m no deity, and neither are any of you.”
A look of strong repugnance overtakes Akio’s face, and he continues. “What is a god if not a being with supernatural powers, believed in and worshiped, idealized and followed?”
I laugh at that, uneasy, but the mead pushes me forward, making me bold. “You are believed in because mortals see evidence of what you’re capable of daily, on the news, in the empty spaces in their lives that once held loved ones, but—” A foot presses down hard on my own.
“Enough, man, you’ve made your point,” Otmar whispers.
I glance around at the guests to find most of their eyes on me. A deep murmur of discontent grows among them. At the other end of the table, Leah looks dazed, as if someone has just stabbed her in the stomach. Next to her, Kemisi gives Artagan a quick yet meaningful look. Artagan is preoccupied, but his eyes clear, and he shakes his head a fraction of an inch, seeming to find great interest in his tumbler.
“No, let him continue. How else will we change his mind?” Death says, waving away the interruption.
“I was just going to say you’re feared, not worshiped,” I say in a level voice, trying to keep my emotions in check.
Mosi gives a short grunt. “And what’s that to us? Mortals are no more to us than rats on a sinking ship, not worth a second thought.”
My lips curl, and I feel the last pretense of civility slipping from my face. It’s only for a moment, but the reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. Satisfied, Mosi rests back in his chair, smug and silent.
“You’re the same as Artagan, and Brennus before him,” Akio says, his voice remote as if the conversation barely interests him. “Death honors us by endowing us with his powers and the freedom from worrying about insignificant things such as an afterlife. Like any gift, one has to accept it. You are no more than a boy trying to prove his father wrong,” he says then looks away. Discussion concluded.
Death clears his throat, commanding attention. All eyes fall away from me as they shift in Death’s direction, except for Leah’s. Her gaze stays planted on mine.
I turn my attention to Death.
He relaxes on his elbows and stares down the table at me. “Unlike Mosi and the others, I understand why you find what we do offensive. You lived a long time in the dark, unaware of what you are.”
Death’s eyes dart to Artagan for a brief moment before resting back on me. “Like I told you back in Leah’s dorm room, I truly believe we’re the ones who teach mortals life is worth living. Whether I find them in the safety of their bed or bleeding out on a lonely street corner, what does it matter? For them, meeting me, meeting any of us, is inevitable, for they are mortals. I’ve found it’s how they lived their lives that makes the difference in how they accept me. Us.” He sweeps his hand out, gesturing to his children. “Did they squander or embrace the time I granted them? And that is in no one’s control but their own.”
“Ed Growley didn’t squander his life,” I say. “Nor was he ready to die.”
“I remember him. He was a rarity. How do you think most mortals would treat life if there were no end?” Death goes on, his voice flat and emotionless. “I’ll tell you. They’d become lazy and complacent, more than they already are. Honestly, I believe your disdain for who we are has less to do with us and more to do with self-loathing.” The night you took Hake’s soul was the night you embraced what you are. Death’s voice gushes into my thoughts like a free-flowing stream. Guilt is powerful. Without it, you could be fated for much greater things, immortal scion of Brennus.
“You sound just like him,” I grumble. “Hake, too, could spin lies into golden words, making them sound like truth until the bottom fell out and you realized every word he uttered was for his own gain.”
Death stares at me then smiles. “Something to think about.”
My mind reeling from the heated discussion, I reach for my drink but find my goblet missing. Artagan stands beside me, downing its remains.
“Obviously, the boy can’t hold his liquor,” he says, holding up the empty goblet. “It seems he’s not as much like me as you all thought.”
There’s a burst of laughter, which sends a flood of heat across my cheeks. However, the diversion dissipates the tension, and the m
ood relaxes into one of joviality once again.
Artagan faces Soulless. “Muan, ready for that rematch? If that’s all right with you, of course.” He bobs his head in Death’s direction.
Death’s face folds up into a wide grin. “Yes, yes. Let the games begin.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Back in the nave, while Artagan and Otmar linger in the shadows, whispering strategy, Leah and I watch as the assembly mingles along the fringes. They mill about in high spirits, excited about whatever’s coming. During my time in the dank catacombs, I remember talk of the games. And from the memory of blood smeared on both Otmar’s and Mosi’s faces, I imagine these games fall more in line with the Roman definition of entertainment than the modern, far-less-lethal version.
“And don’t forget that right hook of his,” Otmar reminds Artagan as they step toward us.
Artagan says nothing, only nods, his eyes fixed on Muan.
Across the room, the towering man brandishes a broad sword-shaped piece of wood, slicing and jabbing at an imaginary foe. At first glance, the weapon, adorned with feathers and a painted geometric design, looks like nothing more than a child’s plaything. After further inspection, however, I notice razor-sharp pieces of metal embedded in the sides of the shank. It’s clearly no toy.
“You fight with weapons?” Leah says, not bothering to hide her astonishment. “Real ones?”
Otmar snorts, lowering his bushy eyebrows. “Of course they’re real. What would you have us use?”
“Nerf guns, maybe? Like normal people. You guys are insane,” she says.
“Certifiable,” Artagan says. He releases the tails of his gray-and-white pinstriped shirt and undoes the buttons, revealing once again the golden band on a silver chain dangling around his neck.
Artagan sheds his shirt and tosses it to Otmar. Then he turns to Leah. “Would you mind?” He lifts the chain over his head and lowers the ring into the well of Leah’s open palm, letting the chain coil around the ring like a snake. “For safekeeping,” he adds, closing her fingers around it, then he walks away.
