Fear rang clearly in his voice, and Margrete gave him a grim smile. “Bash, this thing inside of me…I have to do this.” She tilted her head to the south side of the island, to where the Iron Mast was moored. To where two gods had battled. “You have to trust me, as I’ve trusted you. What I need is for you to make sure Birdie is safe. Please.”
A war raged in his eyes, but Bash nodded, his jaw clenching. “I’ll find her,” he vowed. “And I do trust you, but if something happens to you—”
“It won’t,” she promised, but they both knew she couldn’t promise such a thing.
“Then go,” he said, reaching for her hands. “But come back to me, princess.”
“Always, Bash.” Margrete dropped his hands and stepped back to the waves. She held his eyes until the waters grazed her calves, and then, with one final look, she turned and faced the sea that called to her.
She closed her eyes and listened to the ethereal whispers that danced across her mind, her lips moving, echoing the voices of the ancients.
And then Margrete Wood was rising, the waters at her feet lifting her above the swells.
She took her first step forward.
The waves followed.
Chapter Fifty
Margrete
The winds whipped mercilessly at Margrete’s face as the mighty wave she commanded brought her closer to where the battle endured.
Now, she tethered her thoughts to a single word—
Rise.
The magic within her soul flared to life as her skin caught fire. The sting of it centered her, and an eerie peace encircled her form.
She was always meant to be here, always meant to endure the captain and his heartlessness, because she was destined to destroy the darkness within him.
It didn’t matter if gods had guided her to this very spot. Margrete would take back control, and she certainly wouldn’t be a pawn.
Not even one belonging to a god.
On instinct, her arms shot out to the brightening skies, dawn but hours away.
“Arias moriad!” The command tumbled from her lips without thought. The words were as ancient and as magical as the blood flowing through her own veins. A great surge of energy shook her bones as the furious waters mounted, ready to do her bidding.
Nestled deep within her core rested a well of iris blue light. Tendrils of it tickled the inside of her mortal form, reaching out to cloak every inch of vulnerable flesh. Stardust yellow bloomed from the center of her smoky soul, a force of ancient enchantment that slowly took shape. Margrete delved deeper, whispering to the sheer force she contained, demanding the strength of a foreign magic.
Margrete’s shut lids trembled, and her body swayed. Back and forth, the waves rocked, until a violent wind guided the waters and shaped them into the wall of liquid stone before her—one that promised devastation. This colossal wave rushed past the southern side of the island, Margrete floating like a wrathful god at its back.
There. Just a blemish on the waves was the Iron Mast.
Margrete glimpsed its red and black sails. She recalled her youth, a time when the ship seemed to be the mightiest and most formidable vessel known to man. Now, it looked no more than a toy.
Easily breakable.
Margrete flew behind her wall of water, the ruthless winds propelling her closer. There was only forward. Only her target.
Margrete’s rage swelled as she scanned the waves for Darius, for his ethereal form of smoke and silver, but there was nothing but the Iron Mast and the mercenaries battling on shore.
She turned her full attention to the captain’s vessel. She’d worry about the God of the Sea later. Now, she demanded the blood of the man who had tried to ruin her. The man who’d been adamant about extinguishing her fight. He had failed, and she was going to make sure his darkness never tainted another living soul again.
Taking in the black sails that inspired fear in the hearts of so many, Margrete made out a small figure on the deck, his graying blonde hair flying in the breeze. Beside him stood the count, his face turned toward her, mouth agape with panic.
As Casbian screamed and pleaded, her father remained still, the gray-blue stone that once belonged to a god clutched in his hand. Somehow, even in such a powerful state, Margrete felt the captain stir her fears, rouse her unrest. This time, Margrete used that terror to aim the wall of water at his vessel of sin.
As the wave approached—Margrete floating like a vengeful angel behind the colossal swell—the captain smiled up at her. His grin seemed to glow with a cruel pride.
Margrete didn’t smile back. Not as the barricade she’d crafted slammed mercilessly into his ship, devouring all of the men onboard. The wooden planks shattered and split, and the deafening screeches of the crew filled the air.
She took no pleasure in destruction. Not even his.
The last thing Margrete saw of her father—of the man who had failed to break her—was the gleam of steel in his eyes. It remained, even as the leaden waters swept him from the deck and hauled him down into the chaos of the waves, devouring him in one crushing blow.
He would perish…and so would the Heart. It would be dragged beneath the swells and carried away by the current.
What little power remained in the gem would be lost—
For now.
Margrete raised her arms, and the waters she commanded spun into a frenzied whirlpool. Escape from a watery death would be beyond possible.
The roiling waves eased their furious dance and soothed themselves into a calming sway. Only when the captain was no more, once his wicked ship had been destroyed, did Margrete rest. The weight of her years beneath his watchful eyes of stone lifted. The air was sweeter, and honeysuckle mingled with the natural saltiness of the ocean breeze.
When she turned her eyes away from the ruin of her past life, Margrete Wood aimed her sights on the island of Azantian. A place of magic and myth.
A place she would now call home.
A destiny she had chosen.
Chapter Fifty-One
Margrete
Margrete’s lids fluttered open to a room full of shadows. Her head was a pounding mess and every muscle ached and throbbed. She cursed, blinking until her vision cleared, though pinpricks of black continued to dance across her sight.
She scanned her surroundings.
Heavy black covers were draped across her body, and she was carefully positioned in the middle of the softest bed she could imagine. Close by, a weak fire blossomed in a hearth before two high-backed velvet chairs. Smoke and wood and another familiar scent filled her senses.
Bash’s chambers.
With a groan, Margrete propped herself onto her elbows and squinted in the dim light for a sign of the king. The last time she’d seen him was just before she destroyed her father’s ship. After that…
Margrete had no idea how she wound up here.
She was about to open her mouth and call his name when a broad figure emerged from the shadows of the room. Instinctively, she jolted at the sight. Her mind went to Darius, to the god who vowed he’d come for her next, but then the man stepped closer to the fire, revealing the concerned face of her king.
“Bash,” she said, her voice hoarse. “What the hell happened?” She squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers going to her temple.
“Hey, it’s all right, princess. You’re all right.” She opened her eyes to find him already at her side.
She realized then that, even with the covers, she was shivering. Her entire body felt like it had been dipped in icy water.
Bash perched beside her and grasped both her hands. The meager flames from the hearth highlighted every twist of emotion he couldn’t mask.
“Everything is fine,” he said, before she could ask. “The captain is gone, and Adrian and Bay took out his mercenaries.”
She relaxed, if only slightly. Adrian and Bay were alive.
“And Birdie? Where’s my sister?” Fear laced her words. She’d left her on the docks, where the serpent—
“She’s safe, I promise,” Bash rushed on to say. “Shade found her hiding beneath a longboat after…after Wood’s ship went down.”
He meant after Margrete killed him.
Her chest squeezed painfully.
A memory of Shade at the feast came back to her, of the jagged burn mark concealed by her hair. Margrete shook off the unease the image conjured. She was being paranoid, but after everything she’d experienced, there was every reason to be.
“Where is Birdie now?”
“Sleeping safely down the hall,” Bash said, cupping her cheek tenderly. “I’m sure she’ll want to see you when she wakes.”
“Darius?” His name was a curse on her lips.
The bastard had vanished before she could face him again.
Bash sighed, moving his hand to the nape of her neck. The solidness of him soothed her frayed nerves. “No one knows. We searched the island for signs of him, but we found nothing…” His brows pinched, and he glanced away, jaw tense.
“What is it?” Sitting upright, she took his chin between her fingers and turned his head to face her. “What else aren’t you saying?”
His throat bobbed. “We found Ortum’s body. He was discovered right before Wood deployed his men.”
“Ortum’s...dead?”
Bash nodded, the movement stiff. “That’s not all that was found.”
Margrete wound her arms around his torso, sensing his pain, even if he tried to temper it. She would be there for him, as he’d been there for her when she needed him.
“There was a brand on his body. Two interwoven circles.” Bash glanced up at that, finally meeting her eye.
The same symbol that haunted her. The one she couldn’t help but believe belonged to a certain vengeful god.
“We’re not sure what to make of it, but his body…Well, it appears as if he’s been dead for weeks.”
She swallowed hard. That was impossible.
If Ortum had been dead for weeks, then who the hell was the man she’d met? Someone pretending to be the advisor as they wore his every feature?
No one had that kind of power, only gods—
Gods.
Only a god could possess such potent magic.
The kind of god cursed to live as a mortal, to hide behind human faces.
Margrete ignored her racing pulse. Until she knew for certain, she wouldn’t voice her thoughts. Bash was already suffering enough.
“We’ll figure out what happened,” she said, though it was a weak comfort. She was drained, both mentally and physically, her body still buzzing with that overwhelming energy she couldn’t name.
Bash drew back the blankets and slipped into the bed beside her. Gently, he eased her head onto his chest and wrapped his thick arms around her. She could hear his heartbeat pounding in her ear.
She held onto that sound, the sound of life, holding its melody close to her own heart.
“You saved us all, princess,” Bash said after many long moments passed. “You…you were magnificent.”
“I didn’t do it. Malum’s heart did.”
It wasn’t her power. Not really.
She shifted to her side, and Bash mirrored her movements. They were nose to nose, his breath fanning across her lips.
Bash took her chin between his fingers. “You saved us. Not a god. Not the Heart. You were brave and daring and raced out to protect this island. That was all you.”
She didn’t feel like it was her, and she certainly didn’t feel brave.
“Bash, I—”
“No doubting yourself. Not anymore,” Bash said, his tone hard. “You were magnificent, princess. A goddess.”
Margrete shivered beneath his piercing gaze. His eyes were full of shadows and the deepest shades of night, but within his irises, stars sparkled. Margrete could get lost in them.
She already was.
She snaked her hand out from below the covers and trailed her finger along the underside of his strong jaw. She’d almost lost him today, and she needed to feel him. To remind herself he was still beside her.
Alive.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she choked out, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the impending tears at bay.
Bash’s face softened, his dark eyes creasing at the corners. He grasped her hips and pulled her impossibly close, her breasts pressed against his muscled chest.
She shuddered at the contact.
“I told you. Not even the gods could stand in my way.” Bash’s hold on her waist tightened. “Not when it comes to you.”
Her heart fluttered, and a single tear escaped.
“You kept your vow,” she said. The one he made to her on the Phaedra. But now, it was so much more than a vow. So much more than a promise.
Bash’s lips grazed hers in a tender caress. “And I intend to keep it.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And I will strike down any god”—his lips moved along the curve of her jaw—“who tries to take you from me.”
Margrete wanted to believe that, she did, but that maniacal look in Darius’s eyes when he promised he’d come for her had been seared into her mind.
“Bash,” she murmured. His mouth drifted to her throat, gently worshipping her skin. His every movement was languid, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world to be here. Together.
“Kiss me already,” she demanded, grasping his chin and bringing his face to hers. “I need to feel you.”
Right here, with him, Darius wasn’t out there waiting, and the heart of a god didn’t rest within her soul.
It was only them.
“So demanding,” he whispered, just before pressing his lips against hers. The kiss was long and deep and full of fizzling sparks that tickled the inside of her chest. Bash groaned into her mouth, the sound brimming with unspoken need.
He wasn’t holding back anymore, and Margrete refused to either.
They would never pretend with one another again.
She smiled against his mouth.
“What is it?” he asked, drawing back to look at her. He didn’t ease his fierce grip on her waist, though she couldn’t imagine his arms anywhere but wrapped around her.
“Nothing,” she said. “Even with everything we’ve yet to do, I’m just…happy.”
Gods, was she happy.
She thought about tomorrow. About all the tomorrows they would have. How, for the first time in her life, she looked forward to the days ahead. Even with beasts loosed upon the world, and a missing god set on hunting her, Margrete knew she could face it all.
She had the King of Azantian at her side. But more than that, she was powerful in her own right, with or without the heart of a god inside her.
Margrete Wood changed her fate after all.
Gods and men be damned.
Epilogue
The Return of a God
As the stars twinkled their approval, and the red-rimmed moon cast eerie light onto the two paramours, a tremor shook the sacred cavern of Azantian.
This tremor became a humming vibration that loosened the final stone imprisoning what had been locked away for a thousand years.
Barbed tails with silvery scales swam through the shattered crevice leading out to the sea, finally released into the humid air and into the world. With torsos of mortals and spiked fins of fish, they were creatures with onyx souls and merciless hearts.
While they escaped through the rocky portal of their gloomy prison, a king and the woman he loved fell asleep in one another’s arms.
Hidden in the shadows, a god who had worn many faces watched with eyes borne from sprays of sea foam and early mornings. This man drank in the woman who had stolen the heart he’d hungered to own for centuries.
The stranger observed as she shifted in the king’s arms, her brows growing furrowed as a nightmare took hold. On silent feet, the man approached, reaching out to stroke her exposed shoulder. She was soft, delicate, and unlike anything the ancient god had touched before.
Beneath his fingers
, dark ink sprouted, thick spirals of obsidian stretching out to form a massive tangle of whorls and ever-shifting lines. He retracted his hand, eyes narrowed on the tattoo that now marked her bronzed skin.
Malum’s final gift to Margrete—
A mark of protection. A lock.
One Darius couldn’t open—even to take what was meant to be his.
A growl left his lips. He expected her to wake, but she only murmured in her slumber, exhaustion painting her every lovely feature.
The god drifted back to the shadows from whence he came, unable to peel his eyes from the woman who consumed his every waking thought. He would get what he needed from her, no matter the cost. He would find a way. He always did.
Still, the god felt something other than spite or hatred or anger. A foreign sensation that caused his beating heart to flutter. He’d never felt anything like it in all his many years.
He decided it was a feeling he desired to explore.
And, soon, he would.
The god watched as the king he failed to kill nuzzled her hair, muscled arms encircling Margrete’s waist as he tugged her ever closer. His tattoos were settling for the night, the ink he carried weary from the day’s struggle. The sea star tattoo danced across his forearm before resting beside the timid squid. The shark swam below the cover of a sleeve.
It was the tattoo on the king’s chest that roused beneath the moon, the treacherous nymera depicted across his skin opening her opaque eyes wide. She smiled, and the jagged edges of her teeth poked into her bottom lip.
As the king and Margrete slumbered peacefully, the curves and lines of ink on his chest blurred, the slithery beast of nightmares fading to a place beneath the flesh.
The Soul of Azantian had opened. A god had been reborn. And soon, the human world would know what wickedness truly was.
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