by R. C. Murphy
“You could have warned me.”
“Then you wouldn’t be wearing a white t-shirt.” He openly stared at her chest.
Shayla crossed her arms over her chest, covering her bra. She gave him a playful glare and walked into the temple, leaving him to grab the empty bottles and the bag of supplies. Deryck jogged to catch up with her; the flashlight in his hand bobbed, catching random portions of faded glyphs in its light.
The ceiling had crumbled long ago. Displaced bricks were scattered over the floor, and Shayla was thankful for both the moonlight and the flashlight—stubbing a toe on one of those would seriously hurt. The room was large, nearly the size of her entire house, minus the back yard.
“Follow the length of the building. The further we go, the easier it will be to contact Min.”
Side by side, they walked through the maze of loose mud bricks, falling walls, and doorways. If she had to find the way out by herself, she’d likely get lost. Several of the doors led to false rooms—set in the temple in order to confuse anyone seeking to steal from the gods, she assumed. Deryck led her away from the wrong path and set her right again a few times.
She wasn’t sure how far they went, but eventually they came to a room with a portion of its ceiling intact. It was small in comparison with the first room of the temple—the size of her bedroom and bathroom combined. At the far end of the room was a huge cubbyhole set into the wall. It had to be about ten feet tall. Small bricks lined the opening, their surfaces covered in glyphs far better preserved than anything else she’d seen in the temple. Shayla traced a small lightning bolt cut into the brick.
“Min and Isis stood there once. They were taken when the temple was unearthed over a century ago.” Deryck joined her.
“The real gods?”
He shook his head. “Idols of the gods were treated as the people would treat the gods themselves. The statues were bathed, oiled, and had makeup applied to their faces.”
“So your gods are spoiled rotten.”
“And act like it, too. Remember that when you summon Min. Once he is here, I cannot interfere. We are forbidden to speak to the gods of any pantheon, even our own.”
“There are so many rules to remember.” Shayla rubbed her forehead, wondering if she’d made the right decision. What if she failed?
Deryck kissed the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder. “You can do it, Shayla. I know you can.”
“Remember you said that when you’re scrubbing my smited remains off the floor,” she muttered under her breath. His faith in her ability to face a god was intimidating.
Deryck cleared rubble off a large stack of mud bricks and set the duffle bag on top. He unzipped the bag. She had a hard time believing how much he’d crammed into it and watched him pull out yet another bottle of Nile water, a large wooden goblet—unadorned, save for the image of Min painted in gold—he set a silver-handled knife beside these, along with a head of long-leaf lettuce.
“Lettuce? Am I going to make him a salad when he gets here?”
“Min is the god of lettuce. Of the ritual options I found, it was either lettuce or an orgy. He can’t resist either of them.”
Shayla blinked. “Lettuce it is. I don’t want to watch anyone having sex, least of all your father.”
A strange look passed over his face. “About that, Min isn’t very fond of clothing. No one was during the height of his popularity. Clothes were a burden in a land where you could bake a goat by leaving it covered in hot sand for the day.”
“Thank you. Now when I see your father naked, I will think of roasted goat.”
Deryck handed Shayla the lettuce and a piece of papyrus paper with the summoning ritual written on it. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
She offered him a weak smile. “Of course I am. I don’t have to bleed to death to meet your father.”
Deryck stepped behind the stack of stones he’d used as a makeshift table. He couldn’t make himself go any further in case Shayla needed his help. How he could possibly help without incurring the wrath of Min, he didn’t know, but he’d find some way. She wouldn’t be left to fend for herself, not this time. It was a miracle she agreed to come at all after the way Herryk treated her during his failed attempt to break his bonds. Deryck’s hands fisted. He wasn’t sure who he hated more—his father for the way his mother had been coerced into carrying a child never meant for her world, or Herryk for the abuses he heaped on Shayla. He forced himself to take a breath. If his anger got the best of him, he’d end up dead by Min’s hands and Shayla would be stuck in a foreign country with no way to get home.
She tilted the paper, using the moonlight to read. “Min, Lord of Processions, God of the High Plumes . . . .”
He watched her read, pronouncing each foreign-to-her word carefully. Shayla raised the head of lettuce and gave it an amused look, but she continued to read the summoning spell. Power swelled around them. Dust and pebbles swirled around her feet. Shayla paused, squinting at the paper. She shook her head, clamped the papyrus between her teeth, and crouched down to grab the bottle of Nile water. Deryck cocked a brow at her answer to her not-enough-hands problem. Water cascaded over the green lettuce leaves and dribbled down her arm to drip off her elbow. Shayla patted her free hand dry on the seat of her pants before grabbing the paper and resuming the reading. Deryck couldn’t help but smile at the awkward grace with which she tackled pressing issues.
Inside the cutout in the wall to his left—the naos where Min’s and Isis’s statues once stood—a portal to the God’s Lands began its formation. It spun slowly, mists the color of the Nile after a heavy rain grew to the size of a man. Streaks of lightning cut through the murky waters connecting the two realms.
Shayla stepped closer to the naos, the offering of cleansed lettuce held before her like a shield. Her arms trembled. The last word of the summoning spell crossed her lips on a whisper. Deryck wished he could go to her, offer her his support. He crossed his arms over his chest and fought the urge to hold her and shelter her from what was to come.
The portal expanded, filled the entirety of the naos. Min stepped through, his bare feet passing over the broken bricks covering the ground in front of him. His skin was the color of the riverbank after the Nile flooded—dark brown, nearly black. He wore a crown with two intricately carved ivory feathers atop, reaching a foot and a half high. A scarlet ribbon held the crown in place. The tail of the ribbon trailed behind Min like a pet snake. As he’d expected, Min was virtually nude. He wore a red leather harness over his chest and his shendyt was belted in place with the front open to expose his rigid manhood.
Modesty, thy name is not, Min.
To her credit, Shayla did not back away from Min when faced with his preferred state of dress. Her eyes dropped down once and bounced back to the god’s face. In the moonlight, it was difficult to see the blush creeping up her cheeks, but Deryck caught it.
Min raked her with a long, appraising look. “Why have I been summoned?”
You know damn well why, cocksucker. Deryck ground his shoe against the floor. Min wouldn’t acknowledge the wishes of his half-breed offspring. Shayla had to ask, beg, or barter in order for him to partake in the ritual. Summoning him was not enough. Deryck hoped her quick wit would not fail her.
“I don’t know how to phrase this formally, so here goes; I want to free Deryck from his service as an incubus and we need your blood to do it.” Shayla bit her lip and cast a look toward Deryck. He smiled at her, despite the erratic pounding of his heart.
“You are aware of who you are addressing, yes?” Min shook his head. “I do not think it is in my best interest to rob the universe of someone who performs a vital task in assuring the happiness of human females. They are, after all, the richest source of power and belief.”
Shayla gaped at the god. She snapped her jaw shut and shook the wet lettuce at him. “I did your damn lettuce voodoo, said the words as best as I could, now you’re telling me it was all so you could turn me down to my f
ace?”
“Rejections are best done in person, yes.”
“Bullshit.” To Deryck’s shock, she threw the offering at Min. It slapped against his chest and he caught the lettuce. “You knew what I wanted long before I made it into this room; you’re a god, they know everything, right? I’m not going to let you treat Deryck like a slave because you were incapable of sticking to screwing other gods and wanted a taste of human loving. He is the way he is because of you. Honestly, you have to be one of the worst fathers in the universe if you are pleased to see him used, abused, and left without the chance to experience love in any true form. He isn’t an object to be used in whatever games you gods enjoy. He lives. He breathes. Most importantly, he feels. I know he does, he’s shown me the kindness and care he is capable of. I wish you felt what I went through the moment I realized my son would have to go through what he is. Worse yet, I know Eros won’t ever release him and it makes me sick. You have to be better than him, you just have to. Otherwise, I’ll be left thinking that the gods are a bunch of jackasses who couldn’t care less about the humans whose belief keeps them alive and rolling in bathtubs made of gold, or whatever it is you guys do at home.”
Deryck couldn’t breathe. Shayla was captivating . . . and suicidal. He’d never heard anyone speak the way she had to someone capable of ending her existence without flinching. Min watched her, his face unreadable. Deryck wished he possessed the ability to read the god’s mind. If Shayla was in danger, he needed to save her.
“Did you breathe at any point in the last two minutes, little human?”
Shayla’s head dipped a little, but her eyes remained fixed on Min. “I had a point to make. Breathing was optional.”
“And you made your point well.” Min looked at the lettuce in his hand. “You’ve changed my mind. I will consent to the release of my offspring.”
Shayla’s knees went rubbery. She stumbled over to the stack of bricks and sat beside the duffle bag. The entire time she’d talked, she knew for certain Min would wave a hand and end her life. Fear drove the words out of her far better than bravery. Knowing she’d done something right, something they needed so desperately seemed impossible. Sitting there, Shayla half expected Min to change his mind.
She set the papyrus with the spell aside and picked up the knife and wooden goblet. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”
Min held out his left arm and turned it so his palm faced the sky. His eyes fell on the bottle of water. “Cleanse it, first.”
Scooting off the brick, Shayla stuck the knife in the back pocket of her pants. She picked up the bottle and poured it over Min’s forearm, leaving enough for herself. When her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife again, they shook so much she had to brace her right hand with her left wrist.
“Will you be able to use that knife, little one?”
Shayla tilted her head up to meet Min’s eyes—God, they were so much like Deryck’s, it was eerie. “Of course I will.”
“I love the fire in your eyes.” He moved his arm closer.
Is he flirting with me? Shayla’s gaze started to drop below Min’s navel. She stopped herself before she got another eyeful of the god’s package. Definitely not a roasted goat. If he’d cover up, it’d be a lot easier for her to focus on not cutting his arm off.
“Hold still, please.”
Shayla held the wooden goblet under Min’s arm. The knife rested against the inside of his wrist. She took a breath and pressed down on the blade, drawing it quickly over his dark skin. It was a clean cut. Blood welled up and dribbled over his skin. Min flipped his arm over. His blood flowed freely into the goblet. A stream of it hit her right hand when he made to pull away.
Ew. Why do rituals always use blood? Don’t they believe in the magical power of diet Dr. Pepper?
“Your turn. Allow me to assist you.” Min relieved her of the cup.
This was the part she truly dreaded. The cuts on her left arm from Harry’s ritual were mostly healed. They’d hurt like hell and made wearing long-sleeved anything miserable. She’d gone from bearing mostly emotional scars from the trials of her life to wearing them on her sleeve for everyone to see.
The water was colder than she’d remembered. It ran up her forearm and dripped onto the toe of her shoes. Shayla switched the knife into her right hand. She bit her bottom lip and dragged the blade over her arm. A thin red line ran under the healing cuts. It didn’t bleed. “Oh, damn it.” Frustrated, she made a second attempt, jerking the blade through her first attempt to deepen it. Shit, that hurts.
Min turned her arm over and held the cup below to catch her blood. Behind her, Deryck’s feet crunched over the dirty bricks.
Shayla looked back at him, a smile on her face to reassure him. “I’m fine.”
He nodded and stepped back again. His hands gripped his arms so tight, his knuckles were white.
The goblet was about half way full when Shayla decided there was more than enough blood in it to complete the ritual. She clamped the back of her right hand over the wound to slow the bleeding. Leaning over, she dropped the knife beside the duffle bag and fished out a roll of gauze. She wrapped the wound tightly. Turning, she held the gauze out to Min. He laughed, holding up his arm. The cut was healed. There wasn’t even a scar where she’d cut him.
“Impressive.”
“Godhood has its perks.” Min handed her the cup. For the first time since he’d stepped through the portal, he looked at Deryck. “Enjoy the gift.”
Deryck’s shoulders straightened. His jaw clenched. But he said nothing to his father. Shayla knew there was no love lost between Min and Deryck. She reminded herself, Min treated Deryck’s mother the same way she’d been treated by Eros—used as a womb for eight months, abused, lied to, and left alone to mourn the death of a child who was actually alive and well, far from her reach.
A sharp pain started behind Shayla’s eyes, spreading to the base of her skull. She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she’d given too much blood.
Deryck’s mother was well-loved. Min said, but his lips never moved. I ensured she was cared for until her death. He will never believe it, not after everything the gods in general have done to him. My son must never know about this conversation. Go to him now. Deryck will need your strength to finish the ritual.
Shayla started to say something. Min shook his head a little and stepped into the portal. He vanished behind the swirling waters as they splashed closed, leaving no traces of the portal or the god.
Goblet in hand, she turned to Deryck. His shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of him after his father’s departure. She wished she could tell him the truth, share what Min told her about his mother. Min was right, though, Deryck would never believe it and hate his father even more for trying to manipulate Shayla to use against him. He’d spent millennia watching the games the gods played. Only a few of their outrages against each other and mankind made it into the folklore which founded all of the religions in the world. If the tales were remotely true, it was no wonder Deryck hated the gods so much.
Shayla walked around the pile of bricks and handed him the goblet. “The rest is up to you.”
He took it, his fingers locking around the wooden cup as though he were afraid of spilling it. Shayla had no clue what would happen next. She assumed he needed to drink the blood, as Harry had during his attempt to free himself. What was supposed to happen after was a mystery. Deryck refused to tell her about his part of the ritual. It made her uneasy.
She eased up on her toes and laid a kiss on his jaw. Deryck leaned his forehead against hers. He was shaking. Shayla wanted to hold him, reassure him he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to or thought it’d be too painful. It’d be a lie, though. They both knew he couldn’t go back to living as an incubus. Neither of them would survive the separation or the knowledge of what he’d be forced to do.
Deryck pulled back first. “No matter what, once I begin, you cannot touch me. Not even if I ask you to. Stand across th
e room and stay there.”
Shayla nodded. “How will I know when it’s safe to come near you again?”
“Trust me, you’ll know.”
She left him and walked across the room, using the moonlight to spot any chunks of brick and rocks in her way, and found the furthest she could go yet keep him in sight was the single narrow doorway into the small temple room. Shayla bit her bottom lip. Her right foot tapped against the floor. She needed to calm down if she was this agitated before Deryck began.
Deryck moved out from under the section of ceiling still intact. Moonlight turned his dark brown hair silvery black. He raised the cup toward the moon and whispered something she couldn’t understand. The inside of the goblet pulsed with red light. Deryck looked into it, gave the glowing blood a swirl, and drank the contents of the cup in two swallows. Shayla pressed a hand to the back of her mouth to keep from gagging at the idea of drinking blood.
Hissing, Deryck cradled his arms against his chest. Grey light reflected off his dark blue shirt. When he moved his arms to look at them, the tattoos glowed around the edges. They writhed over his skin, stretching across his bare forearms. That must really hurt. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His knees buckled, planting his ass onto the makeshift brick table. The duffle bag fell over, scattering extra gauze and medical tape across the floor.
Shayla wrapped her hand around the stone doorframe—she needed something to hold on to before she became unglued and rushed over to find a way, any way to ease his pain.
His groan sent chills down her spine. Deryck leaned back where he was seated, his fingers tearing at his leather belt. He yanked it off, dropping it on top of the bag at his feet. He went for the fly of his pants, next. For an awful moment, Shayla considered the idea that the ritual wasn’t working—he’d been drugged as Harry had been and was trapped in a state of painful arousal until he slept with a woman. Her throat went dry. She was the only one anywhere nearby. As much as she’d fantasized about sleeping with Deryck, at no point did she want to be used so he wouldn’t suffer. She’d do it though, if it came down to it.
