My grip tightens on the blade. “Three gods. How many more?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He rocks back on his heels, the rain plastering his black shirt to his very muscular chest. “We’re still doing a headcount. The thing about a divine prison break is that it’s not exactly orderly. When that seal cracked, it was chaos.” His eyes flash brighter. “Which, admittedly, is my forte, but even I prefer my chaos with a bit of structure.”
“That’s an oxymoron. Emphasis on the moron.”
He ignores my barb. “I’m a god of contradictions. Part of my charm.” He winks, and I resist the urge to stab him just on principle.
But the fact of the matter is, he hasn’t attacked me, threatened me or anyone else—that I know of—or made any kind of advance towards me. If I killed him, it would be petty and against my moral conduct.
“Look, I’m not here to be your enemy. I’m here because war is coming. The old kind. The kind where gods pick sides and mortals are collateral damage, and you, slayer of demons, whether you like it or not, are right in the bloody middle of it.”
War. Between gods. On mortal soil. In my town. “And which side are you on?”
“The winning one, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I mutter.
We lock gazes, and something strange happens. There is a ripple of power, and the rain seems to avoid him, falling down around him now, but not touching him.
“Neat trick.”
He drops his gaze to my mouth. “I’m a little rusty. God powers in this realm are not the same as back home.”
“Stronger or weaker?”
His stare shoots back up to my eyes. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds like you and Dreven have been locked up together for too long.”
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, staring at my mouth again like he wants to devour it in a bruising kiss.
With Rynna’s question about shagging ringing in my head, part of me wonders what it would be like. The other part, thesanepart, recoils from the idea. I don’t fraternise with the enemy.
“Earth to slayer,” Dastian says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You went somewhere interesting just then. Care to share?”
“Absolutely not.” I push past him, slamming my front door closed behind me. My cheeks feel hot despite the cold rain suddenly hitting them, and I blame my sister for my momentary lapse in judgement. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s coming, then piss off. I have actual work to do.”
“Work. Right. The Order.” He says it like it’s a dirty word. “You’re going to march in there and tell them what? That the Pantheon realm just vomited gods all over Blackfen Edge? That you stabbed a goddess in the face and used your blood to seal a divine fissure? How do you think that’s going to go down with the stuffy old Guardians?”
I freeze. He’s not wrong. The Guardians are traditional, bound by centuries of protocol and hierarchy. They deal in documented threats, catalogued weaknesses, and strategies that have been tested over generations. “They’ll believe me because I’ve never lied to them.”
“Or I could come with you and back up your whacky story.”
“In your fucking dreams. I’m not taking you to the very place where you can sniff around the enemy’s lair to figure out how to kill us all in our sleep.”
“If I wanted to do that, I could’ve already. I am not the threat here.”
“Wanna bet?” I mutter, marching down the garden path, still clutching my blade.
He follows me to my annoyance.
I whirl on him, blade raised again. “Stay away from me. I don’t need or want your help.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but that infuriating grin never wavers. “Suit yourself. But when things get properly messy—and they will—don’t say I didn’t offer.” He takes a step back, and the air around him shimmers with heat, like the world is bending around his presence before he disappears, leaving me wet, pissed off and frustrated. This day is going to get worse from here. I just know it.
Chapter 8
Dastian
