Well…I wasn’t worried about rot until just now. Ugh. And given that the floor is all wet, I have no idea if that’s going to speed things along or not. “Nice of you, but it’s not the rot I’m worried about. It’s the angry villagers finding out that their favorite surly fisherman has been killed. I don’t want them coming after us. We’ve got enough problems.”
He grunts.
I apply the comb to his hair and immediately Kalos hisses and glares at me. Someone’s got a tender head. I eye his mane of striking white hair and hesitate. “You ever think about cutting this?”
“I never think about my hair at all, no.” His tone implies that I’m stupid for even asking.
“Okay, well, now’s the time.” I touch one gnarled wet clump. “I can detangle this for you, but with long, gorgeous silver hair, you’re going to stand out like a sore thumb. If we cut it short, you’ll just look prematurely gray or something.”
“Are you saying I’m too attractive to blend in with villagers and fisherfolk?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying, actually.”
He huffs, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or irked. “It’s just hair. Do what you like with it.”
“Then you’ll let me cut it?”
Kalos shrugs. I touch his tangled wet locks again, considering. It really is beautiful hair, but it also makes him look pampered and taken care of. Sleek. Elite. Not looks we’re going for. Unfortunately, there are no scissors to be found anywhere, so I take the one knife I’ve managed to locate and experimentally cut one lock of hair. I have to saw at it to get it to cut, and wince with every hack of the dull blade. But this isn’t about being pretty. This is about survival.
“You’re very skittish about my hair for being the one who suggested I should cut it.”
I grimace even as I lift another handful to saw at. I’m cutting it down to an inch or two away from his scalp, and it feels like a travesty. “It’s just really nice hair. Can I ask a question without seeming rude?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
He obviously doesn’t love a rhetorical question. “I just…you’re the god of disease and decay, right? Your people love vultures and throwing salt over their shoulder because they don’t want your attention. You’re fearsome. But when I look at you…” I try to think of how to phrase it. “I don’t get ‘god of disease’ vibes. Is that weird?”
“You are unnerved because I am pretty.” He enunciateseach word, his head moving slightly and messing up my attempts at cutting his hair.
“I mean, no. It’s not like I was expecting you to be hideous. I don’t guess I had expectations. But since we’re talking about it, why are you pretty? You’re a god, right? I assume you can change your appearance to suit yourself. Wouldn’t you want to be scary instead of pretty?”
“Because it’s unnerving,” he says simply. He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. “Because you cannot look at me and decide that I’m terrible and evil if my face is appealing. If I had rotten teeth and pustules on my face, you would immediately pass judgment upon who and what I am. But when I am beautiful, it makes you pause. It makes you wonder if you’ve mistaken me. It troubles you to find me attractive…and I enjoy troubling you.”
I know he’s just saying that to bug me, but I still blush. I do find him oddly attractive. He’s not burly and big and brawny like the types I’d normally go for. He’s lean and lithe and somehow graceful, all the things that maybe a god of disease shouldn’t be. Which is the point, according to him. “You like unsettling people’s expectations.”
“I do.”
I hack away at another hank of his hair. “You sure you’re not just vain?”
He laughs. “I can be vain. The All-Father doesn’t care if we like looking in mirrors, as long as that’s not all we do.”
“I guess.” How funny, to think that the god of disease and sickness and misery might be a bit of a peacock. “Well, if you really are vain, you’re going to absolutely hate what I’ve done to your hair.”
“It will turn out all right,” he says confidently.
Strangely enough,Kalos’s hair does turn out all right. Not just all right, it turns out amazing. Even though I’ve hacked at it with the dullest knife in all of creation, by the time it dries, it feathers around his head in a soft, wavy cloud. Now, instead of a gothic prince, he looks like an elfin boy-bander. If anything, he stands out even more.
I scrub at our filthy clothing and wring it out as best I can before repacking the twisted linens into the bottom of my bag. I then fill my satchel with everything in the hut worth taking—my corn cakes, the dried fish, a pair of questionable boots, and my new knife. We remain inside throughout the day, and I take a quick nap until the sun sets, but I can’t relax. I’m afraid we’re going to be found.
I’m also afraid the dead guy is going to start smelling.
Or worse, that Dingle’s going to eat him. I read somewhere once that goats will eat anything, and I really, really hope that’s not true. I’ll just have to keep the goat well-fed so he doesn’t go hunting for…treats.
Ugh. Even thinking about it makes me feel ill. The sooner we leave, the better.
Chapter
Twelve
