Chapter 2
Bellanca rose from her chair at the table and stretched, regretting it when the bruise on her rib cage woke up with a nasty pinch.Ugh.She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be sore and exhausted—more magic depletion than actual tiredness, though she hadn’t slept well.
Closing her eyes last night had proved even less restful than keeping them open. It meant seeing Carver, pinned down, that satyr choking the life out of him. Or Pan with his cruel sneer and huge erection. And ash—everywhere. She kept wanting to spit it out even though there’d never been any in her mouth to begin with. The smell of roasting skin and burning hair still coated her nostrils. She couldn’t get rid of it.
“You done?” She reached for Carver’s breakfast plate and stacked it on top of hers without waiting for his answer. His appetite seemed as lacking as hers this morning.
He grunted in response without looking up—confirmation that another day in Atlantis was dawning pretty much like all the rest. Aside from his torso being scraped up and bruised and the puckered red line slashing across his shoulder, Carver was his usual self—shirtless and sullen—and it was a sad situation for humanity whenshewas the sunny one.
Bellanca dropped the plates into the washbasin with a clatter. Carver could do the dishes.
Leaving him scowling at the table, she moved toward theopen window to finish getting ready for work. Nothing else had changed here, either. The constant sea breeze, the pervasive smell of brine and fishing nets, the hot sun beating down, the unrelenting terror of being the day’s “chosen.” Today was only different in that they’d just seen their first battle in months, and her muscles ached from sudden action, her throat stung from swallowing salt water, and she had a painful lump on the back of her head.
She gingerly touched the sore spot, her lips thinning. Her plain brown shawl sat on the windowsill, and she wrapped it around her head and neck, covering her bright-red hair with the dullest thing possible. She’d already tied her hair back in a tight, functional knot to keep any wisps from sneaking out and sizzling with magic. Being discreet had never been her strong suit, but when survival was on the line, looking drab and unassuming had a way of becoming more appealing.
If only her parents could see her now, especially her mother. Bellanca had gone from Thalyrian princess to Atlantian serving wench. Hopefully, the vicious bitch was spinning in her grave like a rat stuck in a butter churner.
Fiendish delight suffused her chest at the mental image. She was a strong proponent of terrible people getting the terrible endings they deserved.
Squinting against the sun, she pinned her shawl in place and carefully tucked away any stray hairs. The morning rays warmed her face as she took in the view from their rented rooms. Atlantapol’s huge main port spread out below, the heart of the city and the castle rising on the left and the exit to the harbor narrowing on the right, closer to home. Turquoise water slapped at the city’s sandstone wall directly below the window, and fishing boats peppered the surrounding sea with their colorful sails and bright, painted hulls.
She breathed deeply, drawing the salt air into her lungs. Atlantis was pretty. It was also a prison.
She watched one of the larger fishing vessels glide past their building and head out into the great basin. Zeus really did a number on the island. Everyone knew his punishments were epic, and the retribution he doled out to Atlantians several generations ago was no exception. Not only did he sink the whole island into this gigantic trough at the bottom of the ocean, but he stripped the Magoi of their magic. Less than a quarter of the population had started to imagine itself as powerful and glorious as the gods on their Olympian mountaintop, and Zeus penalized the entire island for it. Now, not only was she supposed to figure out how to restore magic to Atlantian Magoi, but she was supposed to make themwantto take Zeus’s side in a looming War of Gods.
She nearly groaned aloud. Talk about an uphill battle.
Carver’s chair scraped against the wooden floor. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him move toward the washbasin.
This uphill battle was hers, not Carver’s, but he’d crossed over from Thalyria with her. He’d said they were a team, and that was that. He walked away from home and family to help her with this unexpected mission from Persephone, and Bellanca was just waiting for the day he’d finally come out and say what a colossal mistake he’d made. Then they’d argue more than ever.
Sighing, she turned back to the window. Guilt squirmed inside her, and the heavy feeling just added to the constant strain of having to hide her true nature and what she was capable of. Magic relentlessly wanted to flare out of her, and holding it back was like telling the wind to stop blowing over the stormy ocean.
At least with Carver, she didn’t have to hide who she was. He already knew her better than anyone. She knew him, too. His bad moods, his lost love, his possible death wish, and hiswillingness to step into any fight if it meant protecting someone he cared about or sticking up for the underdog. Bellanca was never the underdog, so she figured he cared about her. Good. She would never admit it, but she cared about him, too.
How was it possible to regret he’d come with her, losing everything he’d known and worked for, and at the same time be relieved and grateful he was here? The opposing feelings warred inside her and soured what little breakfast she’d eaten. Frowning, she flicked a beetle off the windowsill, waiting to see if it would open wings and fly or plummet to the waves below. In the end, she couldn’t tell.
She looked left, over the harbor and toward the castle rising on the hill, and then right over the open basin, the great wall of water just a hint of hazy blue. The huge barrier hemming them in was magical, but she couldn’t even feel its vibration from here. All she could feel was her own power, longing to break free when she had to ruthlessly reel it in.
Carver was Hoi Polloi—one of the many without magic. It was almost a given he’d fit in. He was excellent with a sword, quick with a joke—even if it was only for show most of the time—and blended in like a chameleon. He’d instantly found a position in the king’s army while she’d just concentrated on avoiding any accidental flare-ups that would mark her as different. He could be himself while she had to pretend. It helped that men weren’t targeted for ritual sacrifice here.
At first, they’d thought they’d find the key in a matter of days, restore magic to the island, and Bellanca wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Delivering an army to Zeus also meanthavingan army. If King Eryx had been a decent person, they might’ve tried to work with him to complete her mission. Since he was a gods-awful son of a Cyclops who needed dethroning anyway, she’d decided to take his soldiersandhis crown. But issuing a challengefor a throne had rules, at least where she came from, and even in the depraved royal household she grew up in. Magoi fought Magoi in a Power Bid, and Eryx wouldn’t have magic until she gave it to him, so she was forced to wait. Unfortunately, months after a world-hopping trip through a one-way portal, they were still no closer to finding the missing piece of her amulet, rekindling magic in Atlantis, or delivering an Atlantian army to Zeus.
The Shard of Olympus.
She huffed an almost silent breath. And Pan had thoughttheyknew something? Wouldn’t that be nice.
“You look like you’re about to jump,” Carver said, startling her.
Turning, Bellanca leaned a shoulder against the window frame. He was still shirtless, but now he’d dunked his head in a bucket of water, and every muscle seemed to pop out at her as he lifted his hands and slicked his wet hair back.
A little ember burst inside her, aggravating her from the inside out. “I’m not entirely certain going to work is the better option.”
“Don’t look so put out. You’re in the center of the agora, hearing everything.” Water dripped down his shoulders and pectorals and ran in rivulets over his abdomen, bumping over each ridge and making the smattering of dark hair glisten. The low-slung waistline of his trousers turned from light tan to dark as the wetness reached it and seeped in.
Her eyes flicked over him, and that strange little twist in her belly struck again. At first, she’d thought it was indigestion. Now, she feared it was a healthy appreciation for the chest Carver put on display most mornings. “Not hearing enough to help us,” she murmured.
He shrugged. “There’s no better place to gather information than a taverna.”
