Page 62 of The Mortal Trials

Anansi’s eyes glimmer in the firelight as they swivel to me and August. “Can they?” he asks Ares.

The god of war folds his arms. “You know they can.”

The trickster god grins. “I’ve adhered to your rules. I did not advise them of anything. I told my mortal to rest. A bland piece of advice any champion might give and mortals expect to hear after such a harrowing trial. That is all.”

Anansi doesn’t wait for any further words on the matter. He tells Koda he will visit him tomorrow. He and Ogun nod to Koda, then to us, before vanishing from the temple.

With a threatening glare, Ares follows suit.

Koda accepts my and August’s help down the staircase. “They should install a portal, or maybe a slide,” he suggests halfway down when we have to stop on a landing for him to rest.

When Koda is safely in his oikos, August and I start across the shore toward our homes.

“Why didn’t you stay and speak with Ogun?” I finally ask. The question has been rattling around in the back of my mind since the gods disappeared.

August shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I don’t know. With Ogun, I could better help Koda.” He’s quiet for a long time. “I think he would make a great champion.”

“So, why didn’t you stay and talk to him?” I press.

“When I thought about staying behind, something in my gut insisted I go with you,” he admits, staring ahead at the dark sky and matching waves. “It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve always been told to trust my intuition, but I’m not sure we have the luxury right now.”

“I’ll talk to him at the next feast,” he says resolutely.

The wind rolling off the water is steady and strong, clawing sand from the damp shore. It stings my arms and face, and I blink to keep it from getting into my eyes. We reach the thin walkways that lead to our homes. He takes his. And I take mine.

Standing at my front door, I hear, “Goodnight, Callalie.”

“Goodnight.”

He twists his doorknob the same time I do, and we step into our houses. His windows leak warm light, but my house is dark.

The oil lamp was burning when I left. It must be empty.

I push my door open wider, moonlight slipping inside.

There’s a scuff on the tile near the bathing room. The hair on my arms rises. My breathing shallows. “Cillian?”

Even as I say his name, I know it’s not him. My brother lit the lamps. He wouldn’t extinguish them, and besides, he promised to go straight home to Abuela. I turn to flee, but I only make it a few steps.

Someone stronger and taller than me wraps his arm around my neck and squeezes. My feet leave the ground and he hauls me farther into the house.

“Where’s the spear?” my attacker growls in a thick accent, his warm, stinking breath at my ear.

Torsten.

Fighting to free myself, I claw his gritty forearm and hear his hiss of pain when I open his skin. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t even loosen his grip.

I pry his finger back, trying to snap the bone. He jerks me to the side and my toes barely graze the tile before he straightens. Blood rushes to my face and head. I try to lower my chin, my jaw grating against the sweat and dirt coating every inch of him, but he only squeezes tighter and drags me across the floor toward the bottom of the bed.

He’s torn the blanket off the mosaic. Moonlight limns the wrath in my sister’s eyes.

“Where is your spear?” he asks again.

Choking, I struggle and kick my legs, trying to catch his knee or shin. Something.

I can’t… breathe. Can’t reach the ground.