“And me,” adds a third. Two others raise their hands.

I bite back my frustration. My escape plan isn’t exactly going to work if everyone has the same damn idea. They’re ruining it for me.

“Sit down, all of you,” the guard snarls. “You’ll sit quietly and wait until the Hour of Blood, and if you do not, we’ll cut your throat and toss your body into the river without so much as a blessing. Understand?”

Everyone sits. Even me. Jeez.

I watch the revelers with an increasing sense of disgust. As time passes, they go beyond drunk. Someone starts fondling a nearby woman and then suddenly there’s a girl thrown down on a table with her skirts hiked up. I try not to stare, but from the noises she’s making, she’s having a really good time. I look over at Avalla, and she’s migrated to the prelate’s knee, her hand between his thighs as she whispers in his ear and pushes her breasts into his face.

Okay, maybe this is a bit more than your average Christmas party.

Maybe it’s more like…New Year’s? A really horny, horny New Year’s, I amend as a naked man chases a naked woman through the crowd. If there’s some sort of attention that’s supposed to be paid to the whole reason for the holiday, these people have forgotten it long ago. No one pays attention to the throne on the dais, and I notice that the prelate sets his wine goblet on the arm of it, as if it’s his own special armchair. Maybe it is. Fuck if I know. There’s so much about this world that I just don’t understand.

Namely why you’d have to kill thirty perfectly good blondes to celebrate a god no one gives a shit about.

Thunder crackles overhead.

The people in the room pause, and then laughter breaks out. “The Lord of Storms sends a greeting,” calls one of the priests. I can’t help but notice he’s grabbing one of the local women, his wine spilled down the front of his robes. He’s clumsy, turning and slapping people with the long end of his sword.

I really hope he’s not the executioner.

The thought makes my stomach knot up and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I keep waiting for an opportunity to show itself but there isn’t one. The guards standing near us are the only ones sober, and a runaway blonde slave girl would be too obvious in this crowd. I can’t blend. I can’t escape.

If there’s a plan for me, a little hint right about now would be nice.

Thunder booms again, and the wind rises.

The torches flicker, almost going out. The heavy scent of ozone fills the sultry air, and I can hear rain starting outside. One of the terrified women next to me starts to cry. I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s okay. I’ve got a plan.”

Fake it until you make it and all that. I don’t have a plan, but it feels better to pretend that I do.

The air feels heavier with the oncoming storm. The thunder booms again, and this time it’s so loud that the entire building seems to shake. Wind whips through the temple, providing the first breeze I’ve felt in hours.

The torches die.

I jump to my feet as people cry out, startled. This is my chance. Time to escape.

“Someone re-light the torches,” the prelate calls out in a lazy voice. People laugh, and I hear the sound of someone getting laid, all grunts and groaning and female giggles. Ew.

On tiptoe, I start to move through the crowd. Everyone’s distracted. Time to make my escape. People are pressed against each other so tightly that it’s impossible to push forward. I try to shove my way past a pair of men, but they just knock me backwards.

One of the torches is lit, and then the room floods with dim light.

Someone gasps. “He’s here!”

There’s a little scream, and then people start dropping to their knees all around me. I look around—and see that the big, empty throne at the front of the room is no longer empty.

A man sits there.

“Sit” seems like such a benign word for what’s going on, though. His presence is so overwhelming that it feels like a stronger adjective should be used. Looms, maybe. Lords. Yeah. The stranger’s lording over all of us, equal parts arrogance and contempt emanating from him. He doesn’t move a muscle, his arms calmly stretched on the throne as if he’s been here the entire time. And as he gazes around the room, he’s impossible to like. Fear, yes. Like, no. It’s in every pore of his being that he hates what he sees in front of him.

I just wish he wasn’t so darn beautiful to look at.

Fact is, he’s gorgeous in the most intimidating sort of way. His shoulders are broad and muscular, his skin pale. There seem to be acres and acres of pale skin, and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s totally naked. He wears it well, of course, his entire form so intimidating that it almost makes me feel like everyone else is just overdressed.

His hair is dark black and falls down his back and shoulders. It’s unadorned, drawn back from his face at the crown. Instead of making him look feminine, it just highlights how blatantly masculine his features are. His jaw is sharp, his nose perfectly straight, and his eyes are narrow and bladelike…and mismatched in color.

The stranger also looks vaguely familiar to me, which is weird considering I’m a stranger in this land and I don’t know anyone even remotely close to being as perfect as this guy…and then I realize there’s a pale scar crossing over the left side of his face.

Oh my god. Like the statue.

No wonder everyone’s dropping to their feet. I suddenly realize just what it means that he’s dropped in mid-ceremony on Anticipation day. He’s sitting in that throne because it was waiting for him.

This is Aron of the Cleaver.

I laugh. Aloud. “Ha!”

Christmas has come early, bitches.

OceanofPDF.com

6

A god just arrived.

I find this far more exciting than everyone else does. I don’t care that he’s a god of battle or whatever. If he’s a god, he can send me home.

I might have laughed out loud.

Aron’s gaze turns to me and it’s like ice.

I realize I’m the only one not on my knees bowing, and the moment our eyes make contact, I feel a shiver go through my body. There’s power there, and even though I don’t worship these gods, I drop to my knees because it feels like I have to.

The god—if that’s what he is—continues to swing his gaze around the room, utterly silent. After a moment, he notices the prelate sitting in his chair next to his throne, and you can just tell that he does not approve.

The prelate turns sheet white and stumbles over Avalla in his haste to drop to his own knees. “Lord of Storms,” the prelate says, and his trembling voice carries across the too-still room. “It is you. The Anticipation has been fulfilled at last.”

I watch Aron of the Cleaver to see if he’s going to say anything. He continues to study the room, his mismatched gaze burning with hostility. I shiver, wondering if he’s a benevolent god. Something in me says no. There’s an element in the way that he holds himself that suggests he’s not a very nice god at all.

His gaze moves to the goblet on the end of one of the arms of his chair. It’s the same golden, jewel-crusted goblet that the prelate put there earlier, too busy enjoying himself to pay attention. Very carefully, very slowly, Aron of the Cleaver flicks the goblet away and it clatters to the floor, spilling wine down the marble steps of his dais.

“Where am I?” His voice is lethal with dislike.

I’m shocked. This is the voice I heard back in the apartment. It’s the gorgeous, smooth, deep voice that haunted me and drove me crazy. Except…

I didn’t think the owner would be quite as intimidating as this guy. I’m just as terrified as everyone else. Was this what I was brought for? To watch this? To get killed with everyone else in this room once the war god arrived? I’m still confused, even if a piece or two slid into place.