The prelate practically quivers before the god. “This is Aventine, my lord. City dedicated to you.”

“I know where Aventine is.” His tone is scathing.

The prelate presses his forehead to the marble floors, and I can practically hear the man sweating. “We are honored to serve your Aspect. Just ask and—”

“It does not look as if you are honored to serve,” Aron says caustically. “It looks like you are here for wine and wenching.”

Well, he’s got that one pegged. Wine and wenching seems to be the order of the day. Massive burn.

“No, no, my lord,” the prelate says, sitting up on his knees. “You misunderstand—”

“Do I?”

The two words practically send frost through the room. I shiver as everything goes silent once more. Everyone’s clearly terrified, including me.

For a moment, I feel bad for the prelate. It’s clear that no one’s ever expected one of the gods to actually show up. In a way, I can kind of understand. I’m not sure how Santa’d take it if he slid down my chimney and found me eating all the cookies laid out for him.

But then again, Santa’s not real.

This Aron of the Cleaver clearly is, and he doesn’t seem to be a benign sort of god. Much as I love seeing the prelate squirm, I wish I was anywhere but here.

“How can I serve?” the prelate asks, his voice turning obsequious. “Command it and it shall be done.”

“How do you think you should serve?” Aron of the Cleaver’s face is expressionless, but I still get a sense of distaste from him.

Trembling, the prelate picks up the goblet on the floor and offers it up to the god—

—Only to have it knocked from his hands again. “Do I look as if I wish your scraps?” Again, Aron doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s still an absolute sense of danger that follows those quiet words. This is not a man to be fucked with, that much is clear.

“Of course not, my lord.” The prelate slowly gets to his feet and casts a frantic look around the room. “Servants! The finest wine for our honored Aspect! Cheese! Fruit! Meat! Fine robes! At once!”

The room bustles into activity. People scurry to do the prelate’s bidding and others remain exactly as they were, on their knees. There’s a palpable feeling of terror in the room and the girl next to me is trembling with fear.

And she wasn’t trembling at the thought of her own death at dawn, so that kind of scares me.

Maybe these people should have worshipped a fluffier, kinder god. Someone with more hearts and cuddles than say, a god of war or storms.

“What else can we do for you, my lord?” The prelate bows again, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Aventine is honored to serve.”

I half-expect the god to give another venomous response. Instead, he raises a hand thoughtfully and stares at his palm. “This body is weak. Why?”

The prelate stammers for a moment, and when a serving girl moves timidly forward with a length of crimson material, he snatches it from her and then offers it to the god.

“I did not ask for this,” Aron says, and he sounds pissy.

“Of course n-not, my Lord of Storms. I was simply anticipating your needs.” The prelate bows his head and offers the clothing, and when it’s not taken from his hands, he waits a moment longer and then slinks back, handing the robe to a quaking Avalla.

I guess a god doesn’t like to be told to put pants on. It’s kind of funny, in a surreal sort of way. Of course, knowing that makes me want to peek at his junk. The way he’s seated, I can’t see anything, but how often does a girl get to see god-dick? If he really is a god. I figure I can’t be blamed for being curious, but I don’t get up from my spot on the floor to peer.

Even I’m not that dumb.

“As for why you are weak, my Lord of Storms, m-might I offer a suggestion?” The prelate sounds more and more obsequious with every minute that passes. When the god flicks a hand indicating he should continue, the prelate goes on. “The sacred scrolls speak of this. As you know”—his voice begins to tremble again—“in the last Anticipation, the gods that were cast to the mortal world were forced to take an anchor.”

Aron of the Cleaver nods slowly. “Anchor. I remember.” He pauses and flexes his hand again, as if unused to it…or unused to wearing skin. After a moment, he looks up. “Who is to be my anchor? You?” His lip curls.

The prelate clearly misses Aron’s distaste. “If it pleases my lord—”

“It does not.”

It goes silent in the room once more. There’s a faint smell of urine.

“Shall I choose someone, then?” Aron spits the words as if he is insulted that he has to even ask. “I grow impatient waiting for you to assign me my servant.”

The prelate sits up. His bald head is covered in sweat and has a slick sheen in the torchlight. “The anchor must dedicate themselves freely, Lord of Storms.”

The god sighs, as if he’s the most put-upon person in the world. “Then let a volunteer approach.”

The room is utterly quiet.

No one’s stepping forward to serve the god. At first I don’t blame them—he’s kind of an asshole. But as the oppressive silence continues, I wonder how come no one’s volunteering at all. Is it that bad a deal? No one’s saying what an anchor is.

At all. And that worries me a little. It might just be another fancy word for “sacrifice.”

As long seconds slide past and the god’s face grows angrier, the storms overhead thunder and crash as if the entire sky is about to fall down on our heads. That’s not helping the situation, I imagine. He’s not going to get a servant if everyone’s too terrified to speak.

“No one?” the god says, and I can practically feel the ice dripping from his voice.

I think of the certain death I have at sunrise. I don’t want to die here.

I think of the drums, and the voices I heard back in my apartment. I’ve been brought here for a reason. Maybe this is it. Aron’s terrifying, but I’ve worked for asshole bosses before.

And what’s he going to do to me? Kill me? I’m supposed to die at sunrise anyhow. Maybe this absolute raging dick of a god is the King of Pentacles I’m supposed to meet. Maybe it’s because he’s the one that can send me home.

I shoot to my feet. “I’ll do it.”

OceanofPDF.com

7

The room sucks in a collective breath, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

But I remain standing, unwilling to back down. I’ve made my choice. If I was brought to this crappy world for a reason, maybe it’s right here, sitting in that throne and glaring at me.

The god looks me up and down. “You?”

Arrogant dick. “Me. I might not be a great servant, but it’s freely given.” I move forward, stepping over the cowering people. It feels a bit like I’m walking right to my death, but I tell myself that’s just their fear getting to me. “That’s your requirement, right?”

“You wish to serve me in all ways?” The tone of his voice is arrogant, his expression practically a sneer. He also makes it sound as if serving him is going to have layered implications, and I can just guess what some of those layers are by his tone.

All ways means exactly what I think it means.

I do my best to look unfazed and make a joke. “Does that mean butt stuff? Because I draw the line at butt stuff.”

Aron snorts, and it’s the first time he’s shown any emotion other than disgust. His blade-sharp mismatched eyes narrow on me. I think for a moment that he’s going to give me a nasty cutdown like he did the prelate.

Instead, he extends his hand, palm up. Waiting.

I swallow hard and wonder if I’m walking into a trap. There has to be a reason why no one else wanted to do this.