But I’m out of options, so I take a deep breath and walk forward, up the steps, and put my hand in his.

CRACK.

Lightning sizzles. It’s like being electrocuted.

Power surges through my body and I’m dimly aware of my choking gasp before I’m flattened to the ground, collapsing at his feet. My jaw smacks against his ankle and I slide down the marble stairs a few steps.

No one comes over to help me.

It takes me a moment. My stunned conscious feels as if the world is collapsing in on itself and there’s both pleasure and pain in this moment. It’s like I’m being split and remade at a cosmic level, and then pushed back into human form again. Everything hurts.

Then everything refocuses, and the world becomes clear once more.

I don’t realize the room is quiet until I hear a low, pleasant voice. Aron. “You are right. That is better.”

I turn my head and look over and the god—I don’t doubt that’s what he is now—flexes his hand again. His color looks a little better than the paper-white shade his skin was before. It’s like he’s taken on some of my healthy glow.

Okay, maybe no one wanted to hitch their wagon to his because he’s a vampire.

I try to get up, but my limbs feel like noodles. I roll onto my side, and then try to push myself up off the floor with my weak arms. Am I drooling? I might be drooling.

“I’m cool,” I mutter. “No one help me get up. I’ve got it.”

“Help her sit up,” the god says coldly. “I don’t like seeing my servant sprawled like that.”

People rush over to my side, and arms grab me and haul me to my feet. I wobble unsteadily.

“Get her something to sit on,” Aron of the Cleaver demands.

“Shall my throne work, my Lord of Storms—”

The god focuses his cold, angry gaze on the prelate and the man goes silent. “You should not have a throne at all, mortal. This is my temple, is it not?” When the man drops to his knees in supplication, the god looks over at me again. “Get her a cushion. She can sit at my feet.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to gripe that he’s far too kind, but really, a cushion sounds pretty good right now. I’m wiped out by whatever just happened. It’s like my body is trying to recalibrate to something and not quite sure how. As I weave on my feet, a servant rushes forward with a fluffy, red pillow with decorative tassels that match the prelate’s robes, and then a kind hand touches my arm and leads me over.

Then, I’m seated at the god’s feet like I’m his toy. I don’t know if this is a step up or not.

What on earth have I signed up for?

“You may continue celebrating my arrival,” Aron says in his pompous, ice-cold voice.

Everyone’s too afraid to disobey, so the revelry continues.

I kinda admit that I like seeing someone else jump to this dick’s commands, because I’m thinking the prelate could stand being knocked down a peg or two and it probably doesn’t happen often.

Rich, sumptuous platters of food are brought to the god by pretty female servants, their heads bowed, their naked breasts practically shoved onto the platters like the food’s not the only thing up for offer. Another girl appears on the other side of him and offers him a wine goblet, which he takes. The smell of the food makes my mouth water and I realize suddenly that I’m ravenous. My stomach growls and I clutch at it, surprised at the ferocity of my body’s response. I’ve been hungry before, but not like this.

This is new. This is starving. Ravenous.

Aron takes a bite out of something, and then discards it with a frown. He sips his wine, and then frowns at that, too.

My stomach growls. No one’s offering me shit. All I do is watch Aron take a few small bites and then spit them out like they disgust him.

He notices my stare and turns that strange, mismatched gaze on to the nearest girl. “My anchor requires food as well. Serve her as you would me.”

One of the serving girls breaks off and kneels in front of me, offering her tray (and boobies). There are fruits of all kinds, brightly colored vegetables cut into chunks, and dried meats and cheeses of various shapes and sizes. I’m so hungry I could eat all of it, and so I smile and take the entire tray from her.

I take a huge bite of the first thing I see, a slice of cheese. Then bread. Then a leg of meat. It’s all incredible. I bite back a moan.

Aron gives me a curious look but says nothing.

I gulp down my wine and continue eating, even as I watch the room. I notice Aron doesn’t do more than pick at the food, more interested in examining it and flicking it back down on the tray than eating, but I don’t care. I cram it all into my mouth and wash it back with cup after cup of wine. I keep waiting to get drunk, but it keeps not happening. That’s a shame—getting drunk would be really nice right about now.

I demolish everything in the platter. I wipe my greasy hands on a square of linen handed to me and then nurse another cup of wine while I watch the partygoers. Definitely more subdued and no one’s having furtive party sex. I guess Aron’s a boner killer. Everyone’s too nervous at the sight of Aron of the Cleaver, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m not entirely sure what to think myself.

Seems like the longer I’m in this world, the more fucked up shit gets. I chug my wine and hold my cup out for more, wishing it would make me as sloshed as everyone else in this room. Sometimes it seems like Aron and I are the only ones sober…and that’s depressing.

My wine cup is refilled and I drink again. As I do, I scan the room, watching everyone. The prelate has set his chair up across the room—on the floor this time—and I don’t miss the fact that it’s as far away from Aron as humanly possible. Can’t say I blame the guy. Avalla still hovers near him, but uncertainty is in her eyes. Actually, I’m pretty sure uncertainty is in everyone’s eyes. No one knows what to do now that the god is here in person. Something tells me they never expected him to actually show.

The soldiers still line the walls, but their expressions are equal parts wary and awe-filled. No one knows how to react. This has all the makings of a party that’s about to be over soon.

The thought makes my stomach clench and I look back to the far end of the room, where the blondes are waiting for dawn. There’s no reprieve for them, and I see a few trying desperately to be stoic while another has tears shining on her face. Dawn’s getting closer and no one gives a crap about these poor women. I have to do something.

I glance up at the god on his throne. He stares ahead, his eyes narrowed, watching the people crowding his temple. I wonder what he finds so fascinating, because to me, they’re not all that interesting to watch. He’s not eating or drinking, either. He’s not even trying. The cup he was offered a while back is still mostly empty and sits on the end of his armrest, and the platter of food being held by a quivering slave is untouched. Huh.

I should say something about the cleaver brides. I can’t live with myself if I don’t try to save them. I turn to Aron’s throne and wait for him to notice me.

Of course, after a minute or two of staring, he continues to ignore me. So much for gods being omniscient. I clear my throat softly, and when that doesn’t get me anywhere, I try again, a little louder.

Aron of the Cleaver turns to look over at me and scowls. “Are you sick?”

“Uh, no—”

“Choking?”

He really does make it hard to like him. “I was trying to get your attention.”

“By irritating me?” He gestures out at the room of revelers. “Do you think I am not maddened enough by these fools? You have decided to join in?”

I choose to ignore that. “I need a favor.”

He swivels back to me, a look on his face that’s half amused, half irritated. “You are asking me for a favor? Are you not supposed to serve me?”