TWELVECalista
Twisted pathways lead me deeper into the labyrinth of trees until I lose all sense of direction. Shadows cast by bare branches stretch from the forest depths I’ve scoured a hundred times. The eerie silence surrounding me weighs heavily, suffocating me even. Still, being here is better than returning home. I’m only surprised that my father hasn’t sent a group of the devoted to hunt me down yet, although my mother will surely stop him if he tries. It would raise suspicions, and their leaving me has less to do with concern for me and everything to do with our family’s reputation.
I don’t complain. It is freedom, and I have no desire to return home before The Choosing.
Leaves crunch under the soles of boots as I walk, the moon my only light as I venture deeper. Nightbor spiders hang from intricate webs, like a grotesque ballet as they twist and turn from threads hanging from dying twigs.
A hiss drags my attention to the underbrush. A pair of gleaming, red eyes peer through the blackness, its body coiled tightly, ready to strike should I come too close.
An icy breeze circles my body, carrying the pungent smell of decaying vegetation and damp wood with it. I tighten my cloak around me, keeping north, hoping I will soon find my way to the shoreline.
Once the God of Death discovers I hold his ethereal power, and Drake’s escape is discovered, we are as good as dead. Fleeing to Tenenocti is the only way we can elude persecution. Nobody will dare go there, and we can cross on the night of the Harvest with the chosen sacrifices.
I scan the area, searching for places Drake and I can hideout until The Harvest. Later in the night, when everyone is busy with the Choosing, I will break him out. Poison will take care of the enforcers and that awful woman who runs the Incarcuri.
I look up as I slow my run into a walk, glimpsing the moon, its pale light filtering through the dense foliage overhead. The moment I reach the forest’s edge, I am greeted by the pungent, ashy aroma of the sacred ground lingering in the air. Vines hang like the skeletal fingers of the reaper and tenderly brush my shoulders as I turn to face the island.
My eyes fixate on the shadowy outline of the island less than a half a mile from shore as I near the water’s edge. The entire place is a dangerous thicket of overgrown weeds, dense trees, and poisonous plants.
Mesmerized by the melodic symphony of the distant forest, I almost fail to notice the subtle shuffling of footsteps. Goosebumps spread over my arms and around the nape of my neck as a tendril of dread slides down my spine.
Slowly, I turn, shadows dancing in my peripheral vision. I gaze at the tree line, my fingers darkening as my magic seeps to the surface.
A man materializes from the shadows, as if he belongs to them. As our eyes lock, my lips form a tight line, mirroring the intensity of his silver gaze.
His hair, as white as the moon, floats around his ears when he draws near. Everything about him has an ethereal quality, like he has been molded from the brilliance of stars, yet there’s something dangerous about him behind the beauty.
His lips curve, and the moonlight captures the chiseled edges of his features. My breath hitches as I catch myself staring at the fabric of his tunic clinging to his muscles. The closer he gets, the more he towers over me. I’ve never seen anyone like him before.
Gods, he is incredibly handsome.
I try to avert my gaze, but I can’t look away, especially not when he’s gazing at me like that. He appears just as surprised as me, as we stand in silence, the night falling around us.
My heart palpitates, my jaw slacking as I recall where I’d seen his likeness before. His portrait did not do him justice.
I stand under the piercing stare of the God of Death, suddenly nervous, yet there’s something utterly magnetic about him, a strange recognition I can’t quite understand.
He rolls up the sleeves of his unbuttoned tunic, revealing a series of tattoos that adorn his muscular arms, resembling those from Astraea’s Coven. But unlike them, his tattoos remain unmoving.
My cheeks heat as I trail my gaze over his torso. I take a cautious step back, and he follows my movements.
His eyes darken as he looks me up and down with a discerning stare, his fingers flexing when he looks at my throat, and I inhale deeply.
My nose scrunches, my lip twitching as decay magic shifts under my skin, clearly aware of Death’s closeness. I hide my hands behind my back, forcing apathy into my expression. What am I supposed to call him? I settle on his name. “You’re Azkiel.”
“You didn’t bow,” he says, more intrigued than angry.
“No.”
His lip curves. “Interesting.”
Gods, that smile is devastating. I close my eyes briefly. What in the Darklands am I thinking, and why do I want to see him smile again?
His lips fall back into a hardline, but as he gazes at me, he seems to mirror my expression. Shadows slide over his face as clouds roll over the moon, and in the flashes of gray, I notice sadness cloaking every shift in his stunning features.
“Why are you sad?” I ask. I can’t breathe under the energy, so palpable I can taste it.
His shoulders tense, shifting his gaze towards the island, as if he’s trying to figure something out. Something I cannot see. After a brief pause, his brow creases, and he exhales a clipped sigh. “I am not.”
My eyes glaze over the bulging contours of his muscles, and I wonder how long he has been back, in his mortal body. I’ve read enough to know the gods are supposed to exist in their ethereal form.
He closes his eyes, the sea spray brandishing us both as a dark wave crashes to shore.
“The dead are angry,” he states, and I look out over the Black Sea.
“If you’re talking about the souls you’ve damned from The Harvests, then yes, I can imagine they are furious. I know I would be.”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“My friends call me Cali.” I pause. “You can call me Calista.”
Anger flashes in his eyes, and just like that, all the sadness in his expression vanishes. “Calista,” he says, as if he’s tasting my name on his tongue. “Then you may call me your God of Death,” he states, and I clench my jaw so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t break.
Fucking egomaniac.
“My most gracious God of Death,” I drawl, hoping I can use it to my advantage. Because I need to get out of here before he finds out about the magic beneath my skin. I can’t help but wonder if mine calls to him, too.
He casts a glance toward Tenenocti. “Why did you come here? What drew you to the island?” he asks, impatience lacing his words.
