Is he teasing? I can’t tell. “Other than that, whatever you want,” I amend.
“You will do whatever I want anyhow.”
“I’ll do something extra special, then,” I tell him desperately. If blowing an arrogant asshole means I’ll save the life of two dozen terrified women, I’ll get down on my hands and knees right now. “Just say it and I’ll do it.”
“You can be silent,” he tells me.
Damn it. I open my mouth to protest his rudeness when he arches a silvery brow in my direction. Fuck. Is this a test? I can’t tell. Reading this guy is impossible. I close my mouth and slump on my stool, worried. I press my fingers to my mouth, anxious that I’ve not done enough. Should I have said something earlier? Bargained my “anchoring” to the god in exchange for all of our freedom? What if I’ve messed up and I have to watch all of them die? I can’t take it. I squirm on my cushion, miserable.
I look over at Aron, wondering if I should speak up again. Before I can open my mouth to blurt out another plea, the god raises his hand. “Prelate.” He flicks his fingers in that pompous way, indicating someone should trot over to do his bidding.
The prelate gets up from his chair and moves toward the god, his hands clasped in an attempt at piety. Something tells me he’s probably feeling a lot less pious at the moment now that he’s met Aron the Dickbag. He doesn’t get down on his knees right away, and the god stares at him so hard that I can practically feel eyes boring into the prelate’s skull.
The prelate clearly isn’t used to not being in charge. He’s practically bristling at Aron’s pompousness and he stands in front of the god, waiting. It feels like a battle of wills, and all the while, the storm overhead crackles and gets more ominous. The pressure change in the air makes my head hurt, and I wince at the battle of wills.
Of course, the prelate is the one to bend first. He gets down on his knees and presses his forehead to the floor again before sitting up. “How may I serve you, Lord of Storms?” His voice is tight and it’s clear he doesn’t like being at the beck and call.
Aron tilts his head, then holds his wine goblet out to the side, in my direction. Oh. I guess I’m supposed to take it. I do, and as I touch it, a spark snaps at my fingers, conducted through the metal. I bite back a yelp and manage not to drop the cup, but just barely. The god rests his hands on the ends of his throne for a moment before getting to his feet, and then I’m “treated” to a bird’s eye view of naked god butt.
8
I have to admit, it’s a pretty good butt. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re a god, though. It’s pale as the rest of him, but the globes are perfectly shaped and muscular. Not that I care, because it’s attached to a holy pain in the ass. Literally. He puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room. “Who are those maidens in the back that are not allowed to celebrate?”
The prelate’s gaze flicks to me and I get a chill down my spine. He knows I’m to blame for this. I lift my chin, unwilling to back down to him. I get a seat on the dais now, after all, and he doesn’t. That makes me more important. He can suck it.
Granted, it’s a seat at Aron’s feet, but it’s still a seat above his.
The prelate clears his throat delicately. “Those are offerings to the gods.”
He makes it sound so benign that I can’t help but speak up. “A bunch of people brought slaves to the temple. He picks the cream of the crop and then the rest are sacrificed at dawn,” I pipe in.
Both men turn to glare at me. Sheesh.
Aron of the Cleaver turns back to the prelate, and the thunder overhead rolls ominously. “Why are they sacrificed to the gods?”
“As an offering of our devotion, of course. It has been that way for many, many centuries, my lord.”
Aron crosses his arms over his chest, all pale naked body and stormy anger. “Have the gods ever asked for such a thing?”
The prelate is silent.
“I asked you a question. Have you been commanded by me—or any other—to sacrifice