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“Because you didn’t tear each other apart during your last visit. In fact, you two played nice.”
“And you know this how?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.
“I’m a god. Why wouldn’t I know?” I retort, trying to keep a straight face.
“You probably asked Amell,” he mutters before suspicion clouds his expression. “Did you send me there merely to get us to talk?”
“I refuse to answer that, and as your deity and supreme ruler, I’m offended you’d ask.”
A smile breaks across Maddox’s face. “You set us up. To be friends. Well, more like frenemies.”
“Maybe allies,” I propose. “I think you could be very good allies to each other.”
Leaning down, Maddox brushes his lips across mine. “Fine. I’ll go see him, but not now.”
He adjusts his body, pushes between my legs, and settles in. His warm hand covers my breast as his mouth grazes along my neck.
“Tomorrow’s soon enough,” I moan.
“Not leaving tomorrow either,” he whispers against my skin. “Maybe next week.”
His fingers pinch my nipple, hard enough I gasp from the pain. It’s a bold move to hurt a god, but rather than rush to anger, I melt.
Next week will be fine.
CHAPTER 7
Maddox
The screams ofa woman falling into the Crimson River are chilling, and even this immortal demigod gets a shiver up his spine at the terror within it. Falling into the Crimson River means your soul is eternally tortured.
It’s where all bad people go unless Amell decides to give them a shot at reincarnation.
Lucien wasn’tbad peopleand didn’t deserve the Crimson River, and yet that’s where he landed. It didn’t happen from this bridge in the Underworld where Amell is currently judging the souls brought before him. Rather, it happened in a barren dimension through which the river flowed. There Lucien and Carrick battled a terrible and powerful Dark Fae named Micah who tossed my demigod brother into the river.
I’m not even sure if it killed him. Souls go into the river of molten lava, not immortal demigods. While the river would crisp a fragile mortal, it stands to reason Lucien would have survived it, except he’s not been seen or heard from since.
Being a demigod doesn’t mean we can’t be killed. Drop a nuclear warhead on top of me and I’ll be incinerated. Shoot a hundred rounds from a heavy machine gun and I’ll be torn to minuscule shreds. Catch me while I’m sleeping and swing a sharp sword at my head with enough force, decapitation will do the trick.
But those things just don’t happen, and even if they did, the gods could bring us back. That power is simple for them.
They won’t, however, and per Zora’s request, I’m back here in the Underworld to appeal to Amell for help.
I most definitely wasn’t pushed out of her bed like she normally does but spent a luxurious four days at her chalet with her. We acted like mortal humans—read books, cooked meals, talked, laughed, and fucked. With every day that passed, Zora seemed to come more out of her shell. But even with the advances she made, that look in her eyes—hinting she could bolt at any moment—never disappeared.
It was enough for me, for now. I’m bolstered by the progress, and after she was summoned to meet with the other gods, I pulled up my big-boy demigod pants and came to the Underworld.
Amell sits on a throne made of rough-cut obsidian, Nyssa at his side. His raven-black wings hang over the back of his chair as he slouches in it, his chin resting in his palm, as if this task is as boring as it seems.
I appear on the end of the bridge nearest the castle doors, behind Amell and Nyssa. I watch as fae guards bring forth another recently departed soul, who appears in the human form they had when they died.
I’m too far away to hear what’s being said, but the wretched mortal seems to be pleading with Amell. Clearly, he’s not made a compelling argument as Amell flicks his hand and the human flies over the edge of the bridge, shrieking on the way to the river to be brutally punished for eternity.
On the banks of the river from the city side, Otaxis residents watch the judging with a party-like atmosphere. Every soul that drowns in torment earns raucous applause and cheers from those watching.
Eventually, the last soul goes overboard, and Amell stands from his throne. He and Nyssa wave down at their subjects and turn my way, their hands clasped.
Amell’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees me. He leans down toward Nyssa, says something clearly not meant for me to hear, and she gives him a chastising look and an elbow to his ribs.
