Damaged Gods

But this curiosity doesn’t last. It’s not enough to distract me from the reality of my new situation.

I turn towards the staircase, fully intending on going back out to my tomb, when I hear the woman moan. I pause.

Tomas hushes her from inside the room. “Shhh. Just lie still. I’m sure Grant has something in these bottles that can help.” She groans again, and again Tomas gently admonishes her.

I let out a long, angry sigh. Because he’s not allowed to do these things. This woman is mine. She is here for me and me only.

Tomas has no power here. He is trapped here. He is nothing here.

So he should not be talking to my woman, or consoling my woman, or helping my woman.

He should get his filthy fucking hands off my woman.

And then the rage is back.

I stomp over to the apothecary door, push it open so hard it bangs against the stone walls and shakes hundreds of glass bottles on tens of dozens of shelves, and I just stand there under the arch and watch Tomas as I seethe.

“Fuck you,” Tomas spits. Because after two thousand years, he can practically read my mind. “Do you see?” he taunts me. “Do you see what’s happening here?”

I do. And I don’t like it one bit. “She is mine. You know this. Don’t you touch her. Don’t you—”

“Fuck. You. Monster,” Tomas sneers. He’s pulling potions off the shelves, quickly reading labels, then putting them back and moving on. “Looks like this one’s different. And I’ve been here, under your thumb for far, far too long.” He laughs out that last bit and then he finds the potion bottle he’s looking for, turns towards me, and snarls, “It ends now.”

He has placed the woman on a lounger, and he sits next to her, the potion bottle in one hand. The other slips around under her head and gently lifts it up as he pulls the cork from the bottle, spits it out in my direction, and then places the lip of the bottle up to her mouth. “Drink,” he whispers. “This will bring you back.”

I squint my eyes at the bottle, trying to read the label. There was a time, many, many decades ago, when I was interested in what Grant did in here.

I was hopeful, and he was a competent alchemist, so I let him soothe me with all those false promises. But I never trusted him so the shiny newness wore off quicker than most of the other caretakers I’ve had. It became apparent that Grant was not truly working on a way to lift my curse, just biding his time until he could escape his.

And today, he did escape.

I didn’t even care that he was making no progress. He was stuck in the curse with me. And he would spend eternity here if he couldn’t find a way to break it.

But today—the miracle he had been waiting for happened.

This woman walked into my sanctuary and Grant walked out.

The woman sputters, choking on the glowing lavender liquid. “That’s it,” Tomas soothes. “Sit up a little. It will be easier.”

The woman is not really responsive. Her choking is but an instinct. But Tomas helps her sit up and props her back against the cushions, hovering so close to her, for a moment I imagine he might try to kiss her.

A low growl builds in my throat.

Tomas doesn’t even look at me. But he does swipe a lock of hair away from her face and whisper, “Don’t worry about him. You have me now. I will take care of you.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, then turn and walk towards the door. “Go to hell, Tomas. Oh”—I pause and look over my shoulder as I scoff—“I forgot. You’re already here.”

“Go jerk yourself, Pell.”

I walk out and seventeen leaps later I’m at the bottom of the grand staircase.

I cross the hall and go outside. The moon is dark tonight. New. Fitting.

But I have only one thing on my mind at the moment, and that’s Grant.

His scent lingers in the cemetery. It’s everywhere, and this just makes the anger inside me build once again.

But it’s mixed with pheromones tonight. Fear, mostly.

And he should be afraid. He should be very afraid. Because if I ever see him again, I will tear his head right off his body.

But that’s not that part that pisses me off. Because mixed in with the fear is a dose of excited anxiety.

That growl in my throat is back again. Deeper now. Rage. Hate.

Because he left this place with expectations.

He left this place with hope.

I tilt my head up to the black sky and roar out my rage. Then I gather myself, walk down the path, down the hill, up to the wooden gate that separates us from the outside world, and peek over.

His car—El Camino, he named it—is gone.