The Lion & the Deathless Dark — Chapter 17

C HA P T E R S E V E NT E E N

here was a time, not so long ago, when the gods held an air of untouchable mystique. No one could ever deny their existence—theirT fingerprints, after all, were on every use of magic or machinery—but the vast majority of people had never witnessed one firsthand. Over these last ten years, though, gods had made themselves far more present in mortal lives. We had to adjust to their every mood, remain versed in their ever- shifting grudges, in order to keep leveraging the power they allowed us to have. More and more mortals glimpsed them in the skies, raging over another slight.

For a few thousand years, the divine realm was their playground. Now, the games played out here, a million mortal lives resting on every roll of dice.

For many mortals, this only strengthened their religious fervor. It was easier than ever to believe in the gods when survival depended upon faith.

But for me, the gods’ presence in this world had only chipped away at what little I still thought of them. They were every bit as fallible and petty and foolish as humans, and I did my best to stomp out every biological instinct to see them as greater.

Right now, it occurred to me that I had failed. Because when Srana stepped from the sky, my body begged to fall to its knees.

How was it possible that she seemed greater than Shiket ever had been?

Her body, all smooth copper muscles and clicking gears with a face crafted of delicate plates of metal, was so beautiful it was almost disturbing.

Limbs folded out behind her, as powerful and delicate as spider’s legs, each bearing reaching fingers or gleaming blades.

Ticktickticktick, as her gearwork eyes speared me, and despite myself, my body, fallible and mortal, froze under that stare. The rest of the world— Atrius and Sylina and their soldiers preparing to defend the Keep, the clicks and ticks of Srana’s automatons, the angry roiling of the sea—faded away.

Only now did it occur to me that maybe this was not a good idea. How was it possible that Srana, goddess of machines, dwarfed the power of Shiket, the warrior goddess herself? {She has grown stronger,} Zefiah said. {The power left behind by Shiket’s death has been greedily taken by her siblings. Look how she preens with it.} Of course. The power gap. The gap that had, too, allowed Shiket to increase her own power when Atroxus was murdered.

Srana lowered herself to me, body whirring and clicking. I kept my back rod-straight, my knees locked, Zefiah’s hilt warming in my hands. She had tasted the blood of a god, and I could sense how she hungered for it

again.

I was hungry, too.

“So you are the god killer,” Srana mused. Her voice was an echo reverberating through the pipes of an organ or a mill—a perfectly tuned symphony of metallic echoes. “You have such nerve for one with flesh so fragile. Rash, to kill my warrior and taunt me with his corpse.”

Quick—so quickly I couldn’t react—two arms, slender and sharp as a spider’s legs, unfolded from her back and grasped my shoulders, piercing skin. The pain was staggering, though I held her gaze, refusing to show it.

“My poor siblings,” Srana said, voice distant and unmoved. “Murdered by the weapons they themselves had created. First Atroxus, and now Shiket.

But they had always been so arrogant. Their heads too big for the crown of the White Pantheon. Not like mine. The perfect size. I forged it, after all.”

Her claws dug deeper. My feet lifted off the ground, toes now barely touching stone. My jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

I knew real pain. This was nothing.

“And for all her bragging,” Srana said, drawing me closer, “you are the one to slay her. Just one human. Not even a Fallen one. Wholly unremarkable.”

Tickticktick. Her face expanded, eyes increasing in aperture, as if to take in as much of me as she could.

“But I could make you remarkable, god slayer. I wrung such power from the most average mortal flesh. I could create something incredible with you. And you are so deliciously malleable. Not like demigods, with their stubborn skeletons. So much . . . resistance.”

POP, as a second set of claws easily pushed through my skin.

I bit down hard on the breathless wave of pain. Bit down hard enough to flood myself with fury instead.

“I have a question for you, goddess,” I ground out. “Valentina Hilgard.

Do you know the name? A follower of yours. One of your best.”

Srana’s eyes clicked with faint curiosity, but nothing more. It wasn’t a real question. She had taken Valentina’s blood and prayers and sacrifices, but she didn’t know her from any of the other countless worshippers who had died today or yesterday or would die tomorrow. They, after all, were not useful to her.

I smiled. My mouth was still bloody. “I’ll answer for you. You wouldn’t know that name. Let alone avenge her. So I’m doing it, instead.”

I thought of Valentina’s body, bloody, mutilated. The corpse of someone who had fought until the very end, despite knowing that no one would be

coming for her.

A fucking crime. {One to be avenged,} Zefiah said, a glow of gold surging along her length.

Srana pulled me closer. The rest of the world faded to a grey blurry haze. My gaze narrowed to her throat. Copper, but with the shape of flesh. {Her weakest point,} Zefiah said. {She, too, was born once. There is

more than metal within her.} Then I’d cut it out.

In Srana’s hesitation, I lifted Zefiah, and with a roar and a blinding flare of godlight, I swung her against Srana’s throat.

Metal screamed against metal. The strike was satisfying, powerful.

Something hot sprayed over me and, for a wonderful moment, I was certain it was Srana’s blood. Zefiah drank it down with gluttonous euphoria.

But then, I realized something was wrong.

Srana let out a bone-trembling roar, but she was still moving. Zefiah carved into her throat, but went no farther. Her godlight sputtered erratically, like the crack of a fire choking on unfamiliar fuel.

Srana’s wail shifted, running up my spine. And then I realized it was not

a scream at all.

It was a laugh.

Her eyes locked to me.

I went flying.

My body crashed to the stone ground with a sickening wet crack!

Something broke. My vision blurred. My hands were empty. The weight of my mortality was suddenly staggering without Zefiah to stave it off.

Consciousness danced at the edge of my reach, though I fought valiantly for it. I lifted my head. Blurry metal shapes danced across my vision. It occurred to me only now to even think about what the automatons had been up to. Dismantling the Salt Keep, apparently.

My gaze immediately fell to Zefiah, on the ground, nearly to the other

side of the balcony.

Far.

Too far.

No.

I raised my hand and called to her. She trembled on the ground, making hope catch in my chest, but before I could see if she was flying toward me, something sharp dragged me backward.

Knives skewered me. Blessed blade in hand, I’d been able to tolerate Srana’s metal grip. Now, without Zefiah, in a body that was so freshly broken, it was agonizing. Srana’s scalpel-tipped fingers sank deep into my flesh, scraping bone with the tremors of her laughter as she lifted me.

“I confess that for centuries, I did not understand the obsession my siblings had with their human pets,” she said. “But I have come to see the entertainment in you. What other creature acts so brashly against their best interest? You kill one goddess, and you think it will be so simple to slay another. But worry not. I can carve away those troublesome impulses. What I make of you will not have them at all.”

Fwip. Another spindly limb protruded from her back, lowering to me.

The edge gleamed.

Just as I had not hesitated in my strike, she didn’t hesitate in hers. With one precise, forceful sweep, her blade separated my shoulder from my arm.

Agony. Blinding agony. Everything went white. My self-control shattered, letting the scream slip through. My bones cracked. Blood rained to the stones below. I saw the red fall out of the corner of my eye and I was

certain that my arm had been with it—certain that she had to have hacked it off. But maybe Zefiah’s proximity, or whatever of Shiket’s power I still held, granted me some scant protections, because halfway through the bone, her metal blade still firmly lodged in my shoulder, she paused.

Her eyes whispered a thoughtful clickclick as they adjusted. And through the haze of pain, my heart clenched—because that look, even in eyes of steel and gear, saw more of me than I ever wanted anyone to see. A thief with her hand caught in the lock.

“Interesting,” Srana hummed. “You are not—”

And then a crash.

A flash of orange light.

Srana let out a wail of fury, and suddenly, I was falling.

This time, I didn’t even try to catch myself. I hit the ground like a wet, pathetic sack of flesh. On instinct, I tried to move my arm to push myself up, only to be met with a wall of pain and limp dead weight. I looked down to see white bone poking through the gore of my shoulder, such a mess of blood and mangled flesh that I was certain my arm couldn’t possibly be connected anymore. Zefiah’s magic could take care of the other wounds.

But this—this was terrifying.

“If you want a weapon,” a familiar, smooth voice said, “then you’re

looking in the wrong place, Goddess.”

Septimus?

I gripped consciousness with broken fingernails and dragged myself closer. Everything was a tangled mass of metal and movement and blood and chaos. The automatons, which had been pouring into the Salt Keep, had frozen, faces whirled around on their necks to look back at their slighted goddess. Smoke billowed from Srana’s midsection, her gleaming, furious metal face peering from between sheets of silver smoke.

And before her—putting himself in between me and a vengeful goddess

—was Septimus.

Septimus, holding the spear.

A vampire, wielding a god-forged spear of the White Pantheon.

His white suit was now spattered with black and red blood. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see the spear—the tip now glistening with metallic,

rainbow-tinted liquid. Srana’s blood?

I didn’t know how he was standing.

He glanced over his shoulder, just slightly, the movement so calculatedly casual. His hair, normally neat, was dirty, falling over his eye.

And then I saw it. The slight sway. The purple-black around his hands, where he touched the spear, spreading second by second.

He didn’t need to say it, but I heard the words anyway: Get up, dove. Get up.

My eyes found Zefiah easily, even through the chaos. A part of me always led back to her. She was closer now.

But gods, my body. My body was broken.

I dragged myself up, gritting my teeth against the agony of my limp arm, dangling on by a few threads of muscle.

“Fallen ones,” Srana hissed, her contempt bitter as poison. “So arrogant.

Just like their tainted mother. Murderous little thieves.”

And Srana, apparently unlike with me, did not see anything in Septimus that was worth saving.

In a movement so fast my eyes couldn’t track it, four spindly, bladed fingers surged toward Septimus.

Someone shouted behind me. I barely heard it. With a roar of exertion, I

pushed myself forward, good hand out.

Zefiah!

And as always, Zefiah, the greatest friend I’d ever had, answered my call.

Her form in my hand gave me a much-needed wave of strength. Wounds began to stitch closed. Pain faded. I didn’t give myself time to think. I pushed myself to my feet and flung myself at Srana, bringing Zefiah’s blade down upon those delicate metal blades just before they struck Septimus.

They shattered. A piece of metal went flying across my cheek, sending blood into my left eye. Septimus staggered backward, doubling over.

I charged at Srana again. My gaze sought her chest—the crack in her breastplate, still oozing smoke and shimmering god blood, where Septimus had struck her with the very weapon she had once created. An opening.

Zefiah’s fury thrummed in my ears, drowning out the mortal pain with the comforting glee of vengeance.

But Srana moved faster than I did. I didn’t even see her next strike coming. Pain bloomed over my torso, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground.

Srana rose, and rose, and rose. Steam now spewed from every gap in her armor, and her metal body was so hot it glowed, as if freshly forged in her rage.

I managed to peer over my shoulder to see that her automatons had driven further into the Salt Keep. I saw only a tangle of indiscriminate movement, blood of humans and vampires spattering against so much relentless metal. Atrius barked commands, but I couldn’t see Sylina anywhere. None of these soldiers were prepared to take down a goddess.

But I could still end this. I was certain of it.

My eyes didn’t move from that crack in Srana’s armor. That one weak point. I just needed to get close enough.

But just as I was about to run forward, Septimus stepped in front of me.

There was something different about him, though I couldn’t pinpoint what. He was pale. He no longer had Srana’s weapon, though I didn’t see

where it had gone.

“Get out of the way!” I growled at him.

Srana cocked her head, lowering to us. Pop, crack, as her broken limbs straightened one by one, poising for a final blow. One metal arm unfolded from behind her and I cursed when I saw that it firmly grasped the spear.

Fucking hell. It was now or never.

Seconds until my window was closed.

But Septimus ignored me. Instead, he lifted one elegant finger to the sky, and said, “Goddess, what is that?”

Anyone who had ever said curiosity was a uniquely mortal vice had never met a god. They were as easily distracted as cats.

Srana halted mid-movement.

Gear by gear, her body unfolded and re-formed until she was looking behind her, to the sky.

A sky painted with fragments of rainbow light.

“You are in the territory of the Goddess Nyaxia,” Sylina’s voice bellowed from above. I turned to see her standing on the roof of the keep, red dress billowing in the wind. “Did you not think she would come after

such a slight?” {They summoned her,} Zefiah said.

That, I realized, must have been why Sylina was gone.

Srana halted. We had been forgotten. She was now more interested in much bigger game.

I froze, too, staring at the sky. Staring at the wisps of light where Nyaxia would appear. I could picture her cruel face just as I’d seen it over Vostis ten years ago, and over my friends’ mutilated bodies in Hegaella.

I wasn’t expecting it to have such a powerful hold on me. The draw of her blood, like a fierce, painful twist in my gut. {We will have it,} Zefiah promised me. {In time.} Those two words pained her as much as they did me: In time.

I was bleeding, barely capable of standing. Zefiah felt awkward and heavy in my left arm, because my right was barely still attached to my body —something I couldn’t even afford to think about, because the idea of potentially losing my sword arm was so devastating.

Yet I couldn’t make myself move.

Nyaxia was so fucking close.

So close I could taste her death cries.

And gods, I wanted them. I wanted them more than I had ever wanted any food or sex or pleasure in my entire pathetic life.

“Move, dove.” A jolt of pain as Septimus grabbed my good arm. “Let’s not waste the gift they’ve given us. Go.”

He pushed me fiercely to the edge of the balcony, and I was about to yell at him for apparently trying to kill us both when I peered over the rail to see what was below. A single door—actually, it looked to have maybe been a window frame—sat on a shelf at the balcony below this one, bright and glowing, mists within. An aethergate. One of the oddest-looking ones I’d ever seen, as if it had been very hurriedly opened and placed.

My head lifted to see Sylina and Atrius at the upper levels. Sylina’s hands were outstretched. Atrius’s gaze met mine, hard and seething. Oh, he was pissed.

He inclined his chin just once, in an indisputable wordless command: Go.

The distraction was already waning. Three of Srana’s automatons swiveled around with a symphony of melodic whirrs. One started toward

us.

There was no time.

Septimus’s hand was tight around my arm.

“Ready to fly, dove?” he murmured in my ear, and I wanted to snap at him, again, to not to call me that. But there was no time for that—or

anything else.

No time to do anything but jump, plummeting through the gate.