Page 17

In that breath, he didn’t want to go any further. He was tired.

Not bored, he knew what boredom felt like. But his bones were tired, like he wanted to sit down and not move until he’d feasted and rested. True sleep, not the kind where he jerked awake to every sound or passed out from too much alcohol and sex. Or the kind of deep sleep some gods took, a few decades when they needed a break from everything.

Actual rest, or he’d fall over.

Ugh, this body was completely mortal and incapable of doing anything. He needed to get to wherever he needed to be, and he couldn’t do that while hungry and hurting.

He stopped, watching some black ropes spark on the road.

Never had he been so disgusted in his entire life. This body was dictating his life.No.That was ridiculous. He refused to be beholden to a bag of flesh. He was a god.

He created his own appearance. He controlled his body.

Not the other way round.

Yet, he had no control over his appearance at all, and this was not an appearance that he took.

He lifted his gaze from the sparks to take in the much shorter and smaller buildings. He’d been so busy avoiding people he hadn’t paid much attention to where he was going. Not that it mattered, as he didn’t know where he was, only that he needed to keep moving.

These were not restaurants or other shops. They were houses.

On Tariko, people often left boots by the door and clothes on the line. Perhaps the same was true here.

From within some houses, he heard low voices. Others were silent, the occupants asleep or away. There were no laundry lines out the front of the houses, but he saw one with a neat row of colorful boots lined up by the door. He darted up the path.

Five sets of boots in various sizes. It was a pity the red-spotted ones were far too small as they were very pretty. Keeping low, he measured his foot against the boots and pulled on the green pair that fitted. Out of habit, he offered the household a blessing for serving their god.

He wasn’t their god.

And there was no magic to bestow. He was just a thief.

Wearing his stolen boots, he crept away.

Even though his feet ached, walking became more pleasant, and he felt blessed. For the first time since waking, he smiled. Magic delivered him boots to make his journey easier. He couldn’t feel it, but there must be magic.

And he needed to believe it was calling to him. That magic would grace him with clothes and the other things he needed to get to where he needed to be and do whatever he was needed to do. He was, after all, a servant of magic who shared it with those who needed it most.

Today that was him.

With a renewed sense of confidence that everything would be fine because he was a god, he kept walking. As he did, he noticed the way cars had been abandoned, unable to be driven on the cracked roads. Some of those cars had open doors.

Every time he saw one, he stopped to look inside.

The first three were fun, and he found several packets of nuts and dried fruit in one. The next ten were tedious…but the last one was parked in front of a house that had a line covered in clothes hanging under shelter. He crept up to the line to assess the clothing.

None of the items seemed familiar.

But he’d already noticed the changes in fashion.

No one on this world got around in tunics or togas anymore—they hadn’t been in fashion the last time either—nor had he seen a single dapper suit. He touched the clothes on the line, thick pants made of rough material, stretchy pants made of thin material. All the clothes were damp, but he took the thin, stretchy ones, hoping they’d dry faster, along with something that appeared to be a tunic that stopped at the waist—far shorter than even elves dared to wear them.

Elves preferred tight pants and tunics that showed off the entire length of their leg. He hoped there were some elves here and not only because they were good at fighting and how to hold a wedding feast.

As well as how to dress.

Not wanting to be caught with the stolen clothes, he moved on before pausing in the shadows to pull on the tight black pants, which hugged his skin in a clammy embrace, and the equally clinging tunic. It was almost a relief to pull the coat back on.

At some point, he needed to discard the coat, which seemed like a terrible waste. Wars had been fought for selkie coats and selkie brides.