Page 27 of Gods and Graves

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THEA

W e walk for a few minutes longer in relative silence.

I find myself lingering at the back of the group, beside Rafe, whose flinty gaze never settles on one thing for more than a second. He’s constantly on guard, tension thrumming through his corded muscles.

“Sooo…” I begin, peeking at him coyly. “I don’t know a lot about you.”

He whips his head towards me, his eyes widening.

“Okay,” he rasps out, focusing straight ahead once more.

Okay?

Okay?!

“Do you have any family?” I ask, quickening my pace to match his long strides.

“No.”

“No?”

“We’re, technically, over four hundred years old, love,” Krystian interjects from the front of the group. “Yes, some of our family members are still alive, but a lot aren’t.”

Every supernatural has a different aging process. Some—like elves—are immortal. Others age slowly, while certain types live and die like humans.

I squint at Everett, the only shifter I personally know.

“How are you still alive?” I blurt.

I know shifters can live long lives, but they’re not immortal. At least, I don’t think they are.

“Real tactful,” Krystian says with a snort of amusement.

I shrug, unrepentant.

“Because I’m a member of Ares’s team,” Everett answers, his head on a constant swivel as he searches for threats.

“So being on his team makes you immortal?” I ask.

“We won’t die of natural causes or old age, but a bullet to the heart or a fatal stab wound? Yeah, that’ll do the trick,” Krystian says.

Huh.

“I wonder if I’ll die from a stab wound,” I muse, contemplative.

I honestly have no idea what can and can’t kill me the way I am now. For all I know, I’m immortal like the rest of them. Maybe a fatal wound will send me back to where I started, trapped in a room with only a cactus to talk to.

“Hopefully we’ll never have to find out,” Zaid replies gravely, and murmurs of affirmation ripple through the guys.

I’m saved from responding by the tunnel opening up, leading to a barren, circular room.

Two statues stand in the center of the room, each guarding a separate path.

One is a figure of bronze—a cloaked man with a bowed head, tarnished green by time.

The other is marble—a veiled woman standing gracefully, her fingers resting on the frill of her skirt, her white surface cracked.

“What the…?” Krystian’s bow appears in his hands, and he notches back an arrow, aiming it at the statue’s chest.

“Hold on.” Zaid holds up a hand and moves forward until he’s able to read an inscription carved into the wall. “ One speaks the truth. One speaks lies. But wisdom is not in asking, but in knowing how to ask .”

A soft groan echoes from within the metal of the bronze statue.

A slow, deliberate shift begins—his fingers twitching, joints creaking with the sound of rust grinding against time, his bowed head lifting slightly.

The patina on his cloak cracks like old bark, revealing glints of burnished copper beneath.

Next to him, the marble woman stirs. Her chest rises imperceptibly, as if drawing her first breath in ages.

The delicate folds of her dress, once immobile, begin to ripple as though stirred by wind.

Her hand, pale and smooth, lifts inch by inch, a faint trail of dust falling from her fingers.

The veil over her face flutters, and from beneath it, faint light glimmers where her eyes should be.

“This ain’t good,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

The statues are silent, though I can feel their gazes on us. A shiver ripples down my spine.

“We need to ask them questions,” Zaid explains, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s the only way to figure out which path to take.”

“What did the inscription mean?” Krystian waves his hand vaguely towards the words on the wall.

“Exactly what it says. One statue will tell nothing but lies; the other will only tell the truth.” Zaid scratches absently at his chin. “But usually there’s a limit to how many questions we can ask.”

“You’ve seen this before?” I stare at him in disbelief.

Zaid shakes his head. “No…but I’ve heard about this before. It’s a popular trial of Athena.”

“Okay, this is easy.” I step around Rafe, a bright smile on my face.

“Thea…” Everett’s voice is a low growl.

I wave him away. “I got this.” Turning to the statues, I wave. “Hello. Which pathway do we need to take to get to the center of the maze and Athena?”

The marble woman shifts her veiled face towards me, the sound of rock grinding against rock permeating the air.

“The door to the left is the one you would want to take. But be careful—we are not the only threats you’ll need to face.” Her voice is soft and lyrical, a startling contrast to her appearance.

The bronze statue shifts slightly. “The door to the right leads to the center of the maze. Athena will be waiting there.”

His voice is raspy though not harsh.

“If I were to ask the other statue which door to take, what would they say?” I ask, popping my hip out and feeling immensely satisfied with my own cleverness.

Zaid turns to smile at me, pride glimmering in his dark eyes.

Yeah. Take that, Everett. Suck it. I’m so fucking smart.

“They would tell you to take the right passageway, because they lie,” the woman statue says. “Thus, you must take the left.”

The bronze statue exclaims, “They would say to take the right door. But of course, you already knew that.”

I whirl towards the others, smiling brightly. It takes considerable effort not to fist pump the air and scream, “I told you so,” to Everett at the top of my lungs. As it is, when I see begrudging respect in his eyes, heat rushes through my veins.

“Left passageway it is, then,” Krystian says, moving in that direction.

But I remain where I am as something occurs to me.

“Will we find the answers we seek once we reach the center of the maze?” I ask tentatively, keeping my attention fixed on the marble statue.

“You will find answers, but they may not be the ones you’re looking for,” she answers.

“You will receive no answers and only be left with more questions,” the bronze statue says.

Then, there’s a loud creaking sound, and I watch in riveted fascination as the statutes resume their previous positions. The bronze statue’s head lowers, and the marble statue once again grabs at her skirts.

They don’t move again.

“Woah,” I breathe, struck by the sheer brilliance of Athena’s creation.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Zaid’s fingers interlock with my own, and he pulls me towards the passageway. “We need to get moving.”

I take a deep breath, bolstering myself, and then shoot one last glance over my shoulder at the statues. I can’t help but think that their existence is…sad. Their entire purpose revolves around Athena and this maze. Do they have feelings? Wants? Desires? Or are they simply pawns in this game?

Maybe I can’t stop thinking about them because I relate to them. I, too, am a tool for someone else to use. Until I met the guys, I was virtually the same as them—frozen, only coming to life when I was needed.

I turn away from the statues, albeit reluctantly, and hurry after the others, Zaid’s hand still curled around my own.

I just hope my story ends better than theirs did in mine.