Page 28 of Immortal Sun (Dark Olympus)

CHAPTER 28

CLEO

“No one is a total fool if he knows when to hold his tongue.”– Grettir’s Saga, ch.88

I ’m shaking so hard I can’t breathe. I feel dirty, gross, I mean there’s a bathroom in the cave, it’s beautiful actually, with a hot spring and all the things that anyone with a spa fetish would want.

But it’s not home.

And I really, really, just want to go home.

I just saw a fallen angel and the God of the Underworld. On top of that I basically saw my future self going on a killing spree. Not my favorite day, not by a long shot.

A god was just choking me and forcing me to my knees, before restating his intent to kill me.

And I’m pretty sure I’m having a nervous breakdown as I shakily write more names down in the book. My mom’s is already there.

My mom.

His explanation sucks.

He sucks.

Why the hell is Kratos working with him? Enki? Anubis? At least they seem more human!

And then what? Another god is sent down for a stupid trial, more humans sacrificed? And now even heaven is like oh, nice, another sacrifice ?

Everything I’ve ever learned makes no sense. My world isn’t my world anymore. No, I’m in Cyrus’s—Ra’s. And I hate what it represents.

I hate everything about it.

My teeth chatter from fear as I continue to write out the names. There are so many of them and with each scratch of the quill, the name is imprinted onto my soul, another person who was in this cave.

Another person who felt this fear, the taste of blood and metal in their mouth, the trauma of knowing that you’ll be writing your own death sentence just so gods can stay in power and kill off Chaos.

Why?

What’s so important?

What’s the worst thing that could happen… more war? Disease? Death? We’re already in that situation! Is this really about my sacrifice when Chaos has existed for centuries apparently? He has to be leaving something out. Something pivotal.

I swear I’m getting a headache, and I know time is ticking ever so slowly toward the moment when I’ll bow before a god and open my mouth.

I shove the book to the side and hang my head in my hands.

“You hungry?” Daggon’s voice sounds. “I have sandwiches.”

Yes, because that’s what I want right now, a freaking sandwich. Seriously, what is it with these guys and sandwiches?

I don’t answer.

He approaches the mouth of the cave. “You done yet?”

“I’m not immortal, so no I’m not done, I have like a thousand more names to write before I write my own.”

He bites into a sandwich and nods then wipes his face. “You’re slow.”

I want to scream. “Why does everyone say I’m slow?”

He makes a funny face, his auburn hair is wet and plastered to his cheeks like he’s been doing laps; a few bits of dust are flecked on his cheeks. “You really don’t know?”

“I’m only allowed nine questions, jackass!”

He chokes on his sandwich and finally swallows. “No wonder he struggles.”

“He?”

“Not important.” He waves me off with his turkey sandwich. It looks so good. He’s in black armor, just black, a sword at his side. No helmet, only masculine beauty that shouldn’t be allowed to exist by way of my blood. “Anyway, almost everyone, and I do mean almost everyone who comes into these caves says ‘thank you’ and can’t wait for the end. It’s like a whole thing. They know it’s going to be fine. They’ll eventually be sacrificed, but it’s not like it’s painful. We aren’t complete monsters.” He digs into his sandwich again and shrugs. “It’s about the human trials for the gods, it’s more about us than it is about you, sorry for the truth.”

“And if balance doesn’t happen? If I run?”

He laughs and starts choking. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were kidding. Yeah, you can’t run, then you just get punished, though I’m pretty sure Cyrus enjoys that part. Second…” He clears his throat. “Balance is everything. The world breaks when there is no balance between immortals and humanity. Since you’re the last sacrifice he has to make, if you run, he’s punished—severely and he’s already suffered. Do you want that on your head? The sun refuses to shine because a weak human—who should never have been born in the first place—got scared when she was promised everything? Do you know why it’s important? Because the gods still care, they still fight Chaos, they still try to avoid war as much as possible, they are benevolent. Cyrus isn’t a monster, he’s the strongest of us all, he must ascend, and in order to do that, you have to give up the one thing that was given to you by the gods—the very breath in your lungs. Don’t allow the world to break because you aren’t strong enough.”

“So let it break.” I shrug. “It’s already broken anyway.”

“Cool, so I’ll just pencil in the apocalypse for noon?” he suggests. “And it’s not broken just fractured. You don’t know broken. How could you?”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t believe you’re even that powerful. I mean without me what really are you? Nothing.” I’m angry. I’m lashing out.

He sobers then nods and puts his sandwich away, wrapping it neatly in the paper. I squint at it. Is that Subway? He tucks it by the rock and then starts walking closer to the mouth of the cave.

His steps are decisive, the sand rises around his feet. His grin is cruel. I feel it in my soul like I’ve seen it before and hated it. He slams his palms together in a prayer and drives them down the air in front of him like a sword.

A whooshing sound fills my ears, so loud that I scream.

And then a burst of light radiates from his mouth before he falls to one knee and looks up at me.

He’s covered in silver armor that shines in the moonlight, his white cape flapping in the wind.

His eyes burn red.

Frost coats his face. His sword is a massive silver thing that appears bigger than the cat in her panther form. His hands grip it as silver blood slides down his hands into little intricate veins that look like branches interwoven through his skin.

Even his eyelashes have a layer of frost. His helmet covers half his face, leaving just a strong jawline. The auburn in his dreads glows gold against the black where it touches his cape.

Subway is long forgotten.

I don’t back down, but I also don’t know where I could possibly even run as he stands and starts walking toward me, every step purposeful, methodical.

My mouth goes dry.

My world is no longer my own.

Reality has been drowned in the depths of myth and fantasy.

“Don’t look too long into an immortal’s eyes or you’ll see your own demise,” they had all said.

They were right.

The eyes are the windows to the soul and theirs are so old it’s painful to watch. Their eyes kill. They destroy. They reveal too much.

My own burn. I blink away the feel of sand in them.

I scrape my brain, trying to think of who he really is when he stops in front of the cave and slowly tilts his head to the side like a cat. “Afraid?”

His voice is so quiet I almost wish he would yell. “No.”

He grabs his sword and then stabs it into the ground between us and twists. “You really should learn to respect your immortal elders.”

“Apparently immortal elders want to kill me.”

“Elders want to save the world,” he snaps back. “Now, watch, the way we have for centuries.”

He leaves his sword in the sand and then crooks his finger. “Want to know me?”

Well, now I don’t.

I nod anyway.

“I’m Daggon, God of Fertility from Mesopotamia. I’m older than you could possibly fathom, you small human,” he whispers and then reaches through the cave and grabs me by the arm, hauling me out and against him. He’s warm. Sex personified. He smells like the earth. “I hold my breath for years, I make the oceans plenty, and I destroy anything out to destroy my creations. I can incinerate you with one small snap of my fingers.”

His breath is warm on my neck. He examines me like he’s curious, and then he smiles and tilts his head the other way. “Shall I kiss you now?”

“Shall I kill you now?” I counter.

His grin is menacing and beautiful all at once. “I would love to see you try.” He shoves me back into the cave and then falters a bit. Stumbles backwards actually, then reaches for me again.

I don’t know what the hell he’s doing until his mouth presses against mine, he bites down on my lip.

I taste blood.

The red drains from his eyes. He shakes his head. “You’re death itself, aren’t you?” I’m thrown back across the mouth of the cave and land on the ground.

He wipes his mouth.

“What do you mean?” I yell.

He keeps wiping his mouth and grips his sword by the hilt to stand. “I see my future in your eyes. It isn’t promising.”

“How?” I ask.

“How indeed?” he counters. “Go finish writing your names.”

“What’s your future?” I yell.

“What is everyone’s future? Yours included?” He walks out of the cave whispering, “Death.”

I swear the water rises toward him as he waves his hands and loses his impressive uniform. Then he’s standing next to the cliff by the rocks, and he grabs his Subway like it’s no big deal, staring up at the moon.

After an indeterminate time, he drops to his knees with his arms outstretched. An odd form of worship? Or something else he’s doing.

It’s not until about an hour of him on his knees that I hear him start to cry, though I can’t understand the language he’s using; he’s talking too fast.

What I do understand, over and over, is the phrase, “The end.”