Page 88 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)
THE GOD OF DEATH
T he god went with Nyaxia to her wayward vampire kingdom. When they arrived, it was in shambles. Shiket’s golden warriors and human acolytes had torn the palace apart, then continued slaughtering a vicious path through the city.
As they looked down upon it, a wrinkle of hatred formed over Nyaxia’s nose.
“I should let them burn,” she hissed. “A fair price for their disloyalty.”
The god looked down upon the burning city and wondered why it had ever mattered so much to save it.
{You have done worse to disloyal followers,} the mask said.
{They will just act against her again,} the eye agreed.
{No one who has betrayed her deserves to continue on,} the heart snarled.
But another voice, deeper than all of those, in the bruised wound where Nyaxia’s dagger had struck, called out, too—even though the god couldn’t hear what it was saying.
Despite her rage, Nyaxia would always keep her word.
So she descended upon the House of Night, arms spread.
Her eyes flashed as if with lightning across the night sky.
The god watched as she ripped apart the seams between worlds, striking down the remaining divine soldiers with flashes of light that resembled shooting stars hurling to earth.
She was great and terrible—everything a goddess should be when rewriting the fate of the world.
{She is brilliant,} the mask whispered.
{A shame he never witnessed all she could become,} the eye said.
When it was done, the kingdom smoldered. The god felt the presence of his cousins, the gods of the White Pantheon, looming. Nyaxia hovered over what remained of the House of Night and turned her attention to her vampire children.
“Remember how kind I am,” her voice boomed. “You did not deserve to be saved.”
The god hovered high above the city, but he could see everything at once—the broken silhouette of the capital city, the dunes that rolled miles away, the children that hid beneath their beds in their little apartments, the mice that darted between the cobblestones.
He lowered his gaze to the castle, and there, he saw a winged couple standing, watching Nyaxia.
The woman turned her gaze to him. Her brow furrowed. He understood that she was confused.
Perhaps in another life he’d known her. But he didn’t now.
Her work done, Nyaxia returned to the sky.
“I have kept my word. The House of Night stands,” she said, voice thick with disgust. “Let us leave them.”
Nyaxia took him to her home, a corner of the divine world that was fortified against her cousins.
It looked very different from Ysria. Whereas the city of the White Pantheon was bright and elegant, Nyaxia’s home was dark—a palace crafted of obsidian stone that held the essence of night itself, stars scattered over grand columns and majestic altars.
Great windows peered down upon the mortal realm—a million glimpses into a million different worlds, reduced to a blurry background.
A few faceless servants of shadow lingered in the corners, but otherwise, the place was empty.
Other gods often created companionship for themselves, or cultivated a stable of human followers to serve as such.
Nyaxia, clearly, did not do either. She remained alone.
The only signs of those who worshipped her were the piles of offerings collected from her altars—most of it untouched.
She opened her arms and turned.
“Welcome home, godling. Much more pleasant, I presume, than whatever accommodations the White Pantheon gave you in Ysria.”
The god remembered that he had been in Ysria—that he’d been imprisoned there—but little else. It was someone else’s story, not his.
Still, he recognized this place, faintly, as if from a long ago dream.
“This was Alarus’s home,” he said.
Nyaxia paused before the windows, looking down upon a world in chaos. The god could remember someone standing beside her once. The two of them, hand in hand, lording over their kingdom.
“Our home,” she said. “Yes.”
He joined her. He scanned the endless glimpses of the mortal world below. He found himself searching for something, though he wasn’t sure what.
Nyaxia’s night-hewn eyes examined his face. Perhaps she was searching, too, just as he was.
She touched his cheek. Then his jaw. His chest.
At the sensation, two things wrenched through him.
One, an old memory. Nyaxia, her hair dangling around him in ribbons of darkness, her head thrown back in pleasure.
Two, utter revulsion. A bone-deep instinct that screamed, This is wrong.
He stepped back abruptly.
A flicker of hurt passed over Nyaxia’s face. Not at his rejection, but at what she didn’t feel within him.
She turned away.
“Enjoy divinity, godling,” she said. “Learn about it while you can. I have upheld my half of our deal. And soon, you shall uphold yours.”