Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
“I don’t know. Can you?”
He obviously doesn’t love a rhetorical question. “I just…you’re the god of disease and decay, right? Your people love vultures and throwing salt over their shoulder because they don’t want your attention. You’re fearsome. But when I look at you…” I try to think of how to phrase it. “I don’t get ‘god of disease’ vibes. Is that weird?”
“You are unnerved because I am pretty.” He enunciates each word, his head moving slightly and messing up my attempts at cutting his hair.
“I mean, no. It’s not like I was expecting you to be hideous. I don’t guess I had expectations. But since we’re talking about it, why are you pretty? You’re a god, right? I assume you can change your appearance to suit yourself. Wouldn’t you want to be scary instead of pretty?”
“Because it’s unnerving,” he says simply. He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. “Because you cannot look at me and decide that I’m terrible and evil if my face is appealing. If I had rotten teeth and pustules on my face, you would immediately pass judgment upon who and what I am. But when I am beautiful, it makes you pause. It makes you wonder if you’ve mistaken me. It troubles you to find me attractive…and I enjoy troubling you.”
I know he’s just saying that to bug me, but I still blush. I do find him oddly attractive. He’s not burly and big and brawny like the types I’d normally go for. He’s lean and lithe and somehow graceful, all the things that maybe a god of disease shouldn’t be. Which is the point, according to him. “You like unsettling people’s expectations.”
“I do.”
I hack away at another hank of his hair. “You sure you’re not just vain?”
He laughs. “I can be vain. The All-Father doesn’t care if we like looking in mirrors, as long as that’s not all we do.”
“I guess.” How funny, to think that the god of disease and sickness and misery might be a bit of a peacock. “Well, if you really are vain, you’re going to absolutely hate what I’ve done to your hair.”
“It will turn out all right,” he says confidently.
Strangely enough, Kalos’s hair does turn out all right. Not just all right, it turns out amazing. Even though I’ve hacked at it with the dullest knife in all of creation, by the time it dries, it feathers around his head in a soft, wavy cloud. Now, instead of a gothic prince, he looks like an elfin boy-bander. If anything, he stands out even more.
I scrub at our filthy clothing and wring it out as best I can before repacking the twisted linens into the bottom of my bag. I then fill my satchel with everything in the hut worth taking—my corn cakes, the dried fish, a pair of questionable boots, and my new knife. We remain inside throughout the day, and I take a quick nap until the sun sets, but I can’t relax. I’m afraid we’re going to be found.
I’m also afraid the dead guy is going to start smelling.
Or worse, that Dingle’s going to eat him. I read somewhere once that goats will eat anything, and I really, really hope that’s not true. I’ll just have to keep the goat well-fed so he doesn’t go hunting for…treats.
Ugh. Even thinking about it makes me feel ill. The sooner we leave, the better.
Chapter
Twelve
Iroll over in bed, blinking out of sleep. As I do, I notice legs at my eye level, standing right in front of me. I look up.
The fisherman is standing there. His eyes are wide open and he stares at me with hatred. His hand reaches down to grab my face—
I bolt upright in bed and scream.
“Rhagos’s tits? What’s your problem?” Kalos’s bored voice cuts through some of the terror fog.
I glance over at him, my thoughts scattered. I can’t focus. I’m terrified. Why isn’t he afraid? “Fisherman. Awake.” I grab the thin blanket on my body. “He’s going to kill me.”
Kalos grunts and moves to stand next to the bed, where the fisherman was just a moment ago. “He’s very dead.”
Shaking my head, I’m on the verge of tears. “No—he’s going to get me.”
“Look.” Kalos moves to the far side of the hut and stands over the dead, covered body. He kicks it. “See? Dead.”
I try to hear what he’s saying, but I’m still in fight-or-flight mode. He’s dead. I tell myself, over and over again. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
“Has your mind cracked?” Kalos asks.
“I…I think I’m dreaming,” I manage.
“You’re not sure?”
I lie back down. “Dreaming. Goodnight.”
And I go back to sleep immediately.
When I wake up in the morning, I stretch in bed, not quite ready to get up and face the day. I yawn and smack my lips, and then I frown when I notice that Kalos is watching me intently, a vaguely amused expression on his face.