Page 9 of The Coven of Ruin
He lifted a shoulder indifferently. “In my culture, it’s common to mark the flesh when bargains are struck.” Ares took a step toward her, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. “You should understand that I saved your life yesterday merely on principle and to piss a certain god off. However, I have no problem with killing witches.”
She gasped softly, realizing that she had made a grave error.
He reached out and wrapped one of her messy curls around his finger, his brow furrowing in thought as he did. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” he breathed out. A sort of wonderment and lethality lay in his words as if everything made sense to him now. “You should hope I never need you to honor this pact. It’ll probably mean your life.” He let the curl fall against her cheek again, and his eyes darkened into dying suns.
Then he was gone.
A shiver ran through her, goosebumps appearing on her skin.
What had she just done?
Chapter IV
Ithadbeentwocomplete lunar cycles since Trista returned from Olympus and made a life debt with The God of War. She would be seen as cursed if anyone knew the truth of what had occurred.A traitor.
So, she lied. Repeatedly.
Though she wasn’t skilled in the art of deception, her story about nursing a sick friend back from the brink of death had been readily accepted. Elder Sarange, the healer in charge of her, asked more prying questions but eventually pursed her lips and strode away.
It was unfortunate, though, that she couldn’t lie to herself.
Being in her own bed and clothes inside the familiar sturdy walls of the Akesodidmake her feel a little better and much safer, however. After a day of rest, in which she did nothing but eat and sleep, she returned to her routine. She figured it was the best way to go about things, finding peace in the simple orderliness of the place.
As only healers lived in the Akeso, it ran on shared responsibility. If a healer wasn’t treating patients or studying, they helped around the stone keep. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, resupplying, mixing tonics—it didn’t matter the chore. Adrift and numb, Trista toiled away at mundane tasks. She almost believed she was fine as she buried thoughts of The Arena and the golden-eyed god in a bucket of sudsy water or in a bowl full of herbs.
When she was too tired for manual labor, she returned to research. Trista’s studies consisted mainly of the effects of dark magic, or Noxa, on the body and the essence of the witch who cast it. It was only in the last quarter of a century that dark magic was even allowed as an option in both warfare and some rituals that required it. However, it was strictly regulated, and anyone caught toying with it who didn’t have permission was swiftly dealt with.
The night was young. Trista settled into her favorite place in the library—a table and chair tucked into a little corner in the back where she was least likely to be interrupted. Setting up her workstation, she opened two tomes and pushed them to the center of the table. She readied her ink and quill and unrolled her parchments of notes. Rubbing her hands together in satisfaction of the sight, contentment settled into her for the first time since Olympus.
Only for it to be undone an hour later with a splotch of ink.
It was just a black drop on the parchment. Nothing extraordinary. It happened all the time, especially when she forgot to brush the tip of her quill against the inkwell. But the sight of it had her hesitating, her heart stopping cold, only to slam against her chest in warning seconds later.
Blood splatter danced before her eyes, and suddenly it was everywhere—soaked into her dress, smeared across the parchment, seeping from the wood. She reeled, knocking the chair back as she stood and pushed herself away from the table. Panting, begging for fresh air to fill her lungs, she was vaguely aware of an Elder asking her what was wrong.
“Sick,” she managed to get out between gritted teeth and stumbled away.
The trek back to her chamber was full of half apologies as she feigned illness while visions of red poured from the walls, and puddles of it formed on the stone. Once Trista was in her quarters, she peeled her clothes off that were damp with dark crimson.
But it didn’t matter—she was drenched in gore. Strands of her hair stuck to it on her neck and cheek, a bead of it rolled between her breasts. She was made of blood and nothing else.
It’s just sweat.
Though some logical part of her understood that she was not covered in anything except her own perspiration, it did little to soothe her. She ended up curled on the floor, the solid surface grounding her. It took long and painful minutes for her to regulate her breathing.
When Trista was no longer drowning in crimson, and the metallic taste of it left her mouth, she carefully pulled herself up. Her legs were shaky and unstable as she padded to her bed.
Settling above the covers, Ares’ mark burned on her side, pulsing as if freshly heated. She already knew what it looked like, fingerprints like a lover’s touch, the shape wrapping around her ribs. She traced over it with the tip of a nail idly.
Why did he save me?
It was a question that plagued Trista even as she drifted in and out of a haze. It wasn’t until a persistent tapping on her window that she realized she had fallen asleep. Only one mage used her window, and she had no desire to see him.
“Go away,” she rasped, her mouth dry.
While she had thought often of Kace since her return, she hadn’t fully untangled her emotions surrounding the fact that he had gifted her a stolen necklace, then lied to her about the fact that it was stolen in the first place, or that he let her get taken in front of him and didnothing.And, at that exact moment, she was most definitely not trying to think about any of it, lest it send her into another feverish panic attack.
“Trista!”
