Page 21 of Hopeless Kingdom
But their Traveler brought me here tomy people.
With that thought, I give a swift nod of greeting before bowing ever so slightly. Loudly within my ears my heart pounds, but without hesitancy, I pick up the mangled hand he holds out to me. A tingling sensation courses into my fingers, hinting at the powers swirling within him. It’s an electric feeling but it isn’t as strong as it was when I first met him. It isn’t alive like it was before.
My lips pull into a hard line, pushing back the vomit I feel burning up my throat. My breath catches as I decide to make my mark on these watchful eyes.
His skin is like holding cold, wet leather in my palm. Slowly I press my lips to his knuckles, my lashes fluttering up to meet the scarred flesh that’s covering his eyes.
A collective gasp collides through the room and I smile to myself as I slowly rise from my position. Pure authority is all I hold in my swift movements.
“Traveler, thank you for bringing me to my people,” I say in an airy voice of true entitlement. I look proudly down at each of their faces. I look at them as if they all hold a special place in my heart.
A special place in hell is more like it.
I note a few women close their eyes as their lips begin moving. It only takes a moment for me to realize they’re praying. Their palms are held out to me, absorbing my presence, my words, and my unseen power.
I spot Darrio there in the crowd and he exchanges a smirking look with Ryder.
Did they doubt me for even an instant?
“Eminence, we’ve waited so long for you.” The Traveler grips my hand tightly as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear right from this stage.
“You were not ready, my sweet servant.” I’m summoning a goddess like persona. Suddenly my steps are lighter. Yes, my jeans are still tight and tattered but my goddess charisma is not.
From this distance, I can still see Ryder’s eyes rolling at my dramatic antics.
Oh, ye asshole of little faith.
Jealous is what he is.
“Have your king remove our bindings and I will show you just how ready you all are.” My voice carries over the crowd and I pause to meet Tristan’s gaze.
If he removes their iron cuffs, any one of them will have the strength to tear the bars off of the Hopeless well.
Tristan’s arms are folded across his black tuxedo. Not a crease or speck of ash blemishes his appearance. A charming smile pulls at his lips and slowly he lowers his power stance and makes his way toward the stage.
As he climbs the stairs, I extend my hand to him, inviting him into the shit show that I’m currently the main performer in.
His fingers lace through mine, and my skin crawls as he draws me closer to his feeble side. My thigh brushes against my father’s sword hanging from his hip and it takes everything in me not to pull it from his belt and gut him on this stage.
A beautiful smile is all I give him.
The mass of people begins to fall to their knees, one by one. Urgent and wanting whispers fan through the room, suffocating me with every prayer that’s spoken in my name. The forced happiness on my face falls slightly. A young woman walks slowly through the crowd and they part for her as if she, too, is of godly ranking.
She’s a little younger than me, maybe twenty at the most. Glossy black curls hang loosely around her heart shaped face.
When I see her come to the front, my smile slips away entirely into an honest look of fear.
In her small hands, she holds a large bowl and a short dagger. Unheard words skim across her full lips as she stares with intensity at me. That fear climbs through me, clawing up my lungs and throat as I hold her desperate gaze.
Without warning, she slices the blade across her palm. Droplets of dark blood bead into the bowl. Her index and middle finger swipe across the pooling blood and she drags them down the center of her face as her breathless chanting words become faster.
One hand, the one with the deep slice severing through it, is held out to me while the other grips that dagger a little tighter.
“In the name of the Eminence,” she whispers like a vow just as she raises the dagger above her chest.
I fall hard to my knees, scuttling across the glossy floor until I’m on my hands and knees right in front of the young woman. My hand grips her shaking wrist as I hold her wild gaze. The bowl filled with her blood tips and a crimson color coats the stage like an extra layer of gloss. It slides warmly over my hand as I hold myself up in front of her.
“I am not a god,” I say loudly for all to hear.
