Prologue
RHAGOS
Rhagos the Undying, Lord of the Dead and ruler of the Underworld sat on his throne and drummed his fingers with irritation at his anchor.
Sniveling fool.
The man in question—a mortal now granted eternal life by tethering to Rhagos as his “conscience”—was currently sitting on an ornately carved chair across the room, pretending to read a book. Every so often, he would sniff and swipe at his eyes, and Rhagos knew all he had to do was glare at the man and he would turn into a quaking, shivering mess. Had he always been so spineless? So pathetic? Clearly when Rhagos had been trapped in his mortal form, he’d simply taken the first mortal that volunteered, not the one best suited for the job. Or perhaps he’d wanted a mortal that was obedient. This one certainly was. He didn’t have a disobedient thought in his head. Or a clever one. Or a unique one.
And therein lay the problem. Eternity was a very, very long time to be saddled with a nitwit.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne again, thinking. In the distance, the songs of the souls were a soothing cacophony at the back of his mind. He could focus in on any one of those thousands of voices and know their boring history, know their boring life, their bland and too mortal innermost thoughts. He could raise them up, pluck them from the various circles of the Underworld, and make them part of his eternal court. And then they would simper and grovel and kiss his boots and do whatever he asked, simply because he asked it. Because he was Rhagos, and everything after death was his domain, his to command, his to oversee according to the rules of the High Father.
For some reason, that bothered him more and more with every day that passed. Not that days mattered in the Underworld, but mortals thought in that manner and he’d taken it on out of habit.
How many days had passed since he’d returned from the Anticipation? Which Aspect of himself had succeeded? He wasn’t entirely sure—he’d asked to be left without the memories of that humiliating time—but looking at the pathetic anchor he was saddled with and his current displeasure? He wondered if somehow the flaw of Apathy had managed to persevere.
Which meant he would be like this until the next Anticipation…if there ever was one. The High Father had established new rules for his Twelve to rule over Aos, though. He’d decided it would be better for them to keep their touch on humanity, and thus an anchor would be their constant companion in this realm as well as the human one.
Rhagos hated it.
He hated being told what to do. Hated being forced to be around the puling idiot who had somehow managed to remain as his anchor. Yet he couldn’t get rid of the fool. Because of their tether, they had to stay in close proximity to one another.
Close proximity…to an idiot he hated…for all eternity.
Surely his brother Kalos would laugh and laugh hard at Rhagos’s irritation. He could hear his brother’s mocking laughter in his head, even now. Kalos would not simply settle for the anchor he’d been given. He would sneer at such a thought. Kalos would find what the rules were and bend them to his needs.
And so Rhagos would take a page from his brother’s book. He got to his feet, his black robes swirling as he stood.
His anchor stood as well, a look of fear on his pale face as he clutched the book to his chest. “My lord?”
The lord of the dead looked over at his anchor. He stared at him for a long moment, thinking. “Tell me something, Varian.”
“Varias, actually—”
He raised a hand to cut off the man’s trembling voice. “I did not ask to be corrected. I asked to be entertained.”
And he waited.
The mortal’s eyes went wide. He glanced around him, as if the other ghostly nobles that filled the Halls of the Dead would be of some assistance. When they avoided eye contact, he swallowed hard, his thin neck working, and spoke. “I…would you like a story?”
“About?”
“The…gods?”
Rhagos knew all the stories of the gods. He’d lived them. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Rhagos pulled his hood over his face and took his leave from his throne room. The anchor attempted to follow.
Rhagos raised a hand. “I do not require you.” He strode away, ignoring the irritating pull that reminded him he was leaving his anchor too far behind. Time and space could be warped in the Underworld, and as a result, his anchor had to stay even closer than most. A dark scowl creased his divine features. Was he not the god of the dead? The Lord of the Underworld? Why must he bow to so many rules even in his own domain? It was ridiculous.
It was not to be borne.
He needed a solution.
He paced the halls of his keep, looking for ways to solve this problem. It was a small one, as far as divine problems went, but an irritating one that seemed to grow larger by the day. He thought of that buffoon Aron of the Cleaver, who’d given back the eye he’d stolen from Rhagos millenia ago in exchange for his anchor. A female, with pale blonde hair and a lean figure. She hadn’t even been beautiful or well spoken, but there had been something about her that had entranced Aron to the point that he was willing to wage war on the gods to retrieve her.
That intrigued Rhagos.
What would it be like to have a companion that one actually wanted to spend time with? That one valued the words coming from his or her mouth? He’d met Aron’s female—kept her in his realm for a time because she was dead and thus part of his domain—before Aron had stormed his gates, demanding her back. He’d found her curious. She was unafraid of Rhagos, unafraid of Aron, and so full of a certain…spark that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He’d gotten his eye back, his vision whole once more, but…sometimes he wondered if he’d made a poor trade.
What would it be like to have a companion? A real companion? Someone that would have actual conversations with him instead of simply telling him what he wished to hear? Someone that would look at him with welcome in their eyes? Someone that would smile when he walked into the room?
Someone that was a friend and lover both. Someone to ease the lonely ache in his soul.
He thought about Aron’s anchor a lot. Far too much, perhaps. Not that he wanted that particular mortal for fucking. If he wanted to fuck, Belara, goddess of beauty, would welcome him. Any of his subjects would gladly take his cock and act as if it was their duty.
Perhaps that was it. Duty irritated him.
Where was the free will, the spirit that he’d seen in Aron’s anchor? He wanted that. He needed that.
Rhagos needed a new anchor, he decided. He could banish his current one to the depths of the Pit of the Betrayers, even though he’d been loyal. The underworld was Rhagos’s to command, after all. But the agony of their stretched tether would pain him and Rhagos would still be bound to the idiot. No, there had to be something else that could be done.
But what?
He walked his keep, thinking, and still no answer came to him. When he found himself back in his throne room, the court had made itself scarce, disappearing to avoid his foul mood. Only Varias remained, as pale and trembling as ever.
He raised a hand and sent him to the pit anyway, simply for being irritating. Anchor on his humanity be damned. If the High Father wanted him to be kinder and gentler then he needed a damned reason.
And Varias was not it.