Among Gods Read online

  GODS AND DAEMONS

  BOOK 1

  AMONG GODS

  QUINN BLACKBIRD

  GODS AND DAEMONS

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  DARK FAE EXCERPT

  BLURB

  Living in the Gods’ city among monsters is hard enough. But for Keela, a young woman forever on the edge of death from a mysterious illness that has plagued her since birth, each day she’s ever known is a fight.

  Keela yearns for simple things. Marriage, a man to love and care for her, and some pretty dresses—until an ancient and cold aniel plucks her out of the masses to be the object of his deadly favour, and the Daemons come to the city for the first time in centuries.

  Now, Keela really learns what it means to truly fight for her life in a city of monsters.

  A dark fantasy mini-series set in Quinn Blackbird’s GODS AND MONSTERS world. You do not have to read Gods and Monsters before reading Gods and Daemons.

  See inside for content warnings.

  Paperbacks available on the box-set page.

  CONTENT INFORMATION

  Gods and Daemons is a dark-themed fantasy romance mini-series. There will be dark romance, twisted relationships, explicit sexual scenes, explicit language, angst and betrayals.

  GLOSSARY, TERMS, PLACES & OTHER THINGS

  Don’t be discouraged. This is for reference only. All will be explained in the series!

  GLOSSARY

  Divine Ones - Gods

  Malis - a malevolent God

  Beniyn - a benevolent God

  Aniel - a hand-crafted offspring of a God

  Vilas - a mortal

  Scocie - land of the Gods

  Capital - Scocie’s city

  Commos - isles of the common vilas

  Skripta - religious texts

  Daemons - evil entities that rule the Underworld

  FIRST GODS

  Prince Poison - malis, lover of Princess Monster

  Lover Lust - malis

  Gaia - beniyn

  Blaze - malis

  Keeper of Lost Souls - beniyn

  Mistress Mad - malis

  Swordsman of Scales - malis

  Loki - malis

  Trident - beniyn

  SECOND GODS

  Aphrodite - beniyn, deceased.

  Zealot - malis

  Syfon- beniyn, deceased.

  Father Fettle - beniyn

  THIRD GODS

  Princess Monster - beniyn, love of Prince Poison

  Phantom - malis, deceased.

  SCOCIE:

  Wild Woods

  The Capital

  Mist Creek

  Palace of the Gods

  Gods’ Gardens

  Twisted Wood

  Place of the Daemons

  The Capital

  East Side:

  Shadow Quarter

  Lost Square

  Scholar Square

  Merchant Market

  Textile District

  West Side:

  Emporium Quarter

  The Port

  Worship Street

  The Gardens

  Spa Square

  First District

  GODS AND DAEMONS

  AMONG GODS

  BOOK ONE

  GODS AND DAEMONS

  The Gods came in two waves.

  The Firsts—the most powerful and ancient of the Divine Ones—were made with the world. They are as old as the dirt, the grass, and the stars. They emerged from the Waterfall, deep in the Wild Woods, where most who search for it never return.

  The First Gods are our creators. They fashioned mortals—the vilas, as they call us—from the life surging through this earth. And we were created as nothing more than toys, entertainment in a bland newborn world.

  Next, they created aniels. The aniels are unlike the vilas—they are the children of the Gods. They are magical and powerful and wicked and immortal. It is said that to create an aniel, a God must peel away a sliver of their ancient power, fashion a hand-crafted marble statue of a child, and bond the magic to it. Then, the marble turns into flesh and blood and hair and eyes and power, all under the full moon on the starriest night.

  The child grows, fast. Within a year, it is a fully matured aniel, a dangerous child of the God who created it, and bound to its God for all eternity.

  In creating the aniels, They rectified the errors they made with mortals—they cannot breed.

  But the vilas breed. The vilas multiplied fast and spread too quickly.

  It took centuries for the First Gods to tire of mortals. When they did, they split the land into isles and pushed the vilas out to sea, separating us from them. As the land was broken into pieces, new seas were created and, out from the new seas, crawled the Second Gods. Less powerful than the Firsts, mostly less malevolent, but Gods all the same.

  The Gods kept some mortals close to them on the largest isle, Scocie. It is on this most magical, haunted isle that the Gods live. Their stardust palace sits on a bone-white hill that looks over the whole of the world.

  We, the vilas, worship them from the city built on the shore, the Capital. Every day of our lives, we are reminded of the Gods with that midnight-blue, glittering palace looming over us. So that we may never forget them.

  1.

  Most people don’t give much thought to how they will die. I do. It’s all I think about. And I know how I will go.

  My looming death is on the crimson patch that stains my handkerchief. It’s the ruby drops of blood that I wipe away from my lips. And it’s all around me, in the distorted voices in the temple, in the blur of faces that turn to me, and the way the ground seems to swell and twist beneath me.

  I grip onto the back of the pew in front of me to steady myself, and I turn my head down to hide the sheet-white pallor of my face.

  I’m having one of my dizzy spells again, and not at the best time. The Temples of the Gods are never the place to suffer these spells. Nearby stares turn on me, narrowed and simmering with judgement, as I choke back the coughs that wrack my body. I keep my mouth clamped shut, desperate not to spew any droplets of blood on the marble floor or the stone-white pew I grip onto.

  The Temples of the Gods are where we are expected to be best behaved. Sick, be damned, I could keel over right here and now, and no one would show pity. Slewed stares and pinched faces would say, ‘How dare she die in this sacred worship house?’, ‘Has she no respect for the Divine Ones?’ Even my own family would be mortified that I dared to die here, rather than the privacy of our home.

  Beside me, my father gives me a jab to the side with his elbow. His cutting stare gleams furious in the pale light of the temple. His scruffy jaw is set tight and he snarls at me, “Be silent, Keela.”

  Sure thing, Father. I can just turn off my coughing fit at any moment.

  I stop myself from rolling my eyes as another violent heave jolts my body. I mask it by tensing every weak muscle I have. My face twists into a grimace as I block the fit from taking over me.

  On the other side of my father, my sister—Olivia—shoots me a scathing look. A blush has crept onto her high cheekbones. She’s ashamed of me, she always is.

  But they don’t need to fret.

  The coughs subside and, slowly, I come back to myself. I force my back to straighten as I dab the handkerchief against my crimson-stained mouth. I blink away the dizziness from my sight.

  No one stares at me anymore. Their attention has slid back to the altar, where the Head Worshipper gives the sermon. She speaks of Prince Poison—the First that this temple is dedicated to, and the God that my family worships—and his life before the Seconds came through the cracks of the earth. It’s a story I have heard a hundred times, reworded to fit a new worship day.

  As the Head Worshipper moves onto prayer, a rustle rolls over the temple before we all shift to sit on our knees. Heads bow and hands stretch out and palms face upwards as the prayer begins.

  I bow my head and mouth along with the familiar prayer, but I don’t speak the words with the rest of the temple. I just pretend to, and not because my voice is hoarse and thick from all that coughing, but because I simply don’t love Prince Poison.

  He’s not my choice of God, really.

  If I had the power to choose my own God to worship, it wouldn’t be him. He’s too malevolent—a malis God. I would choose from the beniyn Ones, perhaps Father Fettle.

  Though Father Fettle is a Second God, he can heal any ailment or injury or sickness that plagues our kind. His aniels have the gift of healing through touch, or sucking the illness into their own bodies. But, being a Divine One—beniyn or not—Father Fettle is not without his wickedness. He spreads plagues and infects the humans he tires of, just for amusement.

  There is no God who is good.

  The prayer slips away from me. My kneecaps start to ache under my pale skin, even with the heavy skirts of my dress padding the marble floor I kneel on, and my thoughts start to run away.

  If I worshipped Father Fettle, would I still be sick?

  As my focus slips, I find myself looking around at the bowed heads and face-up palms. The temple is packed-full. Being a First and such a powerful One, Prince Poison is never short of worshippers. Nor is he short of aniels. It’s said he creates one every few years, and since he is ancient, I can’t begin to guess how many aniels he has.

  A few of them sit up there, on the altar. Mostly, they look bored.
One with sawdust-blond hair uses a knife to pick under his neat fingernails. Another, with a strawberry tint to his pale eyes, stares up at the intricate painting on the arched ceiling—a painting that depicts Prince Poison, stark naked and utterly divine, standing in the Wild Woods, a dangerous place that is said to be the birth place of the Firsts.

  A flash of quartz-grey catches my attention. I look at the pew of aniels on the altar and my stomach churns. The aniel closest to us, the aniel in charge of all the others under Prince Poison, is staring right at me, and his eyes swarm like molten pots of liquid metal.

  Silver—a name to match his eyes—studies me from across the temple. His stare gleams like freshly polished swords, and a shudder runs down my spine. He looks as disinterested as his fellows, but even bored, his jawline is sharper than knives, and the ruby-hue of his mouth makes me think of my own after it’s stained with the blood I cough-up. He probably feasts on vilas blood every day simply because he can.

  Among the pale and murky colours that those in the temple wear, Silver stands out like a bloody thumb. His ruby-red coat buttons at the front with golden bobbles and, over his bone-white breeches, a shiny pair of boots betray that no expense was spared. And, from the few pews between us, I spot a drop of blood on his stiff, starched collar.

  Silver hikes his eyebrow at my scrutiny.

  I bow my head fast, ice-cold panic seizing my insides.

  Pretending I’ve been paying attention to the sermon this whole time, I go along with the prayer, mouthing it, and keep my head down.

  It takes a few moments for the fear to start peeling away from my tense muscles.

  It’s best not to catch the attention of any aniel, let alone Silver, the one said to be older than the first tree to grow in the Capital.

  Other than Silver—who watches me closely, a perfect eyebrow lifted over his stormy eyes--the Prince’s aniels looked bored, just as they do in every sermon. They aren’t here to worship—they are our watchers. Dispatched into the Capital to ensure we worship at the temple we are devoted to, that no ill-talk of Prince Poison happens, that we pay our taxes to the God, and that we live within the rules of the Divine Ones.

  Each of the aniels has a duty, and some live in the Capital. I don’t worry myself about what they do in our city below the stardust palace where they should live. I just know that there are enough aniels in the Capital to keep the mortals in line, keep crime to a minimum, and keep alive the underground of gambling dens and brothels.

  Silver is known for his indulgence in the shadowy dens that litter the Capital’s darker districts, like the Lost Square. Rumours say that he owns some of the dens himself, that he sometimes visits the brothels, but not for sex.

  It’s said that, one time, a poor wife and husband went to him to beg for money favours from the Temple of Prince Poison and, instead, Silver took them to a brothel. He agreed to give them a coin purse if both the husband and wife lay with others right in front of each other. They did, and Silver lived up to his promise of a coin purse, which turned out to be only the purse—no coin inside.

  Just for his own amusement, he pits people against each other. And that is one of the kinder stories of Silver.

  When the sermon lets up, the thoughts of Silver still plague me. I know a lot about him because my father always makes me deliver the taxes to him.

  Father is the mayor of the East Side of the Capital, and he collects the taxes from the people of his end of the city. It’s my unfortunate duty to then take the coins to Silver at the end of each sermon.

  Today is no different.

  Father doesn’t bother even looking my way as he tosses the leather coin purse at me. I catch it against my loosened corset, only just stopping the coins from spilling out all over the marble floor. Then, he turns his back on me, and I’m left facing the dated brown cut of his tailcoat. He props his worn top-hat on his head.

  As my father and sister head outside, I weave my way through the throngs of worshippers to the far end of the temple. It’s down a glistening marble corridor, beyond the altar, that I know I will find Silver. Always, he goes straight to the aniel suite after the sermon.

  The door is predictably ajar when I arrive. Still, I knock lightly on the solid wood door before I wait for a beat.

  “Come in,” he calls.

  I slip through the door.

  The contrast of this room hits me like a punch to the gaze the moment I’m inside. Out in the temple, everything is white—white altar, marble floors, pale pillars. The only colour out there is the vivid painting on the arched ceiling. But inside the suite, it’s like being stuffed into a tinted bottle of poison. Red and purple and black drapes curtain the walls; plush velvet loveseats are tucked near a roaring fireplace that stands so tall that it grazes the ceiling; and the blackwood desk opposite the door is littered with parchment scrolls, ink-pots and little phials of what looks like dried herbs.

  Silver sits at the desk, scribbling notes into a thick ledger-book with a black quill dipped in midnight-blue ink.

  “Taxes,” I say automatically as I approach him.

  Gently, I place the black-leather coin purse on the desk.

  Without looking up at me, he snatches up the pouch and loosens the string. After a peek inside—checking to see that all the coin is golden—he throws it on a pair of brass scales. The weight of the coin purse apparently satisfies him. He scribbles a note in the ledger, then empties the coins into a much larger pouch.

  Instinctively, I flinch as he tosses the empty leather purse back to me.

  If I wasn’t already staring at him, I would have missed the ghost of a smirk that lifted the corner of his red-stained mouth—mocking me for my fright. I’m not ashamed, though. Any vilas who isn't jumpy around an aniel with a reputation like Silver’s is a fool.

  Throwing the empty purse at me was a dismissal. I’m used to it.

  I tuck it into my brown skirt-pocket, then scurry out of the room. I doubt he watches me go, but still, I feel the burn of his gaze on my back. I don’t feel safe until I’m out the pearly lacquered doors of the temple, on the narrow street.

  It takes me a few moments to spot my father and sister among the clustered clumps of people. They stand at the bottom of the steps across the narrow, winding road.

  In Worship Street, the lanes are plagued with temples and shrines. The one opposite Prince Poison’s belongs to Trident. A lot of folk from the West Side of the Capital devote themselves to Trident, since that end of the city is mostly perched on the edge of the sea, where the cliffs drop straight down to the choppy waters, and the Port sees hundreds of pirates and sailors move through it each month.

  Father and Olivia stand with the mayor of the West Side (Mayor West, funnily enough). His family is with him—a wife, Gertrude, and a son, Mikhael—a somewhat handsome man, whose blue eyes gleam like the friendly waters of a midday sea and whose auburn hair reminds me of rust.

  I wander over to them.

  All the sermons are out now, and the white-marble street is alive with bustling groups of people. Most hang around to chat in small, tight groups, but some hurry away—winding and weaving through the crowds—to run back to their shops and market stalls before the midday rush hits them.

  For the privileged few of us, like the mayors and their families and the nobles and the Head Worshippers and their flock, today is a day of leisure. The Day of the Gods. Morning brings worship, midday brings shopping, afternoon brings dinner and rest, and then comes the night—when the Ball of the Divines kicks off in the Gods’ Gardens. It’s a weekly ritual.

  The ball is my favourite part of the week.

  We celebrate Them at the Gods’ Gardens near the base of the bone-white hill, where their magic starts to touch the edges of the Capital. There, the grass gleams white, the willow trees hang low with midnight-blue leaves that look like stars raining down on the world, and there’s a marble temple meant just for the balls. It was built centuries ago, when They used to visit the vilas.

  Now, we never see Them. Even when they pass through the city, they stay in their carriages—no time for us mortals anymore. Can’t blame them for it either, I mean we’re not the best of their creations, are we? To them, we’re little more than rats or mice. Pests that run rampant around their beautiful world, our populations reaching out of control.