The Sixth Life of Medusa

10. Yellow Unblinking Eyes

"What a mess," said a gentle voice.

Ceto sobbed when his bare feet came within her line of sight.

Stay away from me! The terrified plea was trapped in Ceto's throat, unable to find freedom.

Trailing his approach was a line of bloody footprints that led to a pile of death at the centre of the welcoming hall. All the servants and guards had been slaughtered.

"Do not weep, Rose." He touched Ceto's head with a cold hand and patted her as if she were an animal.

"Please, please, please," Ceto whispered.

His aura, that awful coppery smell of blood, stuffed down her nostrils, worsening her terror.

And Phorcys. The gaping hole in his chest, dead eyes staring ahead, and essence completely sucked out of him. "Please," Ceto begged again with a choked sob.

"Why do you plead? He is gone."

Ceto shook her head, denial leading her to the bowels of Insanity.

Phorcys wasn't gone. Deities can't die. Phorcys can't be dead. She blinked at the drops of tears on the marble floor.

Was this even real? Why did it feel like this has happened before? Ceto's memory was a fickle thing. There were things she should know—things that lingered on the surface, begging to be remembered. Like why Phorcys had sent a carriage away. Who was in the carriage?

Why was he here? Ceto could not get herself to look up. There were some truths her weak mind could never forget, a driving self-preservation when it came to him. Pleading only made sense. And there was something else she could never forget.

"Phorcys...my love." He was crumbling to ashes before her eyes.

Lies! Gods can't die.

Ceto flinched when a cold thumb wiped at her tears. "Pretty even when you grieve."

Letting his hand fall away, he turned.

"Drain."

That command said in that voice. Ceto was certain she had heard it in the past. There was something she should remember.

Ceto spied blood moving like a stream, further draining from the pile of bodies.

I should lift my head. Maybe I'll remember if I look.

Daring to look up, Ceto took in his white toga that matched his waist-length hair, and that small frame dwarfed by his two large companions. The sight of him triggered only terror, and her memory remained stubbornly elusive.

The bodies crumbled to a heap of ashes and clothes as the streams of blood gathered above him and formed a swirling large ball. Lifting a slim hand tattooed with numerous runes, he made a fist.

"Gather."

The blood shrunk to a red pebble before sinking into his open palm.

Closing his fist, he took a step towards the door then paused. "Where is your mortal child?"

The question twisted Ceto's heart. What was this sorrow? She frowned. "I—" She stared down at her empty trembling hands. "I have a mortal child? How?"

He turned to the side, and Ceto spied one blood-red pupil framed with sweeping white lashes. "Then sleep," he muttered, voice oddly soothing.

As sleep came, Ceto recalled Phorcys' last words. Be strong. Do not let him see you weep again.

Oh, Phorcys. I wept, and he saw my tears.

***

Hands that held her down. They took her bow and quiver. A sharp blow to the back of the head. That rancid smell of rotting blood at the altar. The knife that stabbed her heart and twisted.