Rhea wants nothing more than to kill her father. But not just because he's any run-of-the-mill scumbag. No, he's a god. And he's the one who cursed her with being a goldblood -- half human, half godling. Good for her, she's willing to do anything to...
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I MANAGE TO GET A FEW HOURS OF SLEEP, BEFORE DAYLIGHT.
But the woolen blanket is scratchy and hot, and the smell of the wet dirt keeps bringing me back to the basement.
I dream rarely. In the days after my mother passed, I dreamed of her sometimes. Dreams so real that I thought that when I woke up, I was in a dream.
And the nights after my first kill, I would wake up shrieking into the night because my nightmares would be filled with the eyes -- the lifeless, cold, accusatory eyes of the person who's life I took.
But I haven't dreamed like that since. I left that poor, sad child behind when I left that house. And I left my queasiness over killing behind when I left that basement, all those years ago.
I had to. I had to.
But then why, in the few hours before dawn, did I keep seeing the Mistress, kicking me, laughing at me, with that cold cruel voice of hers?
"Oh, my poor, sweet murderous doll, my rose, did you think you had outsmarted me?"
Her cold fingers, sharp nails, reaching down to stroke my cheek, before giving me a stinging slap.
"I will find you. I will punish you for your insolence," she whispered in my ear.
Then she faded away in a cloud of dust. No, of ash.
Then I was staring at my mother's urn again, sitting at her bedside. Everything was grey. Everything was grey and there was blood, pounding loudly into my ear.
"No, mother, no!" I heard myself shriek. My five-year-old self, reaching, reaching, shaking, shaking, hoping that would be enough to bring my mother back.
But the more I shook, the more blood there was, just spilling out of her. The red blood the only color in the grayness of my dreams.
I would look down at my hands to see the red blood, spilling over my fingers, onto the floor. Except, when I looked at the floor, it wasn't the floor. It was the dead body of the man I had just murdered, but it was still warm and he was still spluttering for breath--
I fly awake, the woolen covers on the ground. I wipe the sweat off my brow and cup my face in my hands, trying to gather my scattered breath.
After a few moments, I get up and pick up the blanket and throw it back on the wooden pallet.
I clear my throat and try to straighten out the wrinkles in my clothes. I'm still wearing the same thing as yesterday.
I roll my eyes when I see the shirt I took from the son. I can't believe I'm still wearing it. I'll have to see if I can get new clothes from somewhere. Clothes that are more comfortable and easier to fight in.
It takes me longer than I want to admit to find my way back to the cavern. I refuse to ask anyone for help.
But luckily once I walk out a ways, I see a shuffling line of people headed to what I assume is the caver.
