used to hang him.
“Irritating. This is just irritating.” Finding the priests dead not only meant a delay in returning to Cimil for answers about his vision of the redheaded woman, but now, it prevented his prompt return for the girl, too.
He could only pray nothing bad happened to the child while he was away. The bond was in no way foolproof. And frankly, she was the first true miracle he’d seen during his excruciatingly long life.
Again, he dwelled on which one of his brothers had fathered her. And how? Gods could not be intimate nor procreate. Period.
Humans aren’t even the same species.
Yes, gods could take a human-like body, but ultimately, it was just a shell to house their true form. They were made of light, of pure energy. Humans, even those who’d become immortal through the various ways—given the gift by the gods, turned into vampire or other immortal creature—were still made up of tangible mass.
A god having a child with a human was like fire mating with a log. Sure, they could touch each other, but one would end up cooked to ash.
Votan shook his head and began listening carefully to the animal noises echoing from the green-hued shadows. The creatures were riled, calling out to each other. Votan closed his eyes to listen. He caught fragments of each tiny voice but was unable to piece together any coherent story from them. He just saw flashes of white men with guns and clouds of smoke.
He proceeded cautiously, counting more bodies.
Dammit! What the hell is this?
By the time he reached the smoldering Maaskab village hidden deep in the jungle, he counted thirty hanging bodies. From the markings on their chests, all had been the more senior priests. In their society, one line, one heinous raised scar straight across the chest equaled one level of rank. The bodies in the trees donned two or three, but none had one—the lowest—or four—the highest. So where had their leader and the others gone?
In the Maaskab village, what was left of it, another fifty dark-priests lay scattered across the ground like leaves fallen from a tree, their nearly naked bodies riddled with bullet holes. Whoever had killed them hadn’t taken their sweet time like they had with the human tree ornaments. After examining a few bodies, he noticed they had one line across their chests. That answered his question about the peons, but not their leader.
He canvassed the rest of the area and determined no one was left. Not one damned, bloody soul. The situation was a disaster. Sure, he’d wanted them all to die, but he needed to interrogate them first, find out how they were learning their new dark tricks and confirm why they’d been killing those innocent women.
“Cimil!” he screamed. “A little assistance, please?”
He waited, but there was no reply. “Still behaving like a child, I see.”
With the agonizing pain from his earlier fall still coursing freely through his head, Votan clamped his eyes shut. Had someone purposefully murdered the priests to hide something from him? Or had one of the priests’ many enemies simply bested them? One thing was certain: the killers had worked over the more senior priest. Ruthlessly. Same damned thing he would’ve done.
Distracted by pain and frustration, he turned and walked straight into a tree, his nose crunching on impact. “Son of a bitch!” he wailed and kicked the mammoth tree that had toppled over. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said, looking at the decimated tree, cupping his bloody nose.
He wiped the blood across his bare arm and pushed the tree upright. He reburied the roots, covering them with the black, moist dirt while he contemplated his next steps.
Catching a whiff of something out of place, Votan lifted his bloodied nose into the air. Buried among the stench of rotting flesh and burnt huts was the smell of something distinctive. He began stalking through the remains of the village, and as clear as day, there were tracks made with boots. The