Accidentally in Love With a God (2012) by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Read Free Book Online Page A

priest barely wore clothes, let alone any form of shoe.
    Now what do I do?
    When he’d arrived in the cenote, he’d thought this mission would be a quick, one-god job so he hadn’t made any arrangements with the Uchben to help him.
    But if he turned back now and sent for them, he’d end up simply losing more valuable time.
    “Fine. Alone it is,” he grumbled. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
     
    ***
     
    Three days later. Gulf of Mexico.
     
    It was early evening when Votan crouched into the dingy rancid cabin and slammed the door behind him. “Hello, Captain Pizzaro.”
    The man with greasy brown hair and hollow cheeks rose, back against the wall, and gave Votan a once-over. Maybe he was taking stock of his enormous size. Or, perhaps, the man was checking out the bundle of machetes strapped to Votan’s back. Or, was he looking at the daggers tied to each appendage and the two guns holstered to his sides? Maybe it was the colorful, knee length man-skirt he wore? Had to be the skirt.
    “Preparing for a one-man war?” Pizzaro asked.
    “Always.” A grin swept across Votan’s face as he propped himself against the door, arms crossed.
    “I see,” said Pizarro. “And since you know my name, I’m guessing your presence is no accident.”
    Silly human. There was no such thing as an accident. For three days, Votan followed the tracks from the Maaskab village to the ocean where he watched with intense curiosity as men loaded several small crates onto rowboats and then carefully pulled them aboard their rust-stained cargo vessel. He’d counted sixty, heavily armed, contemptible sorts and one evil looking, shirtless bastard with tattoos—dragons, sea monsters, the works. Votan had heard the men call him, “Pizzaro.” A Spanish name.
    Traffickers were very common in this part of the world, but not Spaniards. Votan could not imagine how they had traveled through international waters; World War II was making ocean voyages very tricky.
    Votan had wanted to immediately capture these men and commence interrogating, but they would scatter, and he’d lose more time. So, he climbed the anchor chain, hid aboard, and waited for deeper waters.
    “Correct, no accident,” Votan said to Pizzaro. “And you should know I have a strict policy about honesty.”
    “Honesty? About what?” asked the captain.
    “I’m going to kill you. Everyone, actually. Likely today.” Votan shrugged casually. “However, if you tell me everything now, I promise not to torture you.” He felt his eyes tingle. No doubt they were shifting from a luminescent turquoise to a dark emerald green.
    “Well,” the captain said. “How very generous of you.”
    “What can I say? I’m in a good mood today and in a hurry.”
    The captain’s eyebrows pulled together. “Can I offer you a drink?” He inched his way along the wall toward the dilapidated desk in the corner, pulled a bottle from the drawer, and then sat slowly, eyes locked on Votan.
    “Thank you. No. But go ahead, rum will help dull your pain.
    A large roach scampered across the floor and stopped near Votan’s foot. Votan hissed, making the roach flinch. The tiny bug peered up at him with its beady black eyes and then carefully backed away underneath the bed, not detaching its gaze until out of sight.
    Pizzaro lifted one scar split brow, over-pouring his tin mug while he watched the exchange. The rum trickled off the desk onto his dirty gray pants.
    “Bugs.” Votan shrugged again.
    “All right, then.” Pizarro nervously wiped the beads of golden liquid from his lap and grabbed for the cup. “What answers do you need?”
    “The priests. Who sent you to kill them?”
    Pizarro’s cup slipped from his hand. “Um—I…”
    Votan slammed his fist onto the desk, splintering the wood down the middle. He was done wasting time. “Tell me! Or next, I’ll crack your skull.” His voice sent shards of pain into the captain’s ears.
    “I don’t know! She didn’t tell us her