Page 120 of The Fake Divination Offense
He points behind me, to where my phone is roaring applause now, a reporter screaming, “The Hellhounds will be playing the Dragons in the sixty-first annual rawball championship.…”
I gawk down at Bel, the words processing slowly, and his rising giddiness releases in a bounce against my chest.
“The Dragons won,” he says again and laughs. “Fuck the Chimeras!”
Oh my gods.
The Chimeras lost.
Theylost, and aren’t going to the championship. They traded me, and won’t even have the chance to defend their title.
But I have the chance to claim it again. Without them.
I scoop Bel into a kiss, ravaging his mouth with all the excitement bursting up through me. He squeals into it, arms knotting around my neck, and we really do have to go, but—fuck the Chimeras, fuck Urzoth, fuck everything butthis.
Yeah, actually. Fuck everything but this.
I peck Bel on the cheek before grabbing my phone. “Keep making yourself even more beautiful—I have some calls to make.”
“Calls—what? Tease!”
But I swat his ass and duck out of the bathroom. “Trust me!”
The Urzoth service is held in a massive cathedral downtown. The glaring stone building leaves no question as to what god it stands for, all harsh gray rock and intense statues. Inside, the main room is outfitted with pews for the first portion of the holiday service: the sermons. It’ll be transformed afterward, the pews pushed aside in favor of fighting rings as Urzoth followers are pitted against eachother. Thefeats of strength to showcase Urzoth’s powerare a lot of brawling and fistfighting and general violence as winners are declared and dethroned and declared again. It’s the normal type of service cranked to a dangerous max. The floor’ll be streaked with blood by the end.
Drach wants me and Bel to leave before that part.
No problem.
Whatisa problem, though, is the discomfort that seizes both Bel and me when we enter the cathedral.
Here he is, Galaxrien’s mortal descendant, walking straight into an Urzoth church.
Hundreds of Urzoth worshippers pack the pews around us. More than a few hungry expressions follow us as we make our way up the aisle, and it takes me a beat to remember they have no idea who Bel really is. So they’re staring at him because—
Because he looks sexy as hell.
That pearl necklace cups his throat and a slate-gray suit makes his pink hair pop. Instead of a normal solid back, the jacket has a layer of swirling lace that shows the sharp blades of his bare shoulders. He’s downright edible.
I easily fall into what’s expected of someone in an Urzoth church; I yank Bel under my arm and curl my upper lip at anyone who looks at us. Challenge met.
We’re ushered to the second row, and I walk us to the very end, near one of the side aisles beneath the mezzanine that’s held up by concrete pillars. Bel eyes me, seemingly picking up on my intent—to be able to slip out. But he says nothing and redirects his eyes to his lap when we sit. They’ve been down from the moment we stepped inside, focused on his balled hands or the floor, and while I should prod him to hold his chin up, keep his bearing strong and unafraid here, he doesn’t need to. That’s what I’m for.
The sermons start, long-winded lectures from Reverend Drach and a few other priests who go on about Urzoth’s might and the importance of his birthday and how we need to stand strong against adversity.
I tune most of it out, keeping my arm around Bel, fighting to stop my knee from bouncing.
Bel puts his hand on it and squeezes.
The sermons come to a close, and Drach introduces one of the special guest speakers, a decorated arcane soldier. She gets up, talks about how grateful she is for the strength Urzoth has given her in battle, and reclaims her seat.
“And next,” Drach says, looking out at the full cathedral, “we have Orok Monroe of the Philadelphia Hellhounds.”
The crowd applauds. There are a few Hellhound barks, and I smile at that, the familiarity helping me stand from the pew, helping me leave Bel behind as I move to the front of the cathedral.
I step up to the podium and take the speech out of my jacket pocket. The paper crinkles as I smooth it, Treva’s words short and simple but swimming before my eyes.
Hundreds of Urzoth worshippers are staring at me. Rows and rows of people who love the god I devoted my life to.
