Page 19 of The Fake Divination Offense
This has nothing to do with Urzoth.
“I—” I swallow again, my tongue suddenly huge. “And this was… good press?”
“Indeed,” Drach says. “An Urzoth worshipper using his strength to save someone? The reaction has been effusive, son. Fans love you.”
My brows go up in surprise thatthat’swhat Drach focuses on—the fact that I actually helped someone.
Roesia flips through a few more slides, images of Alexo and me. Images of me facing off with that asshole. Even a video of me talking with Alexo, and you can see everything I say thanks to Marlow’s subtitle earring, so I’m clearly asking Alexo if he wants to go with this guy, if he’s okay.
My eyes run over his face. The gold glitter across his nose. The streaks of it on his collarbone like neon lights.
“You’re a hero,” Roesia says. “Which is exactly the shift you both need.”
Both?
Roesia looks at Drach with a distinctiveNOW you can talkexpression, and Drach clears his throat. Normally this time.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the uptick in Galaxrien Vossen summonings,” Drach says. He doesn’t stop for me to respond. “The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn has responded to those how wealwaysrespond: with appropriate severity as dictated by the threat of a demonic uprising. The demon lord Galaxrien Vossencannotbe allowed to emerge from the Demonic Plane, and as such, his cultistscannotbe allowed to summon him out of his hellish prison. We are protecting Earth from his—”
“Reverend Drach.” Roesia gets him back on track.
“The frequency of those summonings and therefore the frequency of our responses has led the public to begin voicing displeasure over what they mistakenly view as a feud between two gods. Our approval ratings have taken a hit. We find ourselves in a similar position to yours, Mr. Monroe, and as such, we have been in contact with your team management the past few weeks to explore ways of improving both our images. After last night, we have a proposition for you.”
My knee bounces.
He goes quiet, and Roesia stays quiet, and I’m left sitting here dumbly asking, “What kind of proposition?”
Whatever it is, no.
I didn’t come here to ingratiate myself even more with Urzoth. They need me more than I need them—I can improve my image on my own, thanks. My bad public opinion came because I stood up to my childhood abusers; their bad public opinion came because they rationalize burning down people’s livelihoods in the name of stopping absurd cult ceremonies.
In lieu of answering, Roesia hits a button on her tablet. “Is Mr. Warden here?”
A voice comes through, “Yes, Ms. Sombercrown.”
“Send him in.”
Fantastic. Another church rep? Is this Urzoth’s way of trying to punish me for—
The door opens.
There are several patron gods for rogues, gods of stealth, thievery, and swiftness. But one is unpopular to the point of being almost forgotten, which should be reason enough for them to be themostpopular rogue god, but they aren’t taken seriously—because their name is just screaming really loud. It undercuts the point of being a god for sneaky people, but they’re the god of being taken by surprise, a whole dogma built around that moment when you’re going upstairs and you miss a step, or you’re hammering and miss a nail. The jolt of shock, the rush of endorphins and adrenaline in tandem; fight, flight, or freeze.
My brain fills with that god’s name now, a long, drawn-out scream, as Alexo walks into the room.
Chapter Three
I vault from the couch, hands splayed by my sides, living proof that the concept ofholy fucking shitcan be a religious experience.
He’shere.
He’s in baggy black joggers and an orange Hellhounds jacket over a white shirt with writing in sparkly black letters that’s hard to read as he tugs the jacket over his chest. He’s forgone glitter and makeup, his face clean but still dusted with brown freckles. The bar lighting made his hair more strawberry blond than what it is now, a definite soft pink color. He’s alert, if a bit tired, but more important, he looks healthy—no bruises, no cuts. That guy left him alone after he got home, then.
Alexo surveys the room. “Um, I was told to—” He hooks his thumb toward the closed door before his eyes flick up to me and lock in.
With a pulse of his eyebrows, his lips form a littleO, and I don’t breathe at all, don’tmoveuntil I see whatever his reaction is to me. Is he going to freak out? He was cordial to me last night, but that could’ve been his way of diffusing the situation.
But—how is he here?
