Food of the Gods by Cassandra Khaw

Author:Cassandra Khaw
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MORNING ARRIVES SLATE-GRAY and appallingly cold. I’m awake long before the sun clambers above the cityline, a sickly radiance behind the smog, largely useless except as an indication that the day has begun.

Sleeping, to put it delicately, has been difficult. Jet lag alone might not have been insurmountable, but it came escorted by the deep autumn chill. Of course, that wouldn’t have been a problem either if this thrice-damned flat had any concept of heating—or, hell, if the Greek pantheon understood that a blanket needs to be more substantial than a square of tissue.

Groaning, I force myself upright, lose balance, and collapse back onto the creaking, wire-thin mattress. The impact startles a few moths from hiding. Lovely. I stare at the ceiling. My arms and legs, strangulated by seventeen layers of fabric, tingle alarmingly, as though warning of impending necrosis. I clench a fist and watch as the blood drains from my fingertips before draining sluggishly back into place.

I should probably fix this.

I swing my feet onto the ground, touch bare toes to the wooden flooring and immediately jump back. Maybe later. Maybe never, in fact. A wild idea rouses itself. Would it be possible to engage in tele-cooking? If someone rigged up a camera in whatever kitchen I’m meant to occupy, would it be possible for me to just delegate to an army of sous chefs? It could happen.

Even as my sleep-addled mind dwells on the possibilities, creating a daisy-chain of command that could be transposed onto a multinational culinary business, the door swings open to reveal Demeter. In the pale of morning, she appears younger, unsettlingly vulnerable, the lines of her face gentled. Her curls fall in vine-tangled rivulets, eclipsing the hunched shoulders, the folded arms. As I study her, she drops her hands to her sides, revealing a mottling of fresh bruises, like newborn scales.

I swallow. A memory of Minah unfurls: angles and spindles of bone, mouth pearled with gore, a history of hurt soaked into her skin.

It isn’t my place to ask.

“What happened to you?” The question comes anyway, pursued by ghosts.

Demeter’s expression does not change, her eyes haunted, old as the soil. She slips from the door to seat herself on my bed, a leg crossed beneath her hips, hands latticed about the curve of a knee. “Did you sleep well?”

“I… slept. I guess.” I’m not used to having an unfamiliar woman on my bed. I’m barely used to Minah’s absence, to the knowledge that I won’t find her in the kitchen, a song on her lips. I clear my throat, scoot back. “Can I help you with anything? You need someone beaten up?”

Demeter doesn’t smile, arching forward to drape fingertips on my thigh. I wince. “Who was she?”

“Minah.” Her name is a bright, sharp pain.

Demeter’s expression flickers. A muscle in her cheek judders, stills. I pin my breath to the roof of my mouth, the stem of my spine broken into spasms. I fight the memories down: her smile, her hands; her walk,

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