This Is How Immortals Die is now officially available in e-book and paperback versions! For those who subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, the book is also part of the catalogue, at least for the first three months.
If you’re unsure whether the book is for you or not, I’m going to post the prologue here in full (around 3.000 words) to give you a notion of what’s waiting for you. Hope you enjoy it!
Prologue
Aphrodite’s graceful smile threatened to shatter my heart into pieces. It bounced and rattled in my chest as if the Supreme Goddess had made me her personal puppet. If I had to suffer through another hymn, I swear I’d plunge into the sacred river and swim out of here.
“Carys vch Arianell a Ellis,” the Charites’ summons fluttered the feathers of the doves perched across the temple. I stiffened. Had they been snooping around my chest? “Come forth and declare the epithet you wish to honour.”
Holding back a sigh of relief, I took a step forward. Blood rushed through my tense limbs. Heads turned, training their gazes on me, trying to guess my choice. Narcissistic Lyssa would bet on Areia. Puny Chanté would hope the waters would drown my will.
I marched like a warrior heading into war against an army, careful to not let my sandals slip on the wet floor. The fire from the flambeaux flickered as I passed them, making my red hair glow. Warmth singed my back, nudging me onwards.
Rounded and white as a pearl, the table of the council accommodated the three Charites—Despina, Dariela, and Belinda—, the most experienced members of the Order. They all trained us with sharp blades and sharp minds. But on that day, they were strangers, inspiring equal amounts of respect, fear, and self-doubt. Aphrodite herself would watch, an arrow nocked on her swan-shaped bow, ready to break the heart of those she judged undignified.
Haughty in her mauve peplos, Dariela Ura’nia sat at the far left. She was the youngest in years but looked like the living corpse she was—that most of us were. Hours sitting in the same position, yet she enjoyed it. Not the pleasure of witnessing her apprentices climbing an important step on the Order’s hierarchy, but the privilege of crushing their egos. And she stared at me with intent, displaying the smile she had practised with the Erinyes.
A ring of water enclosed the Charites, separating them from the rest of the immortals. A silken, pink veil daubed the table, enveloping it in a fragrance of roses. Inhaling it was dangerous, put you too much at ease. I stopped and bowed lower than I needed so I could suck in the cooling breath exuding from the channelled river.
“Have you made your choice?” Despina Anadyo’mene, the eldest Charis with the looks of a thirty-year-old charmer, asked.
Once again, my gaze was drawn to the statue above the Charites. Dressed in vernal robes, Aphrodite blessed us with open arms, her sea-bathed skin the most radiant source of light in the room. Decades of dodging her affection, too naïve to realise she was seducing me to this stage where she would finally claim what remained of my soul. Her rosy, plump lips emitted a silent challenge. I accepted.
“Epistro’phia.”
“She Who Turns to Love,” Despina translated. On cue, a gasp broke the silence behind me, followed by restrained murmurs. Turn to Love was the last thing that assassins trained to kill Twin Souls should aspire to. Despina raised a hand, silencing the gossipers’ mouths, but not their volatile hearts. “A remarkable choice.”
A bizarre choice, she meant. However, she was not insulting my decision.
“Thank you, master,” I said. “For a long time, this epithet of our Lady Aphrodite inhabited my thoughts. In my prayers, in my training, in my sleep. It felt like a message. So, I opened my heart to her influence. After all, is this not our aim? To turn to the Creator’s Love, find inspiration and strength in her wisdom?”
Dariela’s eyebrow twitched. I upheld my military posture as Despina perused me with her centuries of knowledge. Those who feared Dariela’s vulture eyes had never had their soul probed by someone who might have dined at Olympus.
I should have been killed there. Sacrificed to the Goddess, then locked in a jar as my ashes burned, over and over again, with failed attempts at resurrection. But what Despina found caused her to smile.
Three Melissae approached from the dark corners of the temple, pink dresses smelling of honey. Two of them gripped my shoulders, while the third planted a hand on my back. Together, they lowered me to the river. Icy water licked my spine. The figure of the three Charites undulated above as I submerged. Their hands moved to my chest, all three Melissae anchoring me to the river’s smooth floor.
Prayers bubbled in my ears. I ignored their chant, concentrating on my heartbeats as the river washed them down my belly, my legs, my toes, and gone with the stream. Cold seeped into my skin, slowing my bloodstream down. I saw mam Arianell as she loitered outside our home on the coldest nights, welcoming the frigid winds. Pressure built in my brain, demanding oxygen. Mam Ellis lifted me off the ground, spinning me through the air, then cursing my name. My senses were losing the battle, fading, my head getting lighter.
My heartbeats were a death knell, loud, slow, and heavy. I lost the ability to count, but I tuned into them until the last toll.
And then they started again, picking up speed and energy like an overjoyed child. Air loaded my lungs, and I took calm, methodical breaths. Water dripped from my every piece of clothing, every strand of hair. The Melissae formed a triangle around me, their heads bowed to the statue with the loving smile.
Despina mirrored the Supreme Goddess’ hospitable gesture. “Welcome to the Order of Aphrodite, Carys Epistro’phia.”
Her approval was more haunting than the prospect of her ire. I returned to my seat, incapable of feeling the joy that stirred my sisters. There was a pit in my chest where I expected to have been sucked into.
Four more apprentices took the formal admission. One wasn’t rebirth by the sacred waters, the other three joined the tier of Aphrodite’s devotees. I didn’t get wind of their epithets, or whether they aroused scorn or cheer. As everyone stood to leave, eager to celebrate, Despina’s warm greeting hounded me.
“Bunch of clowns.” From the unapologetic frankness, I recognised Áine. “Need to take a breather before I get the gawks. Care to join me?”
“Lead the way.”
Áine Apotro’phia was someone who people respected by avoiding her. Stories whispered that her control over Heart Magic was unparalleled, but I had never seen her in action. She could have a higher rank in the Order, and even though I didn’t know her reasons for declining the prestige, the fact that she did, told me she was good blood.
While our sisters swarmed into the neighbouring mansion, the two ugly ducks escaped to an isolated spot—or as close to that as possible with a rowdy party in the vicinity. Áine got out the box of cigars that her brother, a Hunter, sent from Énotacht. An oak-scented smoke cocooned us.
Áine backed against the wall and let herself slide to the floor. Silence reigned over these sporadic encounters; she detested small talk. Sometimes I thought she gave zero fucks about everything. Other times, I was afraid she cared too much. Normally, I’d embrace her quiet company, but there was something nagging me that night.
“I heard a Priestess found peace yesterday,” I said. “An apprentice of yours?”
“The best.”
How could she be the best if she allowed herself to fall in Love?
“My condolences.”
Smoke rose and fell with Áine’s breathing. Her maroon hair waved down her shoulders, brightening the shadows around her. I squatted beside her, watching the ashes collect on the floor. “That’s how the world spins. Two souls become one and we consume them.”
Pacify was the term we employed, but Áine often preferred more murderous expressions. Consumed. There was an even more disturbing ring to her choice of words that day.
One minute turned into thirty. Áine never asked me about my epithet. Her own pick, The Expeller, wasn’t popular. When I started coughing, she advised me to go inside, wash my throat, and ride with the others.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Not until they give out to me.”
I laughed. That woman had nerves. Asexual Priestesses were rare like Gryphons, and if she ever partook in drinking, it was not with the rest of us. I wondered how she survived sober in this world. Perhaps someday she would consider me worthy of learning her secrets.
Inside the mansion, I was greeted with a glass filled to the brim with a burgundy, dense liquid. The average human body had five litres of blood. In the next three hours, between my sisters and I, we drank at least twenty. Drinking blood was part of the process to incorporate Heart Magic into our veins, but that extravaganza was unheard of. Where did that stash come from?
“The Creator, in her utmost benevolence, sent us the elixir of life.” That was the answer I heard the most, each word waved like threads of a broken spindle. Others shrugged the matter off and downed another chalice. I questioned if it was wine, but the consistency was wrong.
“Then Aphrodite, like, bled to feed us.”
“How dare you!” came the incredulous replies. One twmffat choked on her drink.
Thoughts buzzed in my head, a charm of bees that couldn’t leave because there were cobwebs over the beehive. Aphrodite gifted blood, but the elixir was not Hers. It made sense. Why would the most powerful and worshipped Goddess in the entire world bleed for mere mortals? Remuneration? My sisters massaged their egos by naming themselves the “divine army on Earth.” Sounded stupid to me. If Aphrodite could drown the planet in darkness and bring anarchy to the cosmic order established millennia before her birth in the foam, I didn’t think she needed a mob to do the dirty work for her.
The sky was dark and inflexible like onyx; no juice would drip from that rock. So, the question remained: whose blood was I drinking? No one cared to find out, and suggestions were profane. I had hoped that the intoxication would loosen their tongues, but as always, my questions were ignored or reprimanded.
“She is young. Soon, she will come to appreciate Aphrodite’s graces,” Dariela replied to complaints about my behaviour.
In her hundreds of years, I was one of her best students, which explained why she had faith despite her blatant animosity towards me. It was funny how much respect fit into contempt.
Could it be her blood I drank? No, too sweet.
I couldn’t put my finger on why the beverage’s identity bothered me. Perhaps because it was too good. After my first glass, I even forgot about my audience with Despina. I felt stronger, healthier, alive. That last word made me laugh into the chalice, spilling the content. One or two gazes accused me; the rest was too pissed to notice or care. When something was that tidy, it often meant trouble. Trickery. No one stopped to wonder what would happen when we got sober.
From where I was sitting, I could see outside. It was a warm, ugly afternoon, but no matter the hour or how vigorously Helios lashed his golden horses, the sky remained black, unrelenting. The sun lost its rightful place when the clouds turned into mud and murk, and now when I looked up, all I saw was her. Aphrodite. Most stars were a dim spark, but a particular group shone brighter, aligning to shape the heavenly face of a crying woman: the Constellation of Vengeance, symbol of Aphrodite’s apocalypse and monument to the supremacy of the Goddess of Love over every living and dead-ish things.
Staring at the stars scrambled my vision. Worms danced in my eyes. My hearing, unaffected by the intoxication, imbibed the heartbeats in the precincts. It was a smorgasbord of musical instruments, melody lost in the contest for dominance. I listened, scanning their tunes for a clue, a suggestion. Why did you bring me here, Aphrodite? To stomp and spit on me?
“Hello, Carys.” A girl knelt beside me, her heart a maudlin harp, touching my arm with a hesitant hand. What was her name? We trained together a few times. I broke her ankle once. Fuck, I couldn’t remember. “May I keep you company?”
No, Aphrodite, you sick bastard, you brought me here to mock me.
I pushed the girl aside and rushed to the balcony. Heat lacerated my throat. I bent over the balustrade, spilling my stomach’s contents onto the street.
“Carys? Are you okay? Talk to me!”
“Leave me alone!”
I shoved her with more force this time. A servant was passing by, and I pilfered another glass of wine… blood… As soon as I finished drinking, the liquid revolted, and I vomited all over again.
“You!” I pointed my finger at Aphrodite’s face. “It’s all your fault, and you just stay there, fooling all those simple-minded fuckers with your crocodile’s tear!”
“Carys, please, keep your voice—”
“Touch me again, and I’ll rip your heart out!” The woman staggered back, merging with the growing audience. “The same I’ll do to you. I’ll rip your fucking heart out and eat it, do you hear me? APHRODITE!”
My shout echoed around the mansion. I drank more, vomited more. I wasn’t sure if I said anything else in-between. My senses, embarrassed on my behalf, were leaving me. A dull throbbing at the back of my mind reminded me of the woman. She was still there, always there, and even after the darkness consumed me, I could still hear her heartbeat.
Until it disappeared for good.
A knock resounded on the walls, shooting pain through my skull. Morning, then. Eos loved to shower me with her affectionate welcomes. Through bloodshot eyes, I discovered myself alone in a lent bedroom. I threw my overcoat over my shivering body and waded to the door.
Dariela and two other Priestesses were waiting on the other side. When the first person you see in the morning is the crone, you can steel yourself for a miserable day ahead. The younger duo carried blades, pistols, and faces like a wet weekend. I wanted to laugh at how pathetic they looked, but my head was hammering like Hephaestus’ bitch, striking more insistently when I tried to remember last night’s events.
“What’s occurrin’?” I asked instead.
“Are you feeling any pain, Carys? A touch of sadness, perhaps?” Dariela replied. It took me a few moments to process the question. Was she worried about my well-being? No bloody way.
“Can’t a girl, like, enjoy her hangover in peace?” I was hanging, but I hoped my staging was convincing.
My swollen eyes registered one of the Priestesses gripping the hilt of her short sword. Before I could react, she leapt. The next I knew, her blade was inside me, lodged between my ribs.
Painful as the stab had been, the girl committed a grave mistake: she didn’t finish me. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards me, smashing her nose with a headbutt. Pain flared across my chest as the sword rasped my ribs and perforated my parietal pleura. Blood flooded my mouth, but I had no time to worry about it. Leaving the blade stuck, I grabbed my sister by the hair and slammed her head against the door frame once, twice, three times.
A red mask covered her face. Still, I recognised her treacherous mug, and as she toppled to the ground, I fell on top of her, my breaths short and agonising. When she tried to hold me back, I punched her, banging her skull against the stones. After that, she surrendered to the blows plummeting on her squidgy skin, grinding every bone underneath. Her teeth lacerated my knuckles. In the communion of our blood, I watched glimpses of the past, of how Dariela had brought her here to challenge me, check if my soul was clean. Another victim of our mentor’s sick games. Instead of calling a truce, I punched her harder, hoping it would at least bruise Dariela’s ego.
Scraps of fat clung to my mangled hand. A chunk of her zygomatic bone had penetrated my left palm. The amorphous form below me wheezed in a terrible perseverance that only immortals could suffer. Before my skin turned blue, I yanked the short sword from my bones and plunged it into my sister’s heart. Soft flesh relented, and finally, she stopped writhing.
As soon as the blade left my body, my lungs heaved a sigh of relief. White blood cells rushed to repair the damage. Red cells delivered fresh air to my tissues, and endorphins flooded me in a futile attempt to make me feel better.
“Take her away,” Dariela’s voice was more piercing than the bone impaled on my palm. “When she awakes, send her to me. Her training leaves a lot to be desired.”
The other Priestess stood still, not daring to approach her fallen sister until I backed off. As I got to my feet, I saw what Dariela carried on the hand she had been hiding behind her back—a head. Blood dripped from the recent cut, so neat and clean that only Dariela’s dreaded longsword could’ve performed it. Personal business. I took in the poor dab’s features. Dulled by the numbing healing effects, it took me a minute to realise that they belonged to the girl who had tried to take me to bed last night.
“Inviting me to a rugby match?” I asked, not caring to hide my scorn.
But it backfired as the pieces came together. The girl, now resting between Dariela’s wrinkled fingers, was an Obsessive Soul. She, a Priestess whose oath was to defend Love’s nobility, had become smitten with someone who could not reciprocate the divine feeling. The girl, I concluded, was a virgin in both senses. Chaste souls were always more naïve and prone to madness, but… me?
At least she would not come back.
Dariela watched as the minutes progressed and the vestiges of violence disappeared, leaving the putrid smell of gore and failure. She turned to go, the beheaded face staring at me.
“What was her name?” I asked.
Dariela glanced over her shoulder and grinned. She went away, following the mournful younger Priestess, without answering. For three years, the girl had trained to be accepted as a servant of Aphrodite. But, at some point, she fell head over heels for me. Unable to control her obsession, she paid the ultimate price. And I didn’t even know her name.
Nicole Hidalgo 