Dead sycophants litter the pearly deck; bodies bent in misguided seduction. Filmy eyes stare as I pass, still echoing adoration and terror.
I stumble, and Calliope’s serrated blade catches on my back.
“They’re here,” she whispers. Here in this grand hall, Calliope’s enthralling presence seems inchoate. Ruin has come to me on the whims of a child.
I giggle irrationally, helplessly. Calliope’s angels are real.
The gold-eyed one, Zachriel, looks hungrily back at me. His gore-painted mouth curves. His canines are translucent. “That one,” he says. “Her soul will feed our ship for days. Kill the other.”