Accidentally in Love with…a God?(Accidentally Yours #1)(11)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Dammit! What the hell is this?

By the time he reached the smoldering Maaskab village hidden deep in the jungle, he counted thirty hanging bodies. From the markings on their chests, all had been the more senior priests. In their society, one line, one heinous raised scar straight across the chest equaled one level of rank. The bodies in the trees donned two or three, but none had one—the lowest—or four—the highest. So where had their leader and the others gone?

In the Maaskab village, what was left of it, another fifty dark-priests lay scattered across the ground like leaves fallen from a tree, their nearly na**d bodies riddled with bullet holes. Whoever had killed them hadn’t taken their sweet time like they had with the human tree ornaments. After examining a few bodies, he noticed they had one line across their chests. That answered his question about the peons, but not their leader.

He canvassed the rest of the area and determined no one was left. Not one damned, bloody soul. The situation was a disaster. Sure, he’d wanted them all to die, but he needed to interrogate them first, find out how they were learning their new dark tricks and confirm why they’d been killing those innocent women.

“Cimil!” he screamed. “A little assistance, please?”

He waited, but there was no reply. “Still behaving like a child, I see.”

With the agonizing pain from his earlier fall still coursing freely through his head, Votan clamped his eyes shut. Had someone purposefully murdered the priests to hide something from him? Or had one of the priests’ many enemies simply bested them? One thing was certain: the killers had worked over the more senior priest. Ruthlessly. Same damned thing he would’ve done.

Distracted by pain and frustration, he turned and walked straight into a tree, his nose crunching on impact. “Son of a bitch!” he wailed and kicked the mammoth tree that had toppled over. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said, looking at the decimated tree, cupping his bloody nose.

He wiped the blood across his bare arm and pushed the tree upright. He reburied the roots, covering them with the black, moist dirt while he contemplated his next steps.

Catching a whiff of something out of place, Votan lifted his bloodied nose into the air. Buried among the stench of rotting flesh and burnt huts was the smell of something distinctive. He began stalking through the remains of the village, and as clear as day, there were tracks made with boots. The priest barely wore clothes, let alone any form of shoe.

Now what do I do?

When he’d arrived in the cenote, he’d thought this mission would be a quick, one-god job so he hadn’t made any arrangements with the Uchben to help him.

But if he turned back now and sent for them, he’d end up simply losing more valuable time.

“Fine. Alone it is,” he grumbled. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

***

Three days later. Gulf of Mexico.

It was early evening when Votan crouched into the dingy rancid cabin and slammed the door behind him. “Hello, Captain Pizzaro.”

The man with greasy brown hair and hollow cheeks rose, back against the wall, and gave Votan a once-over. Maybe he was taking stock of his enormous size. Or, perhaps, the man was checking out the bundle of machetes strapped to Votan’s back. Or, was he looking at the daggers tied to each appendage and the two guns holstered to his sides? Maybe it was the colorful, knee length man-skirt he wore? Had to be the skirt.

“Preparing for a one-man war?” Pizzaro asked.

“Always.” A grin swept across Votan’s face as he propped himself against the door, arms crossed.

“I see,” said Pizarro. “And since you know my name, I’m guessing your presence is no accident.”

Silly human. There was no such thing as an accident. For three days, Votan followed the tracks from the Maaskab village to the ocean where he watched with intense curiosity as men loaded several small crates onto rowboats and then carefully pulled them aboard their rust-stained cargo vessel. He’d counted sixty, heavily armed, contemptible sorts and one evil looking, shirtless bastard with tattoos—dragons, sea monsters, the works. Votan had heard the men call him, “Pizzaro.” A Spanish name.

Traffickers were very common in this part of the world, but not Spaniards. Votan could not imagine how they had traveled through international waters; World War II was making ocean voyages very tricky.

Votan had wanted to immediately capture these men and commence interrogating, but they would scatter, and he’d lose more time. So, he climbed the anchor chain, hid aboard, and waited for deeper waters.

“Correct, no accident,” Votan said to Pizzaro. “And you should know I have a strict policy about honesty.”

“Honesty? About what?” asked the captain.

“I’m going to kill you. Everyone, actually. Likely today.” Votan shrugged casually. “However, if you tell me everything now, I promise not to torture you.” He felt his eyes tingle. No doubt they were shifting from a luminescent turquoise to a dark emerald green.

“Well,” the captain said. “How very generous of you.”

“What can I say? I’m in a good mood today and in a hurry.”

The captain’s eyebrows pulled together. “Can I offer you a drink?” He inched his way along the wall toward the dilapidated desk in the corner, pulled a bottle from the drawer, and then sat slowly, eyes locked on Votan.

“Thank you. No. But go ahead, rum will help dull your pain.

A large roach scampered across the floor and stopped near Votan’s foot. Votan hissed, making the roach flinch. The tiny bug peered up at him with its beady black eyes and then carefully backed away underneath the bed, not detaching its gaze until out of sight.

Pizzaro lifted one scar split brow, over-pouring his tin mug while he watched the exchange. The rum trickled off the desk onto his dirty gray pants.

“Bugs.” Votan shrugged again.

“All right, then.” Pizarro nervously wiped the beads of golden liquid from his lap and grabbed for the cup. “What answers do you need?”

“The priests. Who sent you to kill them?”

Pizarro’s cup slipped from his hand. “Um—I…”

Votan slammed his fist onto the desk, splintering the wood down the middle. He was done wasting time. “Tell me! Or next, I’ll crack your skull.” His voice sent shards of pain into the captain’s ears.

“I don’t know! She didn’t tell us her name, but she wasn’t normal. She was…”