It takes a herculean effort to pry open my eyes. They feel as though they are caked in sand and plaster then layered over with some heavy wool like the toys made for toddlers that are starting to get their fangs. Fitting, I suppose, because I feel like a pincushion in more than one way.

Moaning in exhaustion, I force my heavy eyelids to open, blinking woozily at the image hovering above me. Dark, obsidian stonework carved into delicate filigrees center on the cruel grin of a demon gargoyle hovering above me. I stare at the mocking countenance as it's stone eyes peer out at something beyond me.

Slowly my eyes drift lower. A wooden door, entirely stained grey, with dark bronze fittings shining in the weak dawn light. The door is closed tightly, nothing welcoming about the entrance my body is slung in front of.

My skin is slowly waking up. Despite the all-over tingles, I can still feel the sharp corner of the stairs digging into my back. Slowly turning my head I look down. Around me is red, the deep blood-colored stone from the depths of the desert beyond the city walls. It is rare to see it inside the city walls and for good reason.

Black walls, gargoyles, grey doors, red steps; I am at the temple of Nateos, Lord of the Underworld, the god of death.

How did I get here?

I blink again, wondering if everything I'm seeing is some sort of mirage. My long eyelashes flutter, making the images my tired eyes see waver in golden-red threads. The gargoyle is still there, still grinning madly at the streets just past me. The temple sits in the lowest part of the city, with everything living hovering above it and the cities of the dead behind and below, yet, somehow, Nateos is never really forgotten, is he?

How long have I been here? Another question I have no answer for. My last memory is of the nighttime, I assume last night.

I suck in a startled breath. Dark memories. Thane of the First House... my Fated.

I remember... Pain and hurt. My Fated condemning me to die. Rejection. Profound and devastating. I forgot the pain in my soul.

It feels... numb now. The pain is distant... as if it happened eons ago to another little female instead of just hours ago.

I was lashed with a whip until my body was bleeding profusely, until the physical pain of the torture outweighed the agony of rejection in my heart. When I couldn't move, couldn't fight any longer, I fell to the ground, unable to move. I remember... more pain. Blinding, soul-deep agony raking over me.

Death. I remember... nothingness, emptiness, stealing over me, taking me from the pain.

Then what happened? Then... being picked up and dragged through the city and... thrown away... somewhere. Not here. Not even Thane's most loyal warriors would be so bold as to toss the corpse of his unwanted Fated on the doorstep of the Death god.

They're blindly loyal, but not stupid.

Red light seeps over the walls of the temple. It's beautiful, I realize suddenly. The Temple of Death seems alive as the black stone reflects the dawn and the gargoyle now seems to be winking, though that may just be the odd angle I'm at.

The light from the sun creeps over me slowly, warming me, until it reaches my eyes, stinging them. It's irritating to be disturbed.

I half-turn to my side, feeling the steps dig into my side. Ignoring the discomfort, I push myself up, using the slant of the steps to propel my body to stand. I don't know how, but I manage to climb to my feet.

I turn to away from the temple, just for a moment, to look at the city I grew up in. I can't see past the surrounding buildings, all of them tidy little apartments for the poor. It's difficult to live so near the dead, but for the desperate these homes are better than the alternative... much better.

I let my mind wander, crawling over the parts of the city that I can't see. I am facing a small alleyway. To my right, past some of the buildings, lies the grand doors of the Death Temple. The street stretching out from those gates leads to the city center. Like the spokes on the wheel, there are four central paths. Three that connect the temples for each of the gods, and one, that runs from city gate to city gate. My House, Love, lies directly north, across the city. They are considered opposites, Love and Death. I disagree.

The other streets lead to... let me remember... the brother and uncle are opposing each other, to the... southwest and northeast, so War to my left, just next to this temple, and the Water god next to Love.

Then there is the Mother, on the other side of Death, my righthand side. I pause, looking around. I never thought of this side of the city. The Mother goddess has the responsibility of all of the orphans and widows. The priests of Death have built this neighborhood. War... who wants to live near that god? I came from one of the posh sections of the city.

Behind me, past the Death temple, is the river. Across the city, where I grew up, are the hills and gardens. This city is divided in half by the central artery. This side... I've never been to this side, except, maybe, when I was just a tiny child, when my father died.

Something about the city repels me. I don't... I don't belong over there anymore, on that side. All I am is an Acera, a non-shifter without any sign of fang, claw, scales, fur, horns... nothing, so... maybe I always belonged on this side of the city. Away from the noble Houses of the Tasuri shifters, the ones who can shift into their beasts, the ones who are more than someone like me.

I could go to one of the orphanages, I suppose, or try to find work, I'm almost old enough. The thought of leaving the temple steps makes agony dart through me. I catch my breath. It's so painful that I spin around to lean on the doors. It immediately feels better.

My eyes are fixed on the gargoyle as he smiles and grins merrily. Smiling back, I place my hand on the grey door. My smile slips. My hands are as red as the stone below. Under my broken, jagged fingernails black muck from the dungeons linger. Two of my fingernails are completely torn off, the skin around the wounds still oozing blood.

My wrists are mangled flesh, so bare of skin and muscle that spots of white bone gleam through the mess. My arms are blackened from grime and bruising.

I have this feeling that I must smell horrifying. I don't know if I do, I can't smell myself any more than I can feel the agony of my own de-fleshed bones.

I force my eyes away from my wrists. It hurts to see them, even if it's just my heart.

The door is utter perfection. Odd how the brass handle gleams as if brand-new. Not a single speck of dirt or smudge on the shining metal. Odder still how the door's unlocked when I turn the handle and pushes.

I step into the temple past the whispering, laughing gargoyle that reminds me of one of the Tasuri. "Hush, now," I mumble in a dry whisper of my own. Copper tangs on my tongue. My lips must be chapped. The gargoyle lets out one last soft chuckle before falling silent, hard stone eyes following me, unblinking.

I need to bathe Thane of the First House from me. I need to rid my body of the taint of the unjust punishment and torture the father god subjected me to through one of his favored sons.

It's not fair.

Letting anger fuel me I move faster. So much for the prophecy that the gods gifted Thane with a powerful female as a fated mate. I am not a pureblood Tasuri and have never been thought of as particularly powerful. The goddess of love has few powerful females or males in the Fifth House. She prefers to spread her love.

I snicker at my own dirty little joke.

My feet falter when something occurs to me. I am no longer his Fated. Thane has rejected me and replaced me... with a pureblood, powerful Tasuri female.

Is that the prophecy? Is that why the priest from Thane's House spoke of me being all wrong? He claimed that I could not truly be fated for Thane because I am not, clearly, a she-demon. I'm not even a skinwalker or shifter, much less a Tasuri.

I start wandering again as I think of the prophecy.

The son of the First House shall be given this gift: a mate of unsurpassed beauty and strength, a female of greatness in spirit and form. Together they will rule this city beyond even death.

Short and sweet. Of course, my House, not nearly as powerful as the first four, interpretes the prophecy that way. The First House and the Fourth claim that it says a 'Tasuri' instead of a 'female.' They also claim that I am no beauty.

The Fourth House, of brother god, Water, where she is from.

I had no chance. Hindsight is perfect, isn't it? I see it now. Even my House couldn't claim that I am 'an unsurpassed beauty.' Nor do I have extra strength or anything else extra, honestly. Not like her, not like Thane. They are a perfect pair to look at, even I have to admit that. Dark-haired beauties with blue and grey eyes. Imagine how handsome a man Thane is with dark, nearly black, hair and grey eyes?

I have dark brown eyes, like two coals, which wouldn't be so bad if I was one of those dark-skinned nomadic beauties that look so exotic and mysterious. Not me, no my eyes clash horribly with my too-pale, freckled skin and strawberry-blond hair.

I sigh as I trudge down yet another empty, obsidian-lined corridor. First of all, why is this temple so large, if there are hardly any Nateos priests? Secondly, my hair is bright, carroty-orange, not strawberry-blond. I like to lie to myself about that.

I am no beauty. It's confirmed when I reach the temple.

I walk in and look around at my reflection in the highly-polished obsidian. I'm covered in blood that has mixed with sludge and filth from the city. It coats my skin, still oozing in places. My hair is matted stiff to my scalp with it. My eyes are swollen and black and blue, the left open just a slit. I don't smile at my reflection, knowing that many of my teeth are missing or broken.

I force my gaze away from the broken, pathetic girl in the mirror and am stunned into stillness.

The temple is exquisite. Above me soars a ceiling with rafters that seems to go on forever. The dawn's light from the two-story windows disappears into the shadows, making it seem endless, a blank sky, without stars.

Part of me shivers. I was raised in the Fifth House, under the Love goddess, taught to respect her above all other deities. Her stars are the lovers, entwined together forever. Here the presence of Death is obvious, even in the sky.

I shake off the ill feeling. She is not here, but I am, and I have been forsaken by her sons and daughters as a liar, a traitor, a thief.

I am all alone.

I look down, wondering how I came to be in the center of the room. At my feet is a pool of crystal clear water. Falling to my knees I dip my filthy fingers into the water.

The bottom of the pool is carved from the desert stone. It shimmers and glows red in the dim light. Red whirls from my hands, washing away as if that red stone is absorbing the evidence of my suffering.

I forget about my teeth and smile at the water before looking up. Quickly, I yank my hands from the pool. Staring at me is a man. Eyes like mine slowly blink, crinkling at the edges. His skin is pale, too, like me, but with the unhealthy grey of death. Hair black as ink with a streak of grey at the temple.

"Death," I whisper.

My child

He smiles at me.

Tears fill my eyes. They are the same words my mother told me when Thane's pureblood warriors arrested me. She knew then, I think, that Thane and the First House would kill me. I had no trial. I'm still not sure what exact crimes I am accused of committing.

So I'm dead, then.

Here is Nateos and this must be more than just his temple in the city. I am in his underworld palace. That's why I haven't seen anyone else. It also explains how I am able to stand and walk and talk. I'm a spirit, a ghost.

I'm a dead soul.

Why so sad, my child?

Nateos' deep voice resonates in me, making every fiber of my being sit up and take notice. I guess this is what it truly means to be in the presence of a god. Too bad I had to die, first, but I suppose that's normal.

"I'm dirty," I reply as respectfully as possible. This is not how I was taught to greet a god. In my thirteenth year I was presented to the Love goddess as is traditional in my House. All of the girls who had come of age were in their best white dresses, hair carefully combed and left down to fall naturally, no makeup, just perfectly clean and pretty. Nothing like the hideous beast I am as a dead female.

Then bathe

I smile at him. It's unexpected, but he's so very nice. Who would have expected that from the god of death? Tears of gratitude prick my eyes at the sweet gesture of kindness. I don't hesitate, but strip off the rags that miraculously lasted through my tortuous journey. Stepping into the pool I am pleased to find it warm and silky on my broken, bruised skin. With a sigh I sink up to my neck, letting the water soothe the remaining aches and pains.

I scrub the blood from my body, pleased to see my normal skinny, pale arms minus any bruises and cuts from my ordeal. My hair takes longer, several rinses in the pool before the dried filth and blood loosen enough that I can start to work through the tangles and knots with my fingers. I spend too much time picking out my fingernails, some of the tips are still bleeding. Lastly, I duck underneath the water as a final rinse. The pool water smells faintly flowery and I'm pleased to say that I don't seem to need soap here in the underworld. At least that's one convenience. I suppose I'll stumble through the rest of this new world soon enough.

I look up to see the god smiling down at me, the look of fatherly concern in his eyes fading to happiness, presumably from my own pleasure. I smile more broadly at him, flashing my gummy smile that no longer feels so painful. Perhaps death isn't so bad. At the bad, unintended joke, I let out a little giggle. Air bubbles escape my mouth, floating upwards. I follow them back up, standing and squeezing the water out of my hair.

The tiniest sound draws my attention to something behind me. I spin around in the pool, gaping at the crowd of Nateos' priests that have formed to watch me cavort in the sacred pool.

I meet the eyes of the eldest man, the head priest, the Patriarch, in deep, twilight-grey robes, black eyes quirked upward and the tiniest hint of amusement on his face. It was easier to meet his eyes than the narrowed, shocked eyes of the males behind him.

Why does Nateos need his priests in the Underworld?

"I am Mara, Grief made flesh. My father has Claimed my soul as his own. I am Reborn his child,"

I hear myself say faintly, before the world starts to edge black and I slip under the surface of the water once again.