Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  Pan held out his hand to her after an embarrassing gurgling made her hunger public. Kat hesitated, but if Pan was a threat to her, he'd not have opened himself up as he had and given her an up close and personal view of his deepest regret. He'd acted impulsively in taking her with him, sure, but he never truly intended to hurt anyone. And from what she'd discovered about him from his memories, he wasn't a psycho murderer. Of course, she'd not been privy to what had occurred after the syrinx had been made.

  Kat slipped her palm into Pan's. His hand was warm, the grip gentle but strong. He led her back in the direction of the house.

  "I meant what I said. You shouldn't blame yourself," Kat offered as they neared the front porch.

  Pan's step faltered, and he frowned at her. "I should have hidden the nymphs from Dionysus and confessed my act. I was a coward and let her be violated and killed for my actions." He released his hold on her and then his steps became hurried. He moved on, done with the subject, and leaving her to rush after him.

  Earlier she'd been dying to get away, but Kat found she wasn't ready to go back yet, not when there was so much to learn about Pan. Not when she knew he was hurting. A foolish thing, surely, but a horrible person wouldn't be the type to feel so strongly for his part in a tragedy such as Syrinx's last day on Earth. It didn't matter that he hadn't acted like a knight in shining armor and fought Dionysus to the death. Something told Kat that Syrinx's fate had been sealed long before he'd laid eyes on her, and if the myths about the Fates were true...Pan wouldn't have been able to do anything to prevent it.

  Horrible thought that it was, Pan had actually saved Syrinx from suffering a public rape. She had still been pawed at, but she hadn't been completely assaulted in that way in front of witnesses. It didn't make it better, but Kat was glad she'd been spared some indignity.

  Pan had mourned her loss even though he'd barely known her. Either creepy obsession or a poster child for the love-at-first-sight movement, either way he still suffered the loss.

  Kat gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth.

  He was infatuated, definitely, but not because of love. Pan had been charmed by Syrinx, had imagined a life with her, but then he'd realized who she was. She'd become a damsel in distress, and Pan had been consumed with the need to spare her from Dionysus' wrath.

  It hadn't been love at all.

  The idea of loving Syrinx, of what could have been if events had played out differently, was what he'd latched on to. His love was built on regret and a guilty conscience.

  Guilt was one of the most terrible burdens—she knew it well, as her mistake with the cougar had nearly ended her life, and had flat-lined her career. It had also cost the cat its life and the cubs their freedom.

  Kat ventured into the house after the retreating form ahead of her. Pan had built this place with the plans to start over in a new place, a new time, but had inevitably let it fade to ruin, never receiving guests, never throwing parties, or sheltering friends or family. A deep sadness consumed her.

  Several feet ahead, Pan avoided her, but stayed near. He probably wouldn't admit to it, he seemed rather prideful despite the carefree air he let on, but he was a man, or god, who ached for companionship. In a way, he was living a Greek tragedy of his own making.

  Uncertain why, Kat harbored an overwhelming desire to comfort him. He'd been a barbaric, manhandling caveman—with wings—who'd kidnapped her, forced her to sleep one of the most restful nights of sleep in her life, and cooked really delicious eggs over a fire. He'd also revealed himself to be an immortal god who'd had a hand in cursing a group of horny, voyeuristic jerks into an eternity of literal horniness. Yet he'd not taken advantage of her despite how evident it was at various moments that he wanted to. He was almost gentlemanly, aside from his bad manners with the kidnapping and public nakedness.

  Thinking of it that way, being kidnapped by Pan really wasn't as bad as it all seemed. Although, Cindy and Rick must have been in hysterics back at the hotel, wondering if she was even still alive or not. Kat felt terrible she hadn't given them as much thought as she should have. Surely Pan wouldn't deny her the chance to let them know she was okay. Before, she'd feared Pan would balk at the idea because, if her friends knew she was alive for sure, they would never give up searching. Not that she believed they would anyway.

  Perhaps she could bargain with him; she'd stay with him for as long as he'd like if he'd allow her go back to let her friends know she was safe. She'd been stuck in a "research only" rut in a career that wouldn't miss her, and she would only have to inform her family she was on vacation. She'd quit the project and hope Mr. Bach, er, Dionysus, wasn't aware what was going on. Maybe he wasn't one hundred percent sure Pan was the Jersey Devil and wouldn't be suspicious.

  She still had to wonder what Pan's feelings toward her were. Was her appearance just a ghost of Syrinx to him? The resemblance was there, even if he hadn't pointed it out to her. But she was not a nymph, and she didn't belong to Dionysus even if she'd signed a contract to do the documentary for him. Yet Pan could easily be filling a void, replacing one with a similar copy. Even more surprising of a thought was why it mattered. Why did she want him to want more from her than a one-night stand or to be seen as a mere replacement?

  Stockholm syndrome. I so have it.

  When Pan poked his head back out the doorway to see what was taking her so long, Kat decided it best to ask him about her friends in the morning. He'd opened his soul to her by sharing such a painful memory, and she didn't think bargaining with him was the best way to respond to it, despite the knot in her gut reminding her she was, yet again, extending her friends' distress. She'd make with the chitchat for the evening, let him have his way—but not in that way—and in the morning, the tables would turn.

  * * *

  "You knocked him out." Dion gaped as Melancton dropped an unconscious Silenus at his feet. The elder satyr groaned but didn't come to. "Why?"

  "Pan and the woman are in a rundown house about a three-hour's walk from here. We would not have found them if Pan had not been playing his pipes for the girl. He was using the magic to show her something in a fountain. I can't say for sure what, as I did not wish to move too close and reveal our location."

  Dion tried to mask his excitement, but he couldn't keep his grin stamped down. "Was it the syrinx?" The sentimental fool had named the instrument after the whore it was constructed out of. That he kept the instrument and continued to prance about—the Arcadians sporting identical copies of the pipes—irked him. The bitch should be dead in body and memory, but there was that part of her preserved eternally in the syrinx. It skeeved Dion out for some reason that the reeds, when bound together, resembled a rack of rib bones. Ick. Kind of morbid, really.

  That didn't mean he disliked disemboweling humans and making hats out of their bones. He just didn't wear said rib bone hats himself. Dion usually made the person who previously had the bones connected to their spine wear them as their life faded away. He was considerate that way.

  "No, sir." Melancton bowed his head. "It was one of the replicas, like the other Arcadians carry."

  Shit. Either Pan had it hidden nearby, or he entrusted it to one of the other Arcadian fuckwits. It had been rumored Pan had done so, but Dion hoped it was a ruse. After those curly-horned satyrs followed Pan to his homeland in Arcadia, forming a bond much tighter than Dion had with his straight-horned Boeotian satyrs, Pan used the syrinx to magically imbue common panpipes with power. The rest of the satyrs remained throughout Boeotia or upon Kithairon with Dion. Ironically, most of the Boeotians had stayed with him throughout all the years, but Pan's friendly posse had dismantled long ago.

  Perhaps to hide the syrinx? How hadn't Dion seen it?

  Of course, Dion had also not realized just how powerful the syrinx was back then. If he had, he would have made a play for it long before. Once he had discovered how useful the syrinx would be to him, Pan had disappeared never to be seen for centuries upon centuries. It had been fool's luck that he'd made a c
onnection to the fabled Jersey Devil, realizing the description of the beast resembled the image he'd had in mind when he'd cursed Pan in the first place. And there Pan was, hiding right under his nose.

  Hindsight. The syrinx will be mine, but first, I have to find it.

  "Let's return to the original subject at hand. Why is Silenus snoring at my feet?"

  Melancton grinned and quickly resumed his blank expression. "I bashed him on top of the head with a heavy stick, sir. The imbecile was about to charge in and announce his presence by tearing into Pan. I thought—since you put so much forethought into this encounter by plying the human woman with your wine—you weren't ready to blow it all on a hotheaded act of vengeance."

  Melancton removed the heavy, steel axe Silenus had convinced Hephaestus to forge from a leather sheath strapped across his back and placed it on the table. It was made years after Olympus had closed its gates to the world. Hephaestus still resided in his forge, locked out like Dion and Pan. It was rumored that Aphrodite, Hephaestus' wife, along with her lover Ares, took pleasure in keeping him out of their realm indefinitely. Silenus had used the ordeal with Syrinx to relate to the cuckolded god. Projecting his hatred of Ares onto Pan, Hephaestus forged the axe with pleasure.

  Dion thought it foolish the Olympians abandoned the only god able to create a weapon to slay an immortal on the mortal plane. But now Silenus had a weapon with the ability to kill Pan, and any other satyr, as though they were average humans. A weapon Silenus did not deserve and would not possess after his revenge was carried out.

  Nevertheless, the image of Melancton cracking Silenus' skull amused Dion. The fool was unstable at best. Melancton was correct that if Silenus had killed Pan before they knew for sure he didn't have the syrinx, they could risk not ever knowing where it was hidden. They must wait, and watch, a little bit longer. Pan would die when Dion commanded it, not before.

  "You did well. You always were the most level-headed of my Boeotians. But were you seen?" He didn't mean by Pan or the girl, because if he had been, Pan would have followed him back here, and Dion preferred to keep the mortals out of any upcoming confrontation. The hotel was located off a southern exit of the Garden State Parkway, which ran straight through the Pine Barrens. There was mostly wilderness around them, but a few businesses and neighborhoods as well. Any mortal presence was enough to be a problem.

  "Doubtful. I cloaked us before exiting the woods." Melancton removed the leather sheath from across his torso. It shimmered and reformed into a thyrsus. The short, wooden staff had a pinecone-shaped ornament at the top and carved vines circling down the length of the shaft. Dion had once carried a thyrsus around himself as a method to fool mortals into thinking his power lay within it. Now for his satyrs, his power did reside within their thyrsi. Not all of it, but enough.

  Thyrsi had been Dion's way of keeping the Boeotians from joining Pan in Arcadia once word spread of their magical panpipes. Pan had showed them how to play for illusions, to temporarily alter their appearance through notes of a song so they could appear human in the daytime. Even though Pan could hold his illusion with or without a melody as a god, he'd gone out of his way to help men, some of whom he'd only met the night of the curse. Too bad they all deserted him in the end.

  Angered that Pan appeared to care more for his Arcadians than Dion did his Boeotians, and fearing the satyrs abandon him, Dionysus gave them thyrsi to do all the panpipes could do, as well as taking the form of other objects such as the rings they wore to make carrying it around convenient. They were all linked to Dion's power, and in turn they worked magic like a wizard's staff. Boeotians could give themselves mortal forms in the light of day—unfortunately, like with the Arcadian panpipes, they couldn't hold human form when the sunset. Dion suspected Apollo's hand in it somehow, though he'd never discovered the reason behind it. They could cloak themselves from the sight of mortals or create a sword, but they didn't need to play a song for it to work. They merely had to hold a thyrsus in their hand and will it to do whatever they wished. They also had to pledge their loyalty, and if their loyalty ever waned, the magic would abandon the wielder and return to Dion.

  He had to ensure he had no traitors in his circle.

  Melancton's thyrsus shimmered once more, shrinking back into the form of a silver ring. He slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand and excused himself. His glamour would fade soon, and Melancton had always preferred the company of trees when in his satyr form than being trapped indoors for the entire night.

  Dion shut the door behind him, stepped over Silenus, and returned to his thoughts as he reclined in the soft, brown chair located in the living room portion of his hotel suite. The room smelled like the maids had emptied a can of Pledge on the furniture in preparation of his arrival. While not entirely unpleasant, Dion couldn't get used to the overpowering lemon scent.

  To distract himself from the cleaners used in the room, he thought about the time when he was still considered a deity, before Olympus shut its gates and the entire pantheon became known to humans only through legends. Dion knew he'd acted rashly in the past by smiting those who dared to defy him. Doing so made him feel more in control. Amusing, given he was the Greeks' personification of drinking, fucking, and reckless abandon.

  He thought back to the night, centuries ago, when he attempted to turn Pan into a hideous monster that would make the Chimera look like a puppy dog. It wasn't because he hadn't been the first to have sex with the beautiful woman-turned-nymph, but the fact she had chosen Pan over him. She had wanted Pan, but had been repulsed by him.

  All the gods were guilty of their pride.

  Pan had taken it further by turning the woman into a nymph. It doubly grated his nerves that Pan could do such a thing when Dion couldn't. He could be creating nymphs for his Arcadians, but instead he was fooling around in New Jersey.

  Dion sneered at his reflection in the mirror and scratched at the cleft in his chin.

  Then there was Apollo. What a prick. He could have a harem of nymphs, mortal women, and even a few mortal men at his beck and call. Dion could deliver them right to him, but he'd revoked Dion's key into Olympus over one pesky nymph who hadn't even wanted anything to do with Apollo from the start.

  He couldn't go home. Him. Dionysus. The god of wine and excess, who was still celebrated through festivals of the present such as Mardi Gras. While Apollo, Zeus, and the others all lay, supposedly, in their gilded beds, snug and asleep, mocking Dion with their absence from the modern world. Dion snorted. It was such bull that they all slumbered in Olympus. Why they wanted anyone to believe that drabble was beyond him.

  Furthermore, had Zeus done a thing to overrule Apollo when he'd denied Dion his right to go home? No. He'd agreed with Apollo's judgment. Said to learn from it and move on when Dion called out for help. His own father refused him entrance into his own home. His father, who had taken his shriveled fetus from his mortal mother's corpse and born Dion from his body to ensure he survived, making him full-blooded immortal. But it had meant nothing to Zeus. No, Apollo always got his way.

  Screw Zeus, and screw Apollo. Dion would get his hands on the syrinx and show them all. It was more than just an instrument; it was an instrument created from a mystical being. The syrinx had been fashioned out of a nymph in remorse by a god who had no idea how to work his powers. It was said to be usable by anyone, not only Pan, to do their bidding. While not one hundred percent sure what all the syrinx could do, Dion was convinced he could use it to go home. He could usurp Zeus, murder Apollo in his goddamned golden bed, and smite Pan once and for-fucking-all, for daring to meddle with his affairs.

  But first, he had to be absolutely certain Pan had the syrinx. If he did, Dion would find a way to get his hands on it. If Pan didn't have it, Dion would need to figure out why he didn't, who had it, and where.

  * * *

  Pan knocked on the bedroom door, causing Katerina to glance up from the book she was flipping through. She started to smile at his approach but quickly disguised i
t with a blank expression. He found it captivating. She'd ceased scowling at him at least, always catching herself as she attempted to appear nonchalant. Candlelight bounced over her face and the wall. The candles were unscented, but to his enhanced senses, the burning wax left a saccharine warmth in the air to overtake the musk of old wood and weatherworn walls.

  "What are you reading?"

  Katerina lifted the thick volume from her lap and revealed the shabby leather cover. It was one of his many mythology books. Pan could only guess which myth she was perusing.

  "Learn anything interesting?"

  "Yeah, that oral storytelling must have been one great, big game of telephone."

  "Come again?"

  "Telephone is a game we mortals play in school. One person whispers a sentence in another person's ear, and by the time it makes it through the whole class and to the original speaker it is a different sentence entirely. It's a game used to teach us how gossiping about people can result in false rumors. If the stories behind the myths were true, the written accounts of them are misconstrued by years and years of oral storytelling changing the details."