by Raye Wagner
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Note to the Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Apollo's Curse Excerpt
Acknowledgements
Index of Characters and Mythology Figures
About the Author
Fates and Furies
by Raye Wagner
Copyright © 2017 Rachel Wagner
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Edited by Kelly Hashway, Krystal Wade, and Dawn Yacovetta
Book Design by Jo Michaels
Cover Design by StudioOpolis
All rights reserved.
For Jason
We have all of eternity
Note to the Reader:
I hope you enjoy Fates and Furies! When you finish, I hope you’ll take a minute and leave a review. Reviews are crucial, not only for the author, but also so other readers will know if a story is worth investing in.
Ultimately, it is the enthusiasm of READERS that determine the success of an author. Don’t be afraid to wield your power.
Warmest regards,
Raye
P.S. If you’re a fan, I hope you’ll connect with me on social media, or sign up for my newsletter, HERE.
He nicked himself shaving, and the bleeding didn’t stop. No, that wasn’t accurate. It eventually stopped, but watching the blood well up into a bead on his cheek and then run in a rivulet of crimson down his jaw was a sucker punch. He pressed a small square of white tissue to the wound, and as the blood saturated the tissue, it served as yet another reminder that he was, in fact, not immortal.
Not anymore.
Every single day there was something, some small event, that punched him in the face, that served as a painful reminder he no longer fit into the world. Not as he once had. Initially, it was the bruises taking longer to heal, or after a hard workout his muscles were still stiff the next day. But the last several days he’d inadvertently slept in, missing the morning run with Hope. And she hadn’t even bothered to wake him up. Why?
He stared into the mirror at the ashen circles under his eyes. Pretending he could keep up with Xan and Hope was becoming more difficult, and Athan wasn’t sure he was fooling anyone. Not that it even mattered. Eventually, she would leave Athan behind when they went to Olympus. His bright-green irises reflected the pain he felt deep in his chest, a hollow ache of inevitable loss. He had no idea how to deal with it.
A tapping at the door interrupted his reverie.
“Athan?” Hope said his name, and the trepidation in her voice carried through the door. “Xan and I are getting ready to go to the gym and spar. Do you want to come?”
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Yes. Of course.”
Of course he wanted to come. He wanted to be with her every possible minute, as if hoarding the time together would make the separation easier. “I’ll be right out.”
Physically, he was in great shape, probably the best shape a human could be. He ate healthy, took several nutritional supplements, and exercised for several hours a day. He was just as cut as he’d been as a demigod and almost as strong. Athan’s long shorts hung low on his narrow hips, and he traced over a mottled yellow bruise on his right side, trying to remember how he’d gotten it.
“We’re ready when you are,” Hope said. Her retreating footsteps were punctuated by the closing of his door.
He stepped out of the master bathroom and crossed the small apartment bedroom to the cheap pressboard dresser. He rummaged through his clean clothes and then pulled on a gray tank top, covering the faded bruise. Grabbing his running shoes, he opened the door and heard Xan’s muffled voice drifting down the hall.
“It does you no good, luv. You have to pull your punches or you’ll hurt him, and it’s training you to be soft. You can’t afford to be soft,” Xan said. There was no argument in his tone. He wasn’t trying to make a case. His words were a statement of fact.
Athan bristled. Clenching his jaw, he strode down the hall to Hope.
She was wearing a sports tank and shorts that accentuated her athletic physique. Her golden skin glistened with sweat from her recent run, and her honey-colored hair was up in a high ponytail; the escaped wisps were plastered to her neck. She turned to him. Her eyes lit up, but her smile was painfully forced. “How did you sleep?”
Doubt stung his heart with a prick, and its venom pulsed through him. He didn’t resent his sacrifice, not even for a second, but he wondered . . . He couldn’t help but wonder, if she would be better off without him. He studied her face, her tentative smile, her furrowed brow, and her unearthly eyes filled with concern. What use could he be now?
He brushed the sweaty strands of hair off her neck, the contact with her skin both reassuring and reorienting. She said she loved him. He would believe her until she told him otherwise. And even though he wanted to take her away, run away to somewhere they would be safe, the rational side of his brain told him such a place didn’t exist.
Besides, Hope wanted to break the curse.
Athan kissed her, a short brushing of his lips against hers. He would be whatever she needed. “I slept fine. Next time, come get me for your run. Sunrise is my favorite.”
Xan snorted.
Athan refused to engage and instead kept his focus on Hope. “And I agree with Xan. You need to stop pulling your punches. If you tag me, it’ll be because I failed to block.”
Her gaze darted to Xan and then returned to Athan. With a deep breath, Hope nodded. “Okay,” she said and slid her hand into Athan’s. “Let’s go train.”
The gym was in a large industrial park off of I-90. Unsurprisingly, Xan had found it, and while it was nothing like a gym in the conservatories, it had a training ring for sparring and plenty of weights. The best, and most important, thing was the owners and patrons were willing to turn a blind eye to the exceptionally fast and strong young trio that came to train. No, not trio, just a duo.
Hope waited for Athan to open her door, and when she got out, she slid her arm around his waist.
“Are you nervous about training today?” he asked as they crossed the parking lot to the double doors.
She shrugged, her shoulder rubbing against the tender spot on his ribs, a
nd he discretely tried to shift to alleviate the pressure.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she admitted in a soft whisper.
Xan was a few feet in front of them, and he muttered something under his breath.
Hope blushed. “That’s not true.”
Athan wanted to punch the other demigod. He was being a complete ass. “If you have something to say about me, at least have the courage to say it loud enough I can hear it. Say it to my face.”
Xan yanked the door open and glared at Athan. “You’re not strong or fast enough to train her. We have a couple weeks at most to get her strength back, and you’re wasting her time.”
Athan took one step forward before Hope grabbed his shirt.
“Stop it,” she said. “Please. I need both of you. Please, please stop fighting.”
The fight drained out of him. Not that he didn’t want to punch Xan any less for being a tool, but it wouldn’t do any good. Stupid, asinine demigod. Swallowing his pride, Athan ignored Xan and turned his attention to Hope.
“Of course,” Athan said as he trailed his fingertips over the worry etched in her forehead. She had enough to worry about without him and Xan adding to it. “Let’s go do this.”
Athan ran three miles on the treadmill while Hope and Xan ran through forms. Watching Hope strike and kick in a dance of deadly grace was fascinating. Whatever foundation she’d started with, Xan had honed her skills, and Athan almost fell off the treadmill as he studied her. She was getting better every day, and she’d be a force for anyone to stop. Even Xan.
The three of them stretched out, the silence between them an uncomfortable presence that made conversation awkwardly impossible.
When Hope went to the car to get her gear, Xan verbally pounced. “If for a bloody titch I think she’s going easy on you, I’ll stop the round.”
Strapping on his shin guards, Athan tried to ignore Xan, but the son of Ares would not shut up.
“Aye, don’t pretend you can’t hear me, you git.” Xan tapped Athan with his foot. “I’m not talking so soft your bloody human ears can’t hear.”
“What the Kracken?” Athan slapped Xan’s foot away and stood up. “What’s your problem? I get that you don’t think I’m good enough for her.” Athan shook his head and glared at the demigod. “Gods, I know I’m not good enough for her, but I love her.” The words stuck in his throat, and he repeated, “I love her.”
The anger drained from Xan’s face, leaving him looking like a wounded animal.
Pity swelled in Athan as comprehension hit him with Xan’s painful reality. He loved Hope, just like Athan. But Hope had made it clear from the time they’d left the conservatory, and every day since, that her romantic interest was wholly his. If the shoe had been on the other foot, Athan would be filled with envious rancor. “I’m sorry.”
Xan narrowed his icy-blue eyes. “I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want your bleedin’ apology, either. Remember what I said in the Underworld: This isn’t about you and me; it’s about her.”
By the gods, Xan’s moods were giving Athan a headache. “And like when we were there, I’m on the same page. You think I’m doing this for me?”
Xan crossed his arms, the black Celtic tattoos overlapping one another, and appraised Athan with raised eyebrows. “I don’t know. Are you?”
“Athan? Xan?” Hope stepped between them all geared up except for her helmet and mouthpiece, which she held in her hands. Her eyes were wide with concern, and she tapped the mouth guard against the orange foam helmet. “You’re not fighting again, right?”
She knew they were—he could hear it in her voice—but underneath the question was a plea.
Athan plastered a smile on and winked at her. “We’re big boys with big egos, but we’re both one hundred percent team Hope. Come on. Let’s have you kick my butt.”
Xan snorted but said nothing as he followed them to the ring.
Practice sparring was like a fight, except it was timed. The goal was still to attack and defend, or sometimes, defend and attack.
Within ten seconds, Athan knew Hope was pulling her punches, and by fifteen seconds, it was clear she was holding back on everything. She was using four or five technique combinations, and while only seconds before she had been a blur of activity, her timing was slow and bordering on predictable. Which meant she didn’t think he could really fight.
Athan darted a glance at Xan, who raised his eyebrows. The son of Ares was also aware of Hope’s manipulated performance. In hindsight, Athan should’ve let Xan spar with Hope. But even as realization hit, Athan wouldn’t let guilt for what was about to happen stop him.
Athan dodged a ridgehand, slid behind Hope, and swept her legs out from under her. She landed on her back, and before he even had time to think about what he’d done, she jumped up and brought her hands into guard, her eyes sparkling with the challenge.
This time they circled each other, their gazes locked, and when Hope closed the gap between them, Athan pushed her back with a side kick to her abdomen. The next two advancements were also countered, and the corners of Hope’s mouth turned up in a smile.
“You trained with Xan, too.”
Athan chuckled, grateful that he had trained with the son of war.
“Stop fannying about, culchies,” Xan yelled. “Apollo’s not inviting you to Olympus for cha.”
Hope rolled her eyes at Xan, clearly amused at his reversion to Irish slang.
Athan wondered if she even understood what Xan was saying. Not that it mattered; the meaning was clear. The son of Ares had always slipped into his native tongue the more emotional he got, and ever since they’d gotten back from the Underworld, he’d been using a lot of slang.
But Hope’s gaze dropped to Athan’s core, indicating the play was over.
Athan stared at Hope’s abdomen, watching as her muscles bunched. She shifted, her stance angling back as she prepared—
His thoughts fled as Hope attacked. He blocked over and over with his hands, arms, and legs, trying to create a gap in her sequence, a brief pause where he could counter, but she was unrelenting. He stopped counting techniques and tried to arc step away from her flurry of assaults, but she anticipated his move and followed. Again and again.
He tried to keep up. Inner forearm, outer forearm, crescent kick . . . One block followed another. He attempted to push her away with another side kick, but she caught his leg and pulled him off balance. Athan wrenched his leg free and stumbled backward. Pain exploded on his right side. His legs turned to jelly, and he collapsed on the ground, clutching his side and gasping for air.
“Bloody shite!”
Xan might be gloating, but Athan couldn’t even look up to see. His eyes watered, and he rolled over, resting his forehead on the gray mats as he struggled for breath.
The pain wasn’t as bad as a Skia blade but almost. Nausea crawled through Athan’s insides, and he gasped as someone ran a hand over his, pulling it far enough from his body that they could poke at his side.
Athan bit his tongue to keep from screaming, but he couldn’t help the groan that escaped.
“Broken ribs. Two, at least. You can take him to Overlake for X-rays, and they can see if he’s punctured a lung.”
Hope’s muffled voice was indecipherable, and she may have been crying. Athan continued to clutch his side, willing himself to not throw up because he knew that would make the pain worse. Keeping his eyes closed, he focused on his breathing, trying to slow the shallow gasps.
Someone picked him up, and bursts of pain battered him. Clenching his teeth wasn’t enough to keep the pain inside, so he bit his lip. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth, but still the only pain his brain registered blasted from his right side.
He’d never been inside a mortal hospital and, four hours later, he wasn’t sure he’d have any more than vague memories of lying on a stretcher behind a gray-striped curtain. Whatever shot the nurse had given him made the pain evaporate and his eyelids heavy, and the last thing he
saw before sinking into blissful oblivion was an apparition of Hope with red-rimmed eyes, sitting in the corner of his room.
“You feckin’ eejit,” Xan hissed as he walked next to the nurse wheeling Athan out to the car a couple hours later.
The pain medicine made his head foggy, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t hurt Hope. “What did I do?”
The words slurred together, and Athan cleared his throat and shook his head to try to dispel the effects of the narcotics. The cool air helped, and he gulped at it greedily, but his lungs wouldn’t expand. A firm tightness circled his chest, and Athan ran his hand over an elastic wrap binding his broken ribs.
“Hope’s a mess. She’s been crying for the last three hours, all torn up with guilt. If your ribs weren’t already busted up, I’d belt you.” Despite berating him, Xan gently helped Athan into the car and buckled him in. “It’s a bloody mercy your lungs aren’t punctured.”
Athan relaxed his head against the back of the seat and stared at the tall evergreens, swaying in the breeze, through the sunroof.
Xan started the car, and Athan sagged into his seat. Whatever Xan had to say, it was nothing compared to the internal lashing Athan was giving himself. How could he have been so stupid? He couldn’t keep up with Hope, and his vain attempt had landed him in the hospital. But worse than that, much worse, was how he’d let his pride get in the way of what was best for Hope. He couldn’t be everything she needed, not right now.
“I screwed up,” Athan said, interrupting Xan’s one-sided conversation. “You were right. I can’t keep up with either of you.” The words were more painful than his cracked ribs. “I’m sorry.”
Glancing at Athan, Xan’s features were chiseled granite as he shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize to me. You need to fix it with Hope. She’s bloody upset, like she did it arseways. She doesn’t believe a word I say. You asked me to take her to Olympus, to have her back, and that’s what I’m trying to do. But I need her head in it.”
Hades in hell. “I’ll talk to her when we get home.”
Xan shook his head. “I don’t need you to talk to her; I need you to fix it. I don’t care if you fib out your cakehole; you need to make it right.”