by Sandy James
After dropping the toga, he let the hot water beat over his face and shoulders as he slowly started to relax. At least his body did. His mind was still in turmoil.
He reached for his towel. Instead of the towel bar, he found an arm and didn’t need to look to know it belonged to Freya—he’d known she would come to argue with him. Peeking around the shower stall, he saw her standing there pouting. At least she handed him the towel. He didn’t acknowledge her. He’d be damned if he gave any type of salute. Instead, he stayed in the shower stall until he’d dried himself and wrapped the towel around his hips.
“What do you want?” he asked as he faced the goddess.
“You shall not speak to me in such an impertinent tone.”
“I asked you to send me back.”
She folded her arms over her breasts and leveled a hard stare at him. “You did not mean that. You do not truly wish to leave. You are just angry.”
“Damn right I’m angry.”
“The ears were a bit cruel, I suppose.”
“I don’t give a shit about the donkey ears.” Johann didn’t want to talk to her. Not yet. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Megan. Until he did, he had nothing to say to her mother. “I’m leaving.”
Freya followed him all the way to Megan’s old cabin. How odd they must have looked—Johann marching across the grassy compound, wearing nothing but a towel, with Freya, dressed in her fancy gown, tagging along like a puppy dog.
Inside the cabin, he was relieved to find a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Thank you, Beagan and Dolan. Artair would be there soon. He could talk to Artair—he sure as hell didn’t want to talk to Freya.
“Go away, Freya. I’m not in the mood to talk to you.”
She sat down on the bed, making herself comfortable. “Nay.”
Grabbing the clean jeans, boxers and polo shirt the caretakers had left on the dresser, Johann went into the bathroom and donned them. Artair came into the cabin as he stepped back through the bathroom door.
Artair struck his chest with his fist. “Freya. ’Tis good to see you, m’lady.”
Johann couldn’t stop a sarcastic scoff.
“Lad? Did I teach you to be so disrespectful to a goddess?” Artair arched a red eyebrow.
“She hasn’t earned my respect. She lied to me.” Johann crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Ask her, MacKay. Ask her why I’m here and why she gave me those jackass ears.”
Instead of saying anything, Artair calmly walked over to the bottle of whiskey and filled both glasses. He handed one to Johann, who took the offering and drained half the contents in one swallow. The liquid burned a fiery trail down his throat. All that did was remind him of Megan, forcing him to shoot a scowl at Freya.
She scowled right back. “You are mistaken, Johann Herrmann. You leaped to a very wrong conclusion.”
“Yeah, right. Get the hell out of my cabin, Freya.”
“Lad, do ye wish to sport a larger set of ears?” Artair turned to Freya. “What’s Johann mistaken about, m’lady?”
Her responding smile was luminous. “How nice. A Sentinel who speaks to a goddess with the respect and reverence she deserves.”
“You didn’t fuck up his life,” Johann shot back. “You fucked up mine.”
“I ask again, m’lady—what was the mistake?” Artair asked.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress but wouldn’t look Artair in the eye—like a naughty child being coaxed to confess what she’d done wrong. “It was not a mistake, per se. He is simply faulty in assuming that Megan is divine.”
Artair gaped at Freya. “Divine? A goddess? Megan?” Whirling his attention back to Johann, he asked, “Why would you think Megan’s a goddess?”
Johann waited, not sure what Freya’s reaction would be if he revealed all he now knew.
She wrung her hands in her lap and stared at the floor.
Since she wasn’t making any move to stop him, he decided to spill the secret. “Because she’s Freya’s daughter.”
“What?” Artair’s roaring voice filled the cabin. “Your daughter?”
The goddess flinched. Then a calm settled over her like a cloak. Her regal nature reasserted itself as she rose, smoothing her hands over her skirt again before facing Artair. “My daughter. Megan Feurer is my daughter. What of it?”
“I didnae mean to yell, m’lady,” Artair said, “but… Your daughter?”
“Must I keep repeating myself?” Freya sighed. “Aye, she is my daughter.”
Johann raised his glass in salute. “Finally, she tells the truth. I’ll lay you odds that Apollo’s her dad. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
A few sparks flew from Freya’s hands. “’Ware, Sentinel.”
He drained the rest of the whiskey. Grabbing the bottle and splashing more of the comforting brown liquid into his glass, he enjoyed the fast-growing sense of lethargy the strong drink brought. He forced a huge swallow. God, he hurt so much, he wanted to be drunk enough to not think anymore—to not feel anymore.
“A goddamn goddess.” Johann raised his glass in another mock toast. “How about that, MacKay?”
“She is not a goddess!” Freya insisted. “I would never take Apollo to my bed again. Not since—” She straightened her shoulders. “How dare you suggest it!”
“She’s your daughter, isn’t she?” Johann countered. “Makes her a goddess in my book.”
Artair shifted his gaze between the goddess and Johann. “Perhaps we all need to calm down.”
“I am perfectly calm,” Freya said with a flip of her wrist. “’Tis the Sentinel who needs comfort.”
“I don’t need comfort,” Johann snapped. “I need to go home and back to my sister.”
“You wish to leave?” Artair asked. “To go back to the world? To forget all of this? All of us?”
“To leave my Megan,” Freya added.
“Damn right I do.”
“There’s much to discuss first,” Artair said. Then he asked Freya, “So Megan is your daughter? Why have you made her an Amazon, nae a goddess?”
“The seer.”
“Seer? What seer?” Johann asked.
“Her birth was predestined, predicted by a prophet—a seer. Megan is fated to save the world.” Freya rested her hand against her chest. “My daughter shall save the world.”
“But you say she’s nae a goddess?” Artair asked.
“Nay,” Freya replied. “Her father is human.”
Johann snorted and plopped onto a chair. “Sure he is.”
“If you wish to hear the whole story,” Artair said, “perhaps you should listen instead of speaking.”
Duly chastised, Johann nodded. His head already ached from the whiskey. Talking only made the pain worse.
“Tell us the whole story, m’lady,” Artair encouraged.
Freya pouted her lip. “Nay. You shall tell Rhiannon.”
“’Tis likely she already knows.”
“Nay. I was most careful to guard this secret. Only the high priestess who brought the seer to me knows. If you tell Rhiannon, she will be angered—more so than is her habit.”
It was the closest thing Johann had ever heard to fear in her voice. Rhiannon was one of the most powerful beings the universe had ever known. Clearly, Freya had done something that, if discovered, would infuriate Rhiannon. Not that there needed to be yet another reason for their constant friction.
“Then confide in us, m’lady,” Artair coaxed. “We are your Sentinels. We shall keep your secret as well.”
Freya sat back down on the foot of the bed. “’Twas the festival of Beltane. When the seer told me of what was to be, she also told me to attend Beltane. Rhiannon’s celebration of fertility was the perfect place to create the world’s savior.”
/> “How were you able to be at Beltane without Rhiannon seeing you?” Artair asked. “’Tis her favorite feast.”
Hers and many of the Ancients. The festival involved almost two full days of feasting, drinking and promiscuous sex—three things that attracted many of the divine.
Since Artair was asking all the questions shooting through Johann’s mind—minus the sarcasm that he would have added—he let Artair continue to run the conversation.
“Aye,” Freya replied. “’Twas why I knew she would be angered at my being there. I changed my appearance to that of one of the peasants. She was too busy—”
“Celebrating?” Artair interjected.
“Fornicating. She never noticed me.”
“Who’s the lass’s father?”
The million-dollar question…
A small burst of fireworks shot from Freya’s hair. Then she took an anxious look around. They were in Megan’s cabin, a cabin with thatched walls and roof designed to teach discipline to Fire Amazons—a lesson they learned quickly or paid the consequences. “Whom did you expect, MacKay? I met Ottar for Beltane. He is Megan’s father.”
Ottar. Freya’s long-time human lover. Johann shouldn’t have been surprised by the revelation. Freya was, above all things, loyal.
“Ottar knows of Megan?” Artair asked.
“Nay. I did not wish to burden him with the knowledge. We simply meet every few centuries to renew our connection. I invited him to Beltane, and he saw nothing unusual in the request.” A bright smile crossed her face as if savoring a pleasant memory, then it quickly faded. “He is merely another human—albeit an immortal one—but he lives in your world. I am an Ancient. He cannot live in mine.” The hurt was plain in her voice.
Perhaps she had feelings after all. At least as many as an Ancient could have.
Not wishing to sport donkey ears again, Johann didn’t bother to point out to Freya that Ottar was almost as old as the Earth itself, which made him anything but just another human.
“So Megan’s nae a goddess?”
“She is an Amazon. Her divine powers were channeled for that role since her conception. She was never meant to be a goddess, but a savior, a warrior. The best place to allow her to achieve her birthright was as an Amazon—as my Amazon—for Fire is always the most powerful.”
Artair nodded toward Johann. “The lad loves her.”
The statement brought Johann to his feet. “Oh, for God’s sake… We’re not talking about this.”
“Aye, he does,” Freya replied as though he weren’t there. “They were lovers, but now he has spurned her.” She shot him a glare. “I should punish you for hurting her.” She lifted a hand as if to pass an enchantment.
Artair reached for it, placed a quick kiss on the back of that hand.
She let it fall to her side. “You have soothed my anger, MacKay.”
Johann poured himself another glass of whiskey—which his pounding head told him he didn’t need—and downed it. “I’m not talking to you two about this.”
Artair saved the day again. “M’lady, this fight’s nae yours. The lad and the lass must work this out for themselves.”
She tilted her head and stared at Johann. “You said you could not accept Megan as a goddess. Why do you not wish to love a goddess? You should feel privileged to love an Ancient.”
He was struck with how revealing that question was. Ancients were evidently so far removed from human feelings Freya didn’t understand why a man would never want to fall in love with one.
“’Tis a wee folly of humans, m’lady,” Artair replied. “We wish to stay amongst our own kind. Perhaps it’s because creatures such as you are too far beyond our understanding and appreciation.”
“My daughter wants him.” Freya inclined her head toward Johann. “You will fix this rift, MacKay? You will give Johann Herrmann back to my Megan?”
“No one is giving me to—”
“I cannae promise that,” Artair interrupted with a stern look that silenced Johann. “They must decide their own destinies.”
* * *
The hot bath had been soothing. The pampering even more so. Freya’s handmaidens had helped Megan bathe, given her a massage that relaxed all her muscles and then fed her strawberries and chocolate. Yes, the indulgences had been comforting.
Until she thought about Johann.
She had so many conflicting emotions running through her that she couldn’t seem to settle on any one for long. Recalling their fiery passion, she wanted to revel in the love she felt for Johann. Remembering the hurtful way he’d dismissed her, she wanted to meet him in the sand pit and pound the living daylights out of him with her sword. Most of all, she wanted to cry that he’d left because of her—because they’d made love.
Made love?
More like spontaneous combustion.
Walking to the full-length mirror mounted on the stone wall of her suite, Megan considered her appearance. What about her had caused such a change in Johann?
He’d been rubbing a tress of her long hair between his fingers. She picked up a strand and stared at it in the mirror. Nothing seemed unusual. Red, yes. But a pretty red, not the brassy kind that came from a bottle of dye. At least in her opinion it was pretty. Maybe Johann didn’t like redheads.
She checked her teeth. Clean. Not that she’d expected to see anything stuck there. A dedicated Sentinel like Johann wouldn’t leave the Amazons for something so horribly shallow as a spinach smile. She checked again anyway, desperately grasping for an explanation.
She looked at her profile before shifting the other direction to see if left was somehow worse than right. Had her face made him suddenly hate her enough to want to return to his old life? What about her was so terrible that the man she loved would give up immortality to get away from her?
The panther?
It must have been the panther.
Megan thought hard about what had brought about her sudden transformation. Then she remembered Maksim Popov’s voice in her head.
Fear. Fear had forced the change.
A reflex? Would all strong emotions cause her to shift to some predator that could protect itself? Or could she shape-shift because she wanted to?
She needed to know for sure.
Staring in the mirror, she tried to make herself be a panther again. She narrowed her eyes, scrunched up her nose and concentrated as hard as she could.
It began so slowly, she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring so hard. Her eyes changed first, fascinating her as they turned yellow and narrowed to an almond shape. Then the rest of her body was changing. Not that the transformation was painful—like muscles cramping and skin stretching until it itched.
Claws grew from her fingernails and whiskers slithered out of her cheeks. Her body rocked to the floor. This wasn’t going to be something she’d want to do too often. Becoming a hawk never took much out of her, but she could feel her energy draining with each little alteration of her appearance. If she changed during a battle, she would be so weakened she’d get her ass handed to her.
After a few long moments, a black panther stood before the mirror. She purred her contentment, in awe that she’d done something so remarkable. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a low snarl. Padding back and forth in front of the mirror, she marveled at what she’d become.
The sound of clapping drew her attention. With a growl, she whirled.
Aunt Tasha stood in the doorway, applauding. “Bravo, Megan. I knew you’d be able to master your powers without too much effort.”
Too much effort?
Megan wasn’t entirely sure she’d have enough energy to change back to herself, wondering if she was going to have to vividly and personally experience a “catnap” before she could transform again.
She focu
sed what waning strength she had remaining into becoming herself again. Finally, she stood before the mirror as Megan Feurer—an exhausted Megan Feurer, but at least the reflection was the face she wanted to see.
“Again, bravo.” Dressed in a long, white robe with chinchilla adornment similar to the kind Freya gave her high priestesses, Tasha walked up behind Megan and stared at her in the mirror. “But I’ve always known you were destined for great things—since before you were born, actually.”
The power drain left Megan not only physically spent, but mentally foggy. Why in the hell was her Aunt Tasha in Folkvang? “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“What’s this?” Tasha’s pout looked as fake as her words sounded. “No friendly greeting for your Aunt Tasha? Haven’t you missed me?”
A laugh slipped out. “Missed you? Maybe I’d be happier to see you if hadn’t disappeared the day after I graduated from high school. You didn’t even leave a damned note. Just turned in your apartment key, canceled the lease and left.”
All the hurt came flooding back. The embarrassment of begging friends for a place to stay until she found a job. The humiliation of borrowing money so she could eat. The shame of wearing the same three changes of clothing for more than a month while working at two jobs that paid next to nothing.
“I did it to make you tougher. I knew what kind of life you faced, and I vowed to Freya I’d make you strong.”
Her thoughts were in such tangles, Megan wasn’t sure anything would ever make sense again. “How could you possibly know what I faced?”
A smug smirk crossed Tasha’s face. “I’m one of Freya’s chosen—one of her most favored high priestesses. You were given to me to raise, because I was responsible for your creation.”
“Are you telling me you’re my mother?” That made no sense at all. Tasha might have been cold and uncaring, but she’d always been brutally honest. Had she given birth to Megan, she would have come out and said so.