Styxx (DH #33)

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “Acheron.” It was the only explanation.

  Dionysus inclined his head to him. “See why I need you?”

  Yeah, no one else could fight or defeat Acheron. Only his twin had that ability.

  “I still don’t see how any of this helps me.”

  “What’s the one thing you want more than any other, prince?”

  “My wife.”

  Dionysus rolled his eyes. “Okay, what’s the second thing you want?”

  “My son.”

  This time the god expelled a long exasperated breath. “Third? And if you name another family member, I will leave you here with Apollo, so help me, Zeus.”

  Sadly, Styxx had no other family to name and only one other thing he craved. “To die.”

  “Ah, you can be taught. Yah! And yeah, death. You kill Acheron and you die. I get to rule the world of man and everyone’s happy.” Hands on hips, Dionysus arched a brow. “So what do you say?”

  “I say get me the fuck out of here.”

  Styxx flinched as Dionysus wrenched him from his island to a … room of some kind. One that held chairs and tables unlike any he’d ever seen before. There were numerous other items in it he couldn’t even begin to identify or name.

  “And before you do something stupid and embarrass us all with your backward, barbarian ways…” Dionysus placed his hand on Styxx’s shoulder.

  Pain exploded through his skull as the god planted eleven thousand years of history into his head. It was so foul, his nose bled for everything it was worth.

  Dionysus pulled away from him as Styxx pressed his hand to his nostrils. And the gods wondered why he hated them.

  Great to be back in the mortal world. Bastards.

  “Bathroom?” he asked Dionysus.

  “Door behind you.”

  Styxx went to it and grabbed a handful of toilet paper. As he held it to his nose, he frowned at all the new things around him that he’d never even dreamed of. He closed the lid on the toilet and sat down as his head reeled from sensory overload. Sounds, sights, smells …

  Those damned voices that screamed in his head.

  It was so overwhelming.

  While he’d known he’d been isolated for a long time, he’d never have guessed this many centuries had passed.

  Eleven thousand years.

  It was mind-boggling. But what really, really hurt was the fact that Acheron had known he was alive, and had completely ignored him the entire time.

  His brother had walked away from him and never looked back.

  Not once.

  Don’t I feel like the complete asshole? Styxx had never fully abandoned his brother. As a boy, he’d risked everything to help him. Meanwhile, Acheron had gone on with his life and with Artemis, and acted as if Styxx was dead and buried.

  Out of sight. Out of mind.

  Why was he even surprised?

  So what if Styxx had put his ass on the line for Acheron when Acheron had been imprisoned in Atlantis and Didymos? I at least brought you fresh food and wine, brother. Even when Acheron had chosen a slow starvation suicide, Styxx had given him something to eat.

  And unlike him, Acheron wasn’t a mortal boy who had to jockey around a father who hated and threatened him. One who would have beaten the shit out of him if he’d learned what Styxx was doing behind his back. Acheron had enough powers that even their old gods had feared his brother’s wrath.

  He looked down at his scarred hands. Artemis had left him on that island without so much as a single spoon. Everything he’d had over these countless centuries, he’d been forced to make or find.

  How could his twin brother leave him to suffer like this?

  I hate you, Acheron.

  Styxx brushed aside the leopard skin he wore to see the whore mark Acheron had helped brand on him.

  Yeah …

  There was no love lost between them.

  He had no reason to be surprised by his brother’s total lack of regard where he was concerned. Still, Acheron’s neglect and utter absence of humanity for him burned deep in a place that should be used to being kicked by now.

  So much for being twins.

  But that wasn’t true and he knew it. They might share the same features, but Acheron had been shoved into Aara’s womb long after Styxx had been conceived. Apollymi had forced her bastard into his life and screwed him over royally in the process.

  And maybe this was all part of being a god. A total disregard for what you did to humans. An inability to have even a modicum of compassion for them.

  You could have at least come back and killed me. Acheron had that power. Three seconds. Three little heartbeats and Acheron could have put him out of his misery.

  Instead, he’d left him to suffer. Eternally. Alone in an isolated hellhole.

  Styxx winced as memories tore through him. Endless days of loneliness and self-loathing. Even centuries back, when Artemis had actually sent servants with food for him, they’d been blind, deaf, and mute … a precaution of hers to make sure they didn’t tell anyone of his solitary existence.

  Or more to the point, that she had a boy-toy pet who looked just like him.

  He’d had no one. Nothing except bittersweet memories of his wife and the son he’d never met. Memories that hurt as much, if not more, than they comforted.

  But what did it matter? He couldn’t change the past. It was done and he’d somehow survived it. Damned if he knew how.

  Rising, he washed the blood off his face, beard, hands, and chest then returned to the room with Dionysus.

  “Better?” the god asked sarcastically.

  “Not really. However, the bleeding’s stopped.” Externally, anyway.

  Internally, the arterial hemorrhaging never ceased.

  “Good gods, he does look like him.”

  Styxx turned to find a god he couldn’t identify approaching them. Nowhere near as tall as they were, he had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. There was something evil, yet mischievous about him.

  “Meet Camulus. Celtic-Gallic war god.”

  Styxx started to ask what “Celtic-Gallic” meant, but as soon as the question formed, his mind kicked up the answer from the information Dionysus had implanted into his head. They were two races that hadn’t existed until long after his country had been destroyed and then rebuilt from the ashes of Apollymi’s fury.

  Camulus raked him with a snide grin. “He doesn’t dress like him though. Or stand like him. Think he can pass?”

  Dionysus shrugged. “Dark-Hunters are pretty stupid. They shouldn’t be too hard to fool.”

  Styxx frowned at the unfamiliar term. “Dark-Hunters?”

  “Ah, crap. Did I forget to do a full upload?” Dionysus put his hand on Styxx’s shoulder again.

  In an instant, he saw events unfolding. Apollo had taken credit for the destruction of Atlantis, claiming it as retaliation for what had been done to Ryssa. Since Apollymi wasn’t around to contradict him, that was the most retold myth.

  Apollo had cursed his Apollite race to feed on nothing except each other’s blood. But the worst, they were condemned to die painfully on their twenty-seventh birthday.… The age Ryssa had been on her death.

  Kind of. His father had shaved a year off her age to make her more appealing on the marriage market and had never told Apollo the truth. Stupid bastard deserved that lie.

  Then Apollymi, angered over Apollo’s mutilation and murder of Acheron, had taken in Apollo’s heir, Strykerius whom the god had accidentally cursed along with his people.

  Ironically, the sun god had never been all that bright. Why the Greeks had ever designated Apollo as the god of prophecy, Styxx couldn’t fathom.

  Needless to say, Strykerius bore as much love for his father as Styxx did. But Stryker had yet to kill Apollo. Not for lack of effort on his part. He routinely made attacks on his progenitor and humanity.

  Stryker and his army of Daimons were still around because Apollymi had taught them how to circumvent Apollo’s curse by stealing hum
an souls and living on those—her retribution on humanity for abusing her son. But from the moment an Apollite pulled a human soul into his or her body, it forever changed them physiologically, and many of them mentally. They were no longer Apollites, but so-called Daimons. Evil spirits who lived solely to feed off mankind’s souls.

  Then two thousand years after Apollo’s curse, Artemis had created the Dark-Hunters to chase and kill the Daimons before the human souls within them died and were lost forever in painful limbo.

  At least, that was Artemis’s public story. Like her brother, she lied. The real purpose of the Dark-Hunters was to give her leverage against Acheron, and a tool she could use to manipulate and control him.

  Styxx laughed bitterly at the irony. You’re still a whore, little brother. Still enslaved.

  Some things never changed.

  “Are you caught up?” Dionysus asked.

  “Yeah. You want me to run interference with my brother’s men and use them against him until the night I finally get to return the favor he once paid me.”

  Camulus scowled. “What favor?”

  Styxx flicked his hand over the scar in the center of his chest. “He drove a dagger through my heart while I slept. Only I’m not the coward Acheron is. I want him to know it’s me when I slide the blade in.”

  Camulus let out a low whistle. “No wonder the Greeks are known best for their tragedies. You bastards wrote the book on dysfunctional families.”

  Dionysus scoffed. “Really? Do you want me to pull out your pantheon history?”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “I cede, but don’t get used to that. Not in my nature.”

  Dionysus conjured a set of modern clothes for Styxx and held them out to him. “Don’t forget to bathe first.”

  Fighting the urge to make an obscene gesture, Styxx took the clothes and headed to the shower. He quickly climbed into it and sighed at how incredible it felt. He hadn’t bathed in warm water since the day he’d died. Even though his head was way above the showerhead, the hot water still felt good sliding over his skin. And as he showered, he clenched his teeth at all the scars marring him from head to foot. But the two that still stung most were the one across his heart from Acheron and the one on his stomach from Ryssa. He didn’t know why they bothered him more than the ones from his mother, yet they did.

  And the scar that always brought tears to his eyes was one he’d carved himself into his left forearm with an obsidian knife he’d made.

  Βηθαvία.

  Γαληvός.

  Bethany above the scar his father had given him. Galen below it. And Galen not just for his mentor, but for the son who’d never been born to them. His permanent tribute to the people who’d meant everything to him.

  To the ones he’d never see again. His scar was all he had left of them.

  “I miss you,” he breathed. Time had not made their deaths any easier to bear. In some ways, it seemed to make it worse.

  Blinking back his tears, he shoved those thoughts out of his mind. There was nothing he could do. They were gone, and with luck, he wouldn’t have to endure much longer without them.

  He kissed their names then turned off the water and stepped out. The moment he touched the towel, his breath caught. It was so incredibly soft. There had been no cloth on the island. No towels of any kind. And the scent …

  Like flowers.

  What an incredible luxury. He froze as he caught a look at himself in the huge mirror that was a much higher quality than anything they’d ever possessed in his mortal days. His mother and Ryssa would have gone blind staring at themselves in this.

  His gaze dropped to the horrendous scars that marked his flesh. He curled his lip in disgust. He was hideous. Had Bethany not been blind, she would have thrown him aside in a heartbeat had she ever seen these.

  Sighing, he dressed quickly, shaved then left the room to find the two gods plotting Acheron’s death and their rise to power. He should have guilt for participating, but honestly …

  Screw Acheron. His brother had shown him no mercy, so why should he have any for him?

  Styxx frowned as he caught a whiff of …

  “Is that food?”

  Camulus nodded. “I ordered steaks from room service. You want one?”

  His jaw went slack as he positively salivated. “Beef?”

  “Well yeah, ain’t no vegetarians here.” Camulus flexed his biceps. “Soy don’t give you these.”

  Styxx ignored him as he pulled the silver cover off the plate and bit his lip. He hadn’t seen steak in so long that he’d forgotten what it looked like.

  Smelled like.

  “Damn, Dion. I think the steak just gave your boy a hard-on.”

  “I imagine everything will give him a hard-on for a few weeks until he gets used to being in the world again.”

  “Just make sure you don’t give him any chocolate cake. He might die from an orgasm.”

  Styxx’s frown deepened as he sat down to eat. “Chocolate cake?”

  Camulus snorted. “We’ll order some later. Now be quiet and let the gods talk.”

  Styxx had to force himself not to throw his knife straight through Camulus’s skull for that. But he didn’t want to waste the blade when there was real meat to be eaten. And he hadn’t had to kill it first.

  It took everything he had to eat civilly, as a human, and not shovel it into his mouth like the animal he’d become. Gods, it was so good. Forget the cake … nothing could be better than this.

  He reached for the wine then paused at the container it was in. It looked so frail and delicate.

  Camulus let out a heavy sigh. “This isn’t going to work.” He gestured at Styxx. “He’s staring at the glass like it’s some alien invader.”

  “He’s never seen glass like that.”

  “My point. He’ll never pass for Acheron.”

  Too used to criticism and mockery to react to it, Styxx’s frown deepened. “What do I dilute this with?”

  Camulus started to respond, but Dionysus cut him off. “You don’t.” He held his hand up to stifle Styxx’s protest. “I know in your time period it was uncivilized to drink wine without dilution. However, that was a very long time ago. Drink it as it is. Trust me, it’s good, and it won’t make you rape and pillage the village.” Then he returned to his conversation.

  Well, if anyone should know how to drink wine, it was the Greek god of the vine.

  Hoping for the best, Styxx took a tentative sip. It pained him to admit it, but Dionysus was right. It was delicious. And very different from what he’d known in Didymos.

  As Styxx listened in on their conversation, he learned that Dionysus had been banned from Olympus and sent to live in the mortal realm.… The real reason for his planned hostile takeover. Dionysus wanted to return to Olympus and throw his father from the mountain.

  Likewise, Camulus’s godhood was all but gone and he wanted the heart carved out of someone named Talon.

  In the middle of their conversation, they stopped talking to stare at him. “Human?” Dionysus asked.

  Don’t I wish.

  “God of drunken lunatics?” he shot back at Dionysus.

  Camulus laughed.

  Dionysus not so much. “Can you feign an Atlantean accent?”

  Styxx wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s been a while since I heard one, but I think I have it.”

  The Olympian actually appeared impressed. “Where did you get that?”

  “I spent three years in Atlantis. I heard it a lot.”

  “Ah, well, just so you know, your brother’s accent comes and goes.”

  “Noted.”

  Dionysus swirled his wine around in his … glass. That was the correct word for it. “I might live to regret this comment, but I think we’re going to pull this off.”

  Styxx only wished he shared their optimism. I better enjoy my limited freedom. Because sooner or later, something was going to happen and he’d be relegated back to hell soon.

  He was s
ure of it.

  February 17, 2004

  Styxx sat alone in the Cafe Pontalba at a table near one of the large doors that opened onto the street where tourists thronged in the midst of pre–Mardi Gras celebration. The waitress had just taken away his plate and card.

  Drinking his beer, he stared at the foreign people who made no sense to him. They were all very odd.

  Like you’re not?

  True. He was so out of place, he couldn’t stand it. And he hated playing with people’s lives. At first, he hadn’t minded his assignments. Get close to the Dark-Hunters who worked with his brother and report back to Dionysus and Camulus. Play with their heads and confuse them a little.

  Something made infinitely easier because he could hear their thoughts. But what had stunned him was how much love and respect the Dark-Hunters bore his brother.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reconcile the Acheron they knew with the cowardly brother who’d stabbed him. The brother who’d ruthlessly oiled his body and held him down so that Estes could brand “whore” on his groin and laugh while it was done to him.

  The brother whose greatest wish was to pay money to see Styxx violently raped.

  His twin had never been caring about other people. Justifiable given Estes’s abuse, Acheron had been bitter and angry.

  Hurt.

  Maybe people did change. The gods knew Acheron had had plenty of time for it while he’d left Styxx to rot in isolation.

  Still … why wouldn’t such an altruistic, “decent,” and benevolent person check on his own brother?

  At least once in eleven thousand years?

  As the waitress returned his card, Styxx rubbed at his temples. He had a splitting headache from the voices that echoed all around him. That had been the only good thing about being on the island. The only voice in his head had been his own. And even it had faded and gone quiet after a few thousand years.

  Not even the keepers Artemis had sent at odd intervals had verbal thoughts. Rather their thoughts had been pictures so vivid, he’d drawn them in the sand after they left. Then the tide would come and wash them away and leave him with a new slate to draw on.

  His phone rang. Styxx checked the number and was grateful it wasn’t one of the Dark-Hunters Dionysus had been rerouting to his cell. Since he couldn’t hear their thoughts over the phone, it made talking to them even more difficult than normal.