Divine Scales

by Jennifer Blackstream

  He glanced in the direction of Marcela’s voice, barely able to make his wife’s form out as she flowed around him. “I’ll be fine. Go play with your sisters, I won’t be long.”

  Marcela sighed and ruffled his hair, affection shining in her blue green eyes. “Go and make peace then. I’ll look for you on the beach.”

  She flew off and Patricio couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face as she twirled about on the currents of air, lifting an armful of leaves and dancing as they fell. He’d been smiling a lot recently. Ever since the day Marcela had agreed to be his wife. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy. And without any guilt to cloud it.

  “Well, well, well. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d never have believed it. Prince Patricio with a smile on his face and not a drop of blood to be found.”

  Patricio turned and saw witch Hazel standing in front of her door, a crooked broom in her hand. She stood the broom against the doorway and crossed her arms over her chest. She arched an eyebrow as she looked him up and down.

  “To what do I owe this visit?” she prompted.

  Patricio straightened his spine then bowed slightly. He approached the witch, noting the way her gray eyes tracked his movements without shifting her stance. He stopped a few feet in front of her and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Now her eyebrows shot up to disappear into her hairline. “Oh? And what are you sorry for?”

  Patricio concentrated on the weight on his chest, the emotion that he’d only recently allowed himself to truly feel. He met the witch’s eyes, not hiding anything, laying his soul bare for her to see.

  “I almost lost someone. Someone I cared a great deal about. I held her in my arms as she was dying, covered in her blood. I saw the light fade from her eyes.”

  The witch stared, but gave nothing away. “An unfortunate position for anyone to be in.”

  Patricio’s wings drooped at the memory, his mind’s eye looking into the past, feeling the moment of betrayal when he’d thought Marcela had meant to kill him. The look on her face when she’d been sure he wouldn’t believe her. “She’d been accused of a crime just before she was injured,” he continued. “A weapon was found in her possession and it was brought forth that at one time she’d planned to kill me.”

  “Imagine that.”

  He lifted his head, wanting the witch to see the seriousness in his gaze. “I didn’t care.”

  Something flickered in the witch’s eyes, but Patricio couldn’t identify it.

  “You didn’t care that she’d planned to kill you?”

  Patricio shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe she did. But that’s not the point.”

  The witch drummed her fingers against her body. “And what would the point be?”

  Patricio’s throat threatened to close. “In that moment, I wouldn’t have cared what she’d [J2] done, what she was guilty of. She could have meant to kill me with that dagger, could have meant to bathe in my blood for all I cared. I loved her, no matter what, and part of me was dying right alongside her. Nothing else mattered.”

  The witch’s eyes glistened, but her face remained unchanged. “And?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He flinched, the words sounding horribly inadequate, but he forced himself to continue. “Your brother committed evil acts, but he was still your brother. You loved him. However justified I may believe his death was, I had no right to be so dismissive of your pain. I…” He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  The witch dropped her arms and closed her eyes. For a moment she appeared older, more like a frail old woman than the wicked witch he’d believed her to be for so long. She sighed and leaned back against her hut. A single tear escaped to trail down her cheek and then she shook herself. When she opened her eyes, they were bright, but friendly.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. She held his gaze for a moment then looked to the side. “You’ve been a good influence on him, Marcela.”

  Patricio whirled in surprise to find Marcela standing naked in physical form beside him. She offered him a sheepish wave. The witch laughed and removed her cloak, handing it to Marcela who stepped forward and took it with a smile of gratitude. A blush stained her cheeks and she cleared her throat.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Patricio grinned at his wife and strode over to put a wing around her. When he looked back at the witch, she was smiling.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” she murmured. “And have you learned anything else, Your Highness?”

  Patricio bristled, but then relaxed as the witch gave him an amused smile. “Yes. Don’t trust the gods.”

  The witch barked a laugh. “Right you are on that count.”

  Patricio grew serious. “I’m not the sword of justice that Zeus would have me believe I am, but I’m not convinced I don’t serve a purpose. There are evil people out there who deserve to be punished, and some of them deserve to be killed.” His stomach clenched and he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m not denying what I need anymore. I am my mother’s son, and I do need to…feed.”

  The witch pressed her lips together for a moment as if weighing her next words. “Your Highness, it is from your mother that you get your need to chase down sinners, true. But the hunger, the way you feed. You know where that comes from.”

  Patricio’s heart leapt into his throat at the same time rage flowed through his veins, scalding hot and more painful than a thousand beatings from an ojáncanu. He flexed his hands, trying to swallow the anger, to breathe through it.

  Marcela stepped closer and took his hand, squeezing it in hers. He squeezed her hand back to let her know he was okay. He swallowed several times, turning his face up to let the wind ease the heat from his cheeks.

  “It…” He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. When he opened them he found the witch watching him, waiting. He steeled himself. “I get that from my father.”

  “Who is…?” the witch said softly.

  Patricio looked away, shaking his head. He couldn’t say it, wouldn’t say it.

  “It’s okay,” Marcela whispered.

  He closed his eyes. “An incubus.”

  The word flew out into the world and for a moment Patricio was certain he could hear Adonis laughing. Somehow the demon had known who Patricio’s father was even before Patricio had, though Patricio had no idea how. He had only a memory or two of his father, the man’s blue eyes and stark black hair. He remembered his mother smiling, telling Patricio he had his father’s eyes.

  “So much self-awareness in such a short time,” the witch observed, approval in her voice. “All right then. Go home. Your curse will be broken by the time you set foot on royal grounds. Those who were affected by the curse will slowly become less enamored of you, so pay attention and start repairing any damage that may have been done.” She paused. “The king will remain affected. It would be too cruel to break that enchantment—circumstances what they are.”

  The witch whirled around and marched back to her door. Patricio blinked after her, still reeling from his own admission.

  “I—”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The witch closed the door behind her. Patricio glanced at Marcela. She looked at him. Suddenly she shrugged, walked over to the door, hung the cloak on the handle, and shot Patricio a grin.

  “Last one home feeds the cuelebre.”

  Patricio scowled. “We are not keeping him.”

  Epilogue

  “Why are you ssstill crying?”

  Eurydice waved a hand at the cuelebre hanging upside down in her branches, whitish blue scales glowing among her wide green leaves. “I’m just happy,” she sobbed.

  The snake twisted around so it was looking at her right side up. It flicked its tongue out and blinked its beady black eyes. “It’sss not over yet.”

  Eurydice dropped her hands, teary eyes wide. “What? I thought you said they were married?”


  The snake sighed. “Yesss. But you ssstill have one prince to go.” It blinked again. “Sssaamal. Not going to be easssy.”

  Eurydice eyed the cuelebre. “No, it’s not.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, ruffling her leaves and branches as she composed herself. “He is only a shadow of his former self, but he is still a god. And if I am successful, if I can fix what was done…” she rubbed her hands over her arms, staring off into the distance toward the dark castle nestled in the dark mountain of the Kingdom of Mu.

  “He wasss quite ssscary once upon a time.”

  “Yes he was.” Eurydice shivered.

  “Are you certain he will be different now?” the cuelebre asked.

  “Who can be certain? All I can do is help and hope and…”

  “And pray,” finished a hushed voice.

  Eurydice and the cuelebre both stiffened then turned to face the source of the voice. A form hovered before the hamadryad, a white mist only vaguely in the shape of a human. Details were impossible to make out, its form wavering and fluctuating with every breeze, every sigh. The ghost waved a thin hand in greeting.

  “Yes,” Eurydice said softly. “Pray.” A shiver ran down her arms and she tried to ignore it, keeping her face pleasant and neutral. “I am very grateful you agreed to help.”

  The ghost shrugged. “For what good it will do. He was a vengeful god. Much blood was spilled. You believe a woman will change him?”

  “She already has.”

  The ghost tsked, a faint whispering sound. “He is only half the god he was. What will happen when he is more?”

  “Saamal is not the same deity he was, not just in power, but in point of view,” Eurydice insisted. “He will prove it to you, you’ll see.”

  No answer came from the ghost. It flew away, dispersing as it went until there was nothing there to suggest it had even existed. The cuelebre slithered over one of her branches, twitching its tail from side to side.

  “I don’t ssseem quite ssso bad now. Do I?”

  THE END

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  Other Books by Jennifer Blackstream

  Under His Skin

  Aphrodite’s Hunt

  Blood Prince Series

  Before Midnight

  One Bite

  Golden Stair

  The Revenge in Vein Series:

  Burned

  Mastered

  Bitten

  Converted

  Revenge in Vein: The Complete Series

  Preview of UNDER HIS SKIN, a paranormal romance

  Chapter 1

  “Ack, no! Don’t pick that one.”

  Ana paused with her hand over a strip of honeysuckle. Darting her gaze around the herbalist’s small shop, she searched for the source of the unholy screeching that made the nerves in her arms shrivel in agony. Rows of drying herbs hung from a square patch of ceiling on her right, lavender, mistletoe, and slippery elm filling the air with their soft fragrances. Rows and rows of oils and candles lined the left wall, their simple glass jars and neatly labeled black lids the epitome of order.

  Mrs. Downing, the shop’s owner, was still in the back filling her order. No other patrons were in sight. Ana narrowed her eyes and then turned her attention back to the display of honeysuckle that lined the glass case in front of her. Her foot resumed its nervous tapping and she clenched her teeth as she wondered once again what was taking Mrs. Downing so long.

  “Are you daft? I said don’t pick that one!”

  Stomping her foot in agitation, Ana jerked her head up just in time to get struck between the eyes with something small and pointy. She caught the projectile in her hand as it fell, looking down at what appeared to be a tiny piece of wood. She stared at the sliver in her hand before glaring up at the creature that had hurled it.

  A little pixie glowered at her from inside a cage hanging over the cash register to her right, just over her head enough that she hadn’t noticed it when she looked around. His pale white skin looked strange amidst the warm earth tones of the shop. The soft grey fur of his clothing seemed to be stitched together from what she could only guess was mouse fur and he had on a pair of tiny brown boots as well. He would have been cute if not for the scowl on his face.

  “What do you care what herbs I pick?”

  “Don’t question me, woman, just listen,” he shouted. “Don’t pick that one! Don’t pick any of them!” He grabbed hold of the bars on either side of him and began to rock until the whole cage swung crazily from side to side. “Every herb in this shop is POISON!” he screamed.

  “One more squeal out of you and it won’t just be the cage’s latch that’s forged of iron!”

  Ana raised her eyebrows as Mrs. Downing came barreling out of the back room, shaking her fist at the imprisoned pixie as the curtain that blocked the doorway settled behind her. Dressed in casual black pants and a red shirt, with a black and red Chilkat blanket hanging down her back, the shopkeeper was a pleasant combination of tradition and modern comfort. As her long black braid flailed behind her, Ana couldn’t help but be impressed that a woman of Mrs. Downing’s generous size and age could move that quickly.

  If only she’d move that fast filling my order, Ana thought, annoyance prompting her to cross her arms. I need these herbs NOW. I’m so close . . .

  The old woman continued to glare at the pixie. “You think about that, you little thief! Surrounded by iron! Just the thought of it makes your puny flesh burn, doesn’t it?”

  The pixie glared at the herbalist, but he kept his mouth shut. Mrs. Downing gave him one last scathing glance before turning to Ana, a smile instantly bursting to life as she focused her attention on one of her best customers.

  “Please forgive the noise, my dear. I only leave him there as a warning to any other pests who might be thinking about stealing from me.”

  “What did he steal from you?” Ana asked the question more to distract herself from her reason for coming to the shop than for any real desire to know the answer. The devastation waiting for her at home weighed like lead on her spirit, only a thin sliver of hope that this time, this spell, might be different saving her from complete despair.

  “A lousy rose petal,” the pixie grumped. “I only wanted a soft leaf for my pillow.”

  The herbalist’s gaze shot back to the cage. “It wasn’t one lousy rose petal, you little miscreant. You raided my roses every night for a month! Do you know how expensive roses are? They don’t exactly grow wild in the Alaskan wilderness, now do they?”

  “Well they dry up!” the pixie screeched. “You want I should sleep on a scratchy dried up rose petal? Me, with the soft skin of a newborn—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Mrs. Downing bellowed.

  Ana rubbed her forehead between her eyes. This, she said to herself, is why I should stay at home and order herbs over the internet. Shipping can’t possibly take as long at this exceptionally loud woman. “Mrs. Downing, would you be so kind as to add some St. John’s wort to my order?”

  The herbalist turned her attention back to Ana, a look of concern adding new creases to her aged brown skin. “St. John’s wort? Are you not feeling well?”

  “Just a headache,” Ana growled.

  “Probably from the smell of all these third rate herbs.”

  “That’s it!” the old woman yelled, whirling around. She stomped toward the back room. “I’m getting the iron cage!”

  Ana looked up at the almost comical look of horror on the little pixie’s face. Without a second thought, she reached up and unlatched the iron slide bolt. She couldn’t seem to do anything about her own misery, but the pixie’s woes were easily assuag
ed.

  “Get out of here before she comes back,” Ana said quietly. “And never treat your freedom so carelessly again.”

  The pixie darted out of the cage, only pausing for a second to hover in front of her.

  “My name is Nu.” He tilted his head. “What is your name?”

  “Ana.”

  “I won’t forget this, Ana,” he said seriously.