Red Mortal

by Deidre Knight

  “Yes,” Eros agreed respectfully. “The best in my arsenal . . . are apparently meant to serve you, King Leonidas. A loss to me, for sure, but fate is at work here.”

  Again, the fine arrow all but sang in Leo’s grasp.

  “My captain there, and his brothers—the others in the quiver . . .” Eros dropped his voice, as if not wanting the weapons to overhear. “Were once brave Spartan warriors, perhaps even in your own army.”

  Leo glanced upward in shock, his hand closing about the arrow’s shaft. “What are you saying? They are men of rank, men who lived and fought when I was mortal?”

  Eros’s eyes became filled with raw emotion, a blend of admiration and regret. “My father turned them to standing stones. I found them overlooking the Straits of Salamis.” The god hesitated, clearing his throat, “So brave, so frozen, but I was unable to return them to human form. Even then, try as I might, I couldn’t break Ares’s curse. But I could work my own magic on the eight men. I knew that, naturally, warriors would want to be utilized, not left lifeless, voiceless. So I did the only thing within my power—I conscripted them to my own service. Transformed them to the quiver and arrows you behold now. They have been valiant and bold, enacting my love spells among thousands of couples the world over.”

  Karanos. Yes, Leo remembered a Spartan captain by that very name. The warrior had been young—too young to die at Thermopylae, at least in Leo’s mind. So he’d not selected the warrior to serve among that final force of three hundred. Undoubtedly, Karanos and these others had made a stand at the Straits of Salamis, not long after Thermopylae, perhaps even spilled their blood protecting Sparta and fair Greece. And for such heroism, Ares had punished them? Left them standing perpetually on that battlefield, silent and stony?

  Leo pressed the warrior against his heart, remembering Karanos’s eager brown eyes, the way he’d stood among the first hoping to serve at Thermopylae—and recalling the disappointment in the young warrior’s gaze when Leo had passed him over that day.

  The arrow all but leaped against his chest, the warrior still as willing, still as honorable as he’d been so many centuries ago. “You know this captain’s name.” Leo cleared his throat gruffly. “But what of the others?”

  Eros reached into Leo’s new quiver, removing several more arrows, each slightly unique and beautiful in its own right, from the arrowhead to the fletching. “Kiros, Balios, Agapias.” He introduced the weapons. “As my father’s son, I understood who and what these brave men were, and what they once had been. I did what I could for them. Yes, I know all their names and will introduce you to each man, tell you of his qualities and character.”

  Daphne moved to her nephew’s side, embracing him reassuringly. “You obviously care greatly for them.”

  Eros nodded. “They are my most loyal and my finest.” Then, he lifted bright eyes to Leo. “I hope you know what it costs me to place them under your command. But it is where they belong, where they’ve always belonged. The sketch only confirms it.”

  Daphne turned excited eyes upon Leo. “Perhaps they are the key to breaking your curse. That might be why they were in the drawing.”

  Leo rolled Karanos in his palm, remembering the man he’d once been. Two sons, he’d had, young though he was. Why had he denied the warrior the glory of Thermopylae?

  He swallowed hard. “What . . . do these arrows do, precisely? What sort of magic is involved?”

  Eros lifted his chin, but it obviously wasn’t easy. “The curse my father placed upon these warriors,” he said softly, “was one of . . . compliance. Whatever way you choose to enlist them, they will serve eagerly. Obediently. But they have no will of their own. That’s the cruelest part of what Ares did to them.”

  Leo shook his head, adamant. “I can’t abuse these warriors that way,” he said. “They must want to serve me; I won’t compel it.”

  Eros smiled at him. “Do you not see how Captain Karanos thrums in your hand? He is more than eager. Like you and your immortals, these warriors were bred to fight. Would you deny any Spartan their vengeance? They’ve counted the days, faithfully believing this time would come—isn’t that what you’d have done, King Leonidas?” Eros met Leo’s eyes significantly. “If Ares is destroyed, so their curse will be.”

  Leo hoisted the quiver over his shoulder, staring down at Karanos. “If we strike back together, old friend,” Leo told the arrow, “all our curses shall be broken. If you are willing, I will use you in this war.”

  Karanos hummed in Leo’s palm, vibrating excitedly. “You communicate well, Karanos,” Leo told the arrow. “Like any Spartan—with economy of language and perfect clarity. I like it.”

  Leo gave Daphne a sideways grin, sliding Karanos into the quiver with the other arrows.

  Eros then handed him a simple yet elegant bow. “You’ll need these weapons for what comes next,” he advised.

  Daphne looked at her nephew curiously. “Why would we need bow and arrows for visiting Zeus?”

  “Not Zeus, Daphne. No.” Eros shook his head. “You know in your heart that your father will only waste valuable, precious time—time that you can’t afford to squander. There is a much more obvious and clear choice . . . after all, darling Daphne, you are one of his own,” Eros told her cryptically.

  Daphne’s clear blue eyes grew wide. “You can’t mean Apollo. No one knows the way inside his palace.”

  Eros beamed, indicating the quiver. “Ah, but I’ve just given you the key.”

  The quiver and bow made sense—Apollo was the archer of the sun, the god of the bow. Yet how would those weapons be useful in appealing to that god? Locating him, too, apparently. But how?

  Leo voiced the question. “Lord Eros, how shall we use these weapons with Apollo? We are seeking favor, not to make war with him. And if it’s impossible to get inside Apollo’s palace, how can we go to him?”

  Eros glanced at Leo significantly. “It’s not a matter of getting inside, King Leonidas,” he said. “It’s a matter of being able to see his palace at all. He’s hidden, high, very high atop the mountain, and keeps his palace cloaked in mists and sunlight.” Eros reached inside Leo’s new quiver, and placed Karanos in his grasp. “Daphne knows the general vicinity. When you near the fabled location, fire the bow and command this arrow to part the mists.”

  Daphne said nothing, disengaging from them. She strolled along the hall of weapons, examining each one as if she planned to make a selection. Leo knew the truth—she was deliberating, buying time.

  She finally turned back to face her nephew. “I admit, I find your suggestion far more daunting than visiting my own father.”

  What was it about Apollo that was so intimidating to his Daphne, she who was made of courage and boldness? Apollo was of the most powerful gods, yes, but she was the daughter of Zeus and one of Apollo’s favored ones—a Daughter of Delphi.

  She smiled sheepishly. “It’s ridiculous, but . . . he intimidates me. He’s so enigmatic, so hidden away. He’s the god I served, and yet I know him so very little. At Delphi, he was a mystery to all of us. Always kind, always caring for us . . . but we were in awe of him.”

  “But as a Daughter, he will fiercely protect you,” Eros reminded her. “He will not let another god harm you—and Ares has hurt you far too much.”

  Leo wrapped his arms about Daphne, pulling her close. “We’ll go together, as you’d wanted to do with your father. We Spartans often offered and sacrificed to Apollo . . . he will remember that. Hopefully honor it by helping me to break Ares’s curse—or even battling him alongside us.”

  Leo called to Eros. “Before we go, please introduce me to all of my new warriors—name by name, rank by rank.”

  Ari and Nikos had assumed their hawk forms for the mission, wearing nothing but their leather Spartan loin coverings and the broad wings upon their backs. Oh, and sporting their claws, too—always good for shredding an enemy on first strike. They’d figured shape-shifting now, rather than later, was the best course of action. Sable couldn�
��t fly, but he could gallop like the wind, and they would keep up with him from overhead.

  The Djinn definitely had the enemy’s trail, too, and seemed as intent as they were on locating this trader. When Ari thought about all the years he’d been forced to live without Jules—and all the time she had wandered as a ghost, so lost and lonely—he could hardly tamp down his boiling rage. He wanted at Caesar Vaella’s throat and he wanted first strike; just thinking about finally getting justice for Juliana’s torture had Ari’s power roaring in his veins.

  Ari only hoped that Sable truly could be trusted. He’d certainly given Sophie one helluva a soulful look right as he was leaving her, his emotions plain as the hooves on his feet. A look that was probably no different from the one Ari had given Jules right then. One of those prebattle moments, a kind of sear-your-woman-into-your-mind glance, as you wondered if you’d ever see her again.

  Or, in the case of Nik and Mason, a sear-your-maninto-your-mind type of gaze. That pair had fallen as hard for each other as Ari and Jules had; they just weren’t quite as obvious about it, except at critical, potentially life and death moments. At times like tonight, they didn’t bother concealing what they felt, their love for each other shining obviously in their eyes—no matter who was around or watching.

  And this was exactly why Ari felt they could trust Sable: That centaur had given Sophie one last glance, packed with enough power to light up the night sky. Yep, ole Sable had it bad for the girl, which meant he had a real stake in getting back home . . . and absolutely no reason to betray the Spartans.

  Ari glanced at the Djinn now, wondering why he was suddenly slowing his pace down there on the ground. Ari had been shadowing his movements from overhead for roughly twenty minutes, aware of Nikos behind him, matching Ari’s own wing beats. But for the first time since they’d started out, the demon was no longer galloping; he’d assumed a slow trot alongside the river, glancing in several directions.

  Oh, man, Ari hoped Sable hadn’t lost that demon trader’s scent. Ari clenched his clawed hands, practically tasting Caesar’s blood; he was that ready to take the trader out, once and for all. Sable glanced up at them, and then waved them back into the thick forest of live oaks and palms that covered most of the Angels’ land.

  Nik rounded to the left of Ari’s wing, arcing upward. Ari glanced sideways, ducking past a branch and several dangling clumps of Spanish moss.

  With their supernatural hawk’s sight, and their keen sense of smell, they would still be able to follow Sable from farther above. Ari climbed higher, his chest pumping and surging with every beat of his midnight wings. Another branch caught him in the thigh; he had to clear the tops of these ancient live oaks or this flight would become bloody annoying and fast. He reached upward, speeding, and was brought to a dead, tangling halt. It was like flying into one of Sophie’s huge crocheted blankets.

  He released a piercing hawk’s cry, trying to move his arms, but silk cording mashed into his face, his wings. His claws became entangled in the woven cords, the leather fastenings of his loin covering caught in the webbing, too.

  Oh, gods of Olympus, he’d been snared in a net, a giant trap, strung up in the highest treetops. He grunted, feeling his wings spike with sharp pain; the right one was folded partially back the wrong way. He was trussed up like a prize turkey, dangling helplessly in the massive woven sack. Local hunters, maybe? What had they been after, anyway? Turkey . . . but up this high, that didn’t make any sense. A cold sickening dread filled his heart. There wasn’t any kind of bird or creature that would be flying so high up in the treetops—not one as large as he was.

  “Nikos!” he bellowed, working his claws against the thick netting. The material, whatever it was, proved far too strong, made of reinforced, triple-ply cording—and utterly resistant to Ari’s razor-sharp claws. And he was too enmeshed to even reach his dagger or effectively summon one of his swords.

  They were in a world of shit. And where the hell was Nik? Was Sable still galloping on without them? “Nikos Dounias!” Ari howled, the sound muffled by the thick mesh that enfolded him.

  Nik’s pained, screeching hawk’s song returned to him, followed by a second shriek, a shrill sound that ricocheted into the night. The sound of Nikos in anguish.

  They had Nik, too. That was when a cool sheen of sweat broke out on Aristos’s forehead. He and Nikos had sprung the trap, exactly as had been planned. Not only that . . .

  Sable had set them up.

  Chapter 20

  Daphne directed Leonidas along the rocky incline toward where she thought Apollo’s palace might be. She’d never met any Daughters of Delphi or priestesses who knew the site’s exact location, and even with her particular status as a demigoddess, she remained as clueless as the rest of her fellow Daughters.

  The palace, it seemed, was as much of an enigma as the god she’d once served. She could remember the first time she’d glimpsed Apollo as if it were only days ago. The whispers had begun among the temple priestesses at breakfast that morning, murmurs that they’d be graced by a visit from their god. For months, she’d hoped and waited to meet the one she served. What should she expect? Would he look like all the fine statues of him in the temple’s portico?

  As she waited eagerly all morning, so eager to meet him, she’d expected someone like Ares, all golden blond and luminously beautiful—just like their father was. Nothing could have prepared her for just how wrong she’d be. When Apollo finally did appear much later that day, he emerged from a glowing mist. All at once, he stood there in the temple, lyre in hand—the very antithesis to her pretty brother’s goldenness.

  He wore black hair, cut short as a cap, and his sun-darkened skin was swarthy as any Greek man’s ever got. His eyes were black as well, like gleaming pools of ebony peering out from his dusky face. But the contrast to Ares didn’t end there: of all the things she’d never imagined Apollo to be it was . . . burly. A broad barrel chest surged forth from beneath his open cloak, and he clutched the lyre with big, beefy hands. Yet despite his hefty size, there was a shocking gentleness to him, as he met them each, one by one, in a long receiving line.

  He was nothing like she’d dreamed . . . and perhaps that was why, when it came her turn for an introduction, she could only gape and blush until he laughed, patting her on the cheek. “Daphne, I have nothing in common with your brother,” he told her kindly, perceiving her thoughts in his godlike way.

  And she hadn’t had a single word to offer in return, nothing but mute acknowledgment for the only Olympian god, other than Eros, who’d ever mattered to her. But by the time she’d finally stolen her nerve to speak, he’d already turned to move down the line.

  She only prayed that today would go differently, that she wouldn’t be so stupidly tongue-tied if, indeed, they found Apollo. That she could speak plainly, and plainly make a case for Leo’s salvation. Because if she could not, it might be the end of the line; where else did she have to turn at this point?

  She stared at Leo’s broad back as they climbed now, praying that Apollo would have mercy on him. It struck her as odd that, in some ways, they bore a physical resemblance to each other, with their brawny builds and darkly handsome good looks. Maybe that similarity would cause Apollo to identify with Leo, here on this mountain of blond gods and goddesses and golden light.

  Leo stepped up onto a rocky, uneven surface and immediately came to a jerking halt, catching himself against the base of a tree. He stood, back to her, breathing heavily for a moment, and she rushed to him. “Leo, what is it? Your knee again?”

  He nodded mutely, barely managing to mask the obvious pain he felt in the joint.

  Oh, gods, the climb had to be killing him, drawing out even more suffering from the old injury.

  He bent over and rubbed the knee, not even bothering to hide his agonized grimace. He drew in several harsh breaths. “I . . . will be okay. Just give me a moment,” he gasped, his expression drawing tight.

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” She kne
lt in front of him, tenderly placing her palms against the joint. Even through his combat pants she could feel how swollen it had become, thick and knotty, heated, too. “Oh, darling, no. I will teleport us, you can’t do this. It makes no sense for you to climb, not when I have the power to take us to the general vicinity of Apollo’s palace. None at all.”

  He cut a pointed glance at her. “I am a Spartan. I’ve borne up under far worse conditions and injuries than this one.”

  Oh, the blessed male ego, a dangerous path into stupidity and stubbornness. But she was smart enough not to say that.

  “It’s not a good strategy,” Leo insisted, obviously seeing her doubt. “Isn’t your brother’s palace also near the top of the peak . . . not far from Apollo’s?”

  She nodded. “Not the very top, some feet below, but yes.”

  “Then if you transported us, it would undoubtedly place us dangerously near Ares’s camp. It’s far better to cling to these side trails and make our way stealthily. We can keep out of your brother’s crosshairs that way. It’s our best chance of arriving at Apollo’s undetected.”

  “So long as Ares doesn’t observe our approach.” She glanced up the mountain, squinting at the bright light. “You do realize he’s going to try to head off any plan to save you. Any thought we’ve had, he’s already had it. He must’ve known Eros couldn’t help us—or he’d have been there waiting. But he’s bound to guess that I’ll appeal to Apollo as a Daughter of Delphi.”

  Leo considered her words. “I still think teleporting puts us . . . you . . . in too much danger because we can’t be sure of Apollo’s location. At least this way we can proceed with our eyes wide open. I’d prefer to wait for nightfall, but since that won’t ever come . . .” He hesitated, touching the top of her head. “I will do what I must to protect you.”

  “You should think more of yourself, Leo. Your knee is brutally swollen.”

  “I am still strong,” he said simply.