“Plenty.” Leo’s grip on her grew sharper, but he said no more, waiting like the rest of them for whatever pronouncement her brother would issue next.
Apollo, unlike Leo, wasn’t a man of reticence. “Ares, you vile ass,” the god barked, “speak your piece, then be gone from here.”
Ares stroked his golden goatee, studying Daphne at length. “I’d been so sure that by stripping away your king’s lingering youth, he’d lose his sway over you, but I never imagined that he’d be stripping away your virginity.” He pulled a face, shaking his head in disgust. “Apparently, the Spartan’s allure for you is so strong that even greater action is required. I obviously didn’t spend enough time on my handiwork.” Ares swung his deadly, horrid cape off his shoulders. “Easy enough to rectify.”
Apollo rushed her brother, shoving him hard in the chest. “Out of my palace! You’ll pay if you don’t leave,” the immense god roared.
But it was too late; that diabolical cape had already sailed through the air with majestic, mystical authority—and found its target.
Leo vanished from before Daphne’s very eyes.
Ari supposed that the sweltering, boxy cell was at least somewhat more comfortable than that tangled net. His wing had been bruised, but not broken, allowing him to retract it; it would hurt like a mother for a while whenever he shifted to hawk form, but at least he wouldn’t spend a month with the wing on a splint. Also, here in the safe room, as opposed to dangling from the treetops, he and Nik could talk freely. But from his position, huddled on the cement floor of the dimly lit space, the goodies ended there.
Ares had worked some dark mojo on them in the woods, too, neutralizing Ari’s strong demigod’s power. He still felt it humming in his veins, could hear the rush of it in his mind, but he couldn’t access that power. It was strange, too, but he had a feeling that this cell was far more than a safe room in the back of a club. Because it hummed, from the low ceiling, to the deathly gray walls; not a human kind of noise, a supernatural one that twitched in Ari’s immortal ears.
It was as if some kind of power grid had been enforced on them by Ares, something that both neutralized their abilities while also hemming them in and preventing any hope of escape. It was unlikely that their comrades could ever pick up their trail, not behind this impenetrable fortress. Walls were one thing; a supernatural barrier created by a god, quite another. They were invisible, hidden captives; at Ares’s and Caesar’s mercy, maybe even awaiting execution. With one look into Nik’s stark eyes, he knew his Spartan brother was tracking with all those same thoughts.
Ari huddled on the floor, arms wrapped about his knees. His chest was bare—he’d not bothered to shape-shift into clothing after ditching his wings. He rocked back and forth, thinking.
Nik wasn’t much of a talker, not like Ari, yet the guy was first to speak. “We need to face facts, Aristos.”
“Current events aren’t too pretty, brother.” Ari laughed dully. “Can’t we face something else instead?”
Nik sighed, leaning back against the smooth wall; the entire room was painted in a grim, steely gray. “We may never see anyone again, not even . . . the ones we love most.” Nik gave him a bleak look.
“It’s not helpful to think that way, man.” Ari experienced the urge to be strong for his friend, found purpose in it. “You’ll see Mace again, of course you will.” Ari touched his own wedding ring, turning it on his finger. “We’ll both make it home, brother.”
Nik’s eyes drifted shut and he sagged against the wall. “You once told me that I tend to be too reserved about my feelings. You were right. That advice changed everything between Mason and me.”
“I’m not saying to clam up or anything.” Ari slid across the floor, leaning across the opposite wall from Nikos.
His friend held silent a moment, then, “There is a very real possibility that you will never return to Juliana, and that I won’t see Mason again, not in this world. We should make sure our hearts are clear.”
Ari didn’t understand what he meant. Nik gave him a meaningful glance and instantly exposed his claws. “We can scratch a message onto these walls, onto the floor. Maybe they’ll never see it . . . maybe we’ll make it home,” he said thickly. “Or perhaps it is our last chance to let them know how we feel. We must be realistic.”
Realistic. With one look around at the tight container of a room, feeling barely able to breathe because of the heavy heat and lack of clean air, Ari knew that Nikos was right. They needed to leave last words to the ones they loved.
The thing was, he, a man who never lacked for anything to say, wasn’t sure what to tell Jules—or Leonidas, or his brothers. He had nothing.
Nikos, on the other hand, had already begun scratching out a message, moving a sharp claw harshly across the floor. He huddled over the message, cupping his other hand over his work, hiding what had to be a heartfelt note. The man’s brow was knit, his eyes shimmering even in the dim light.
Ari sighed, racking his brain; he was a musician, but never a poet. Starting, he slowly scratched out, My Jules, my love.
How could he ever give permanence to the feelings in his heart? Well, he’d just have to give it his best shot.
I wish to have seen us have babes together, a family . . . to walk into the unknown future of eternity as one.
He began with that, and continued scrawling, trying to put into words all the hopes and dreams he held for them. When he was done, he felt inadequate about the heart of his message, and craned for a look at Nik. His friend gave him a sharp glance, cupping one clawed hand over what he’d already written.
Maybe Ari was punchy by then, maybe terrified and just unable to face it, but he groaned. And laughed. And groaned again. “Brother, really?” he snorted. “Don’t be such a malaka! I know you’re in love with Mason. I’m sure even thick-headed Straton’s figured that out by now.”
Nik kept his clawed hand over the words, bent low. “Yes, Straton is aware. He is like me, you know.”
Ari went wide-eyed. “Skata! Seriously? I had no idea.”
“And he’s as alone as I used to be.” Nik shook his head ruefully, muttering. “The idiot.”
“You mean he’s missed a chance?” Ari leaned back against the wall, drinking in the revelation. It was a welcomed distraction, much easier than trying to pen his last will and testament to Jules, and to admonish Kalias and Ajax to keep their asses in line with him gone.
“There is . . . someone,” he said after a moment. “But Straton takes no action, nor does he make his feelings known.”
Even in the midst of crisis—even facing death—Ari couldn’t help wanting to gossip. Maybe because the mundane act of trading stories about the ones they loved felt like a salve to his anxieties—and took his mind off his fears of never holding Jules again. Beyond that, they were going to be locked in this windowless cage for a while, so they might as well settle in for the long haul and distract themselves. That was the Spartan way; it always had been, to make morbid and bawdy jokes, to tell tales, even as you faced down death.
“All right, all right.” Ari raked a clawed hand through his sweaty hair. The room was muggy and probably at least ninety degrees—with zero air circulation. Diversion. That’s what they needed, not to focus on the fact that they might expire in this cramped, miserable space.
“Dude, seriously . . . Straton?” Ari asked again, incredulous. “Who’s the ole pit bull into? And who, by the gods, would ever have a thing for him?” Ari’s mind whirled, but he couldn’t think of any male of their acquaintance who could possibly fit the bill. Well, there was one of Jamie’s Shades who popped to mind.
“Is it Evan? Emma’s buddy? He’s gay as a three-antlered reindeer, huh?”
Nikos slid back against the opposite wall, and with their long legs extended, their boots abutted. The space was doubly small because of how mammoth the two of them were.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Nikos sighed.
Ari mopped his forehead. “Just spill.
We may never get out of this place anyway.”
“But if we do? Straton would have my balls for talking. His secret, not mine.” Nikos bent back over the floor, scratching out more words. Slow progress, when you only had your hawk’s claws for the job.
Ari hated it, but he started humming that old Paul McCartney and Wings song . . . If we ever get out of here . . . gonna give it all away . . .
No, he’d get home to Jules, if he expired blasting his way out of this room. If his wings broke in the process, he and Nik would find a way home to their loved ones. No more last words, no sitting on death row. Action. They had to make a move of some sort, even from within this claustrophobic space.
Ari planted his face in both hands. “Nikos, my brother.” He sighed wearily. “We’ve got to overtake Caesar, not just leave our last thoughts. We’ve gotta fight, man.”
Nik sat up tall, wiping rivulets of sweat away from his brow. “Yes, we must. But first, I need to make sure I leave this for Mason. In case we don’t succeed. There’s something important I never told him.”
Sophie hadn’t wanted to head back home to her carriage house on West Jones Street, not with Sable out on the mission with Ari and Nik. She was too on edge, unable to sleep, so she’d crashed in the downstairs cellar of her cousins’ house, curled up on an air mattress with a pile of books on Djinn lore by her side. There were several guest bedrooms, but she’d always loved the cellar, the Shades’ base. The musty smell of books was a comfort to her, a reminder of their shared childhood and simpler times.
It had to be at least three in the morning, but no matter how she tossed and turned, her spirit was unsettled. She had faith in Sable, knew in her heart that he did love her—and believed that his motives surely had to be true, but no matter how she sliced it, she didn’t have a good feeling about his mission tonight.
Flinging onto her back, she reached for the floor lamp, turned it back on, and resumed reading the book that the Shades most relied on, The Final Crossing. It wasn’t the original volume, which was kept in a temperature and moisture-controlled case in the wine cellar. This was a rough translation from the original Ancient Greek, a portable volume that Mace had been working on ever since last year.
She’d been reading a section about Djinn and freewill. Mace had discovered it about six months earlier, which had helped them understand Sable’s unique battle. The text stated that any Djinn could choose the path of light, but it was a struggle to transform, an excruciatingly painful process, impacting every part of their being: spiritual, physical, and emotional.
No wonder Sable was grumpy so much of the time. It had to be like when Sophie picked up smoking while an art student, and then abruptly quit. Cold turkey. Her skin had been on fire, as if every nerve ending was prickling painfully; her head had hurt, and she’d spent months in a mental fog even worse than the one she’d been seemingly born with.
Crossing her ankles, she sank back into the pillows and studied the few etchings of Djinn that had been copied from the book. Oh, those demons were glorious, all right. And they had wings! Had Sable ever told her about that? She rubbed her forehead, trying to remember, but it was late. Maybe she’d grown so accustomed to him with hooves and a tail that the concept of wings had never fully registered.
She flipped through the pages and a new section caught her eye, a half chapter entitled, “Sensuality of the Djinn.” The hair on her nape stood on end, and she touched her lips, remembering those earlier kisses she’d shared with Sable. She glanced toward the stairs, feeling as if she were stealing a look at a porn magazine or something. Was it even right for her to study up on Sable’s sexual side?
Humph, she didn’t care; he knew all about her, even things she never wanted to reveal—and he’d followed her around town without telling her. Fair was fair, wasn’t it? She darted her eyes toward the stairs one more time, sliding down beneath her blanket, and began to read.
Male Djinn are marked by a proclivity for all things sensual, without regard for male or female, or type of entity—the fey, the underworld, and humankind alike, all appeal to a healthy Djinn male of age, and he will manipulate at length to gain his way in sexual matters with any or all of them.
She blushed right down to the roots of her hair. Maybe that’s all it was with Sable; maybe he used emotion and affection only to maneuver his way toward what he wanted. What he lusted for.
But then she remembered that stolen, moonlit moment when he’d gazed up at the balcony, not seeing her in the shadows, and all that she’d sensed while probing him with her empath’s nature. He did love her, there wasn’t any doubt.
She jolted when the sound of footsteps appeared on the rickety stairs that led down to the cellar. Sitting up, she clutched the translation against her chest, as if it could protect her from whatever would come next.
“Soph?” It was Shay . . . but why was she coming down here in the middle of the night? Her cousin appeared in the thin light at the base of the steps. Sophie reared back against the pillows. “You still up, hon?” Shay asked softly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Her cousin was trying to act calm, but Sophie had known the girl her whole life. Shay’s clear blue eyes were wide and filled with worry.
“What’s happened?” Sophie clutched her blanket.
Shay, dressed in Jax’s boxers and a T-shirt, came closer. “You’re awake?”
“Obviously. Duh. Now tell me what’s wrong. Is it Sable?”
Her cousin walked to the far edge of the room, making a show of pulling volumes out of the shelf. “You heard from him yet?”
Sophie leaped out of the makeshift bed, and wheeled right on her cousin. “No. Of course not. He doesn’t have a cell phone. It’s not like he can go to AT&T! Geez. Now what, pray tell, is going on?”
Shay turned slowly, her eyes filled with regret and worry. “The boys . . . we haven’t heard from them. Ari and Nik should’ve texted us, but there’s been no contact yet . . . nothing at all. Jax thinks they might be missing.”
“Missing,” Sophie repeated, recalling all of Sable’s pledges and promises.
“It might be nothing.” Shay shrugged. “Then again . . .”
“You think they’re in danger. You think Sable might be part of it.” Sophie tried to keep her warbling voice steady.
Shay reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. “Nobody’s accusing him of that, sweetie.”
But she didn’t have to say more; Sophie understood. The man she loved, the one she’d placed fragile faith in . . . might just have failed his first and only test.
Sable trotted carefully along the cobblestones of River Street, lingering in the alleyway shadows as he progressed. He had that damned demon trader’s scent choking up his nostrils, nauseating him until his eyes watered. But, the upside of the demonic stench, was that it made it damned easy to nail Caesar’s location, and by proxy, the location of Nikos and Ari.
The trail ended on the far end of River Street, in the lower level of one of the old cotton warehouses. Sable could hear the thumping of bass notes, some hypnotic and monotonous dance beat that hammered inside the club. The trail of sulfur led right up to the open door where a bouncer sat, texting someone on his cell. That the human was distracted was a good thing—it meant Sable didn’t have to cling so hard to the otherworldly shadows, lest the fool’s mortal eyes catch a glimpse of him. If he didn’t have the sight, he’d never spot Sable at all.
But for some reason, Sable had a feeling that this club wasn’t just an ordinary sleaze joint; Ares had referred to it as “the club.” As in the club. The only one they frequented, apparently, and that tipped Sable off that it had to be a den of iniquity, with a variety of supernatural and demonic types as regular clientele. And he’d never heard of it, not in his days of mayhem and dark mischief, so the joint had to be newer than six months—which had been the last time Sable had trod anywhere near a place like this one.
Anyway, if the club was what he thought it was, it would be filled with underwo
rld and supernatural types, and so he didn’t dare try to enter undetected. He needed reinforcements; it was the only way they stood a chance of helping Nikos and Ari break out.
What he specifically needed, in fact, was someone with human legs and feet, who could waltz in the bar like a local, and breeze out like a commando.
He needed Mason Angel.
Chapter 23
The cloak had been the last thing Leo saw, unfurling like a great sailing ship in the air, headed right for his shoulders . . . once again. After that, there’d been only crushing blackness as he’d been teleported. Yet unlike when Daphne transported him, the process had lacked vital energy, been more like a draining, sucking void, emptying him of life.
He had no idea how long he’d spent in that whirlwind, but it was now morning in Savannah, the tiniest rays of light lining the carpet where he lay. He’d been face-first on the floor of his chambers for a while now, the soft pile carpeting abrading his cheek, wondering if he’d experienced something other than teleportation. Perhaps something far more deadly. His body felt the weight of whatever the god had done. It ached with a bone-deep kind of pain he’d only known once before in his life—the day he’d died at Thermopylae. The muscles felt raw, the scars along his back throbbed.
That damned cloak, it was gone, but its effect still lingered. And where, by the gods, had Ares hurled Daphne? Or had she remained at Apollo’s palace? Leo had no doubt that anywhere he went, she would follow. No hesitation. So, then why wasn’t she here now?
He had his answer the moment her tender, loving hands touched him on the shoulders. “Leo, are you awake?”
Keeping his face averted from her, he worked his way to his knees. “I’m . . . all right,” he lied. Across the room, a full-length mirror hung on the back of the closed bedroom door. Even in the dim morning light, he could see the truth glaring back at him. He was truly old now. The cloak might be gone, but his body was irrevocably changed. In that one horrific moment, Ares had managed to age Leo by nearly another decade . . . perhaps more.
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