Red Mortal

by Deidre Knight

  She moved toward him, hands outstretched. “We don’t know how much time we have, Leo. No one in the real world ever does. You once told me that you prayed to claim me. To make love to me. To take me beneath your body and make me yours. I am willing, my lord. I am still . . . have always been . . . yours.”

  His lean body was as sculpted, as muscular and fit, as it had always been, and she saw that it still reacted to her with the fervor of a very young man. The khakis that he wore bulged prominently in front, betraying how desperately he still wanted her despite all his claims about sending her away. His words were one thing; his visible need quite another.

  She stood in front of him, and pressed a shy, tentative hand against his groin, allowing her fingers to stroke his most intimate place. Leo jolted in reaction, clasping her wrist with a groan.

  “Daphne, stop.”

  “I see how you still react to me. I felt your manhood, your longing with my own hand.”

  He growled, onyx eyes flashing in the semidarkness. “You should not have done so.”

  “We don’t know how fast my brother’s curse will work. You could still give me a babe, if you wanted. Several, even . . . and live long enough to watch them grow. Live long enough to love me for years, for us to have a family, a whole life together despite what Ares has done.”

  “We do not know that.”

  “No,” she replied firmly. “We don’t know. But all you and I have ever had is the unknown.” She fell to her knees, mirroring the way she’d once begged her own brother to spare Leo this fate. “Do not send me away, Leo. Make me your mate, your wife. Whatever days we have, they will be more than enough.”

  Suddenly he was kneeling before her, moving slowly. When they were face-to-face, knee-to-knee, he slid rough fingers beneath her chin, stroking her slowly. Treating her as his beloved. “Am I to let you watch me die?” He smiled softly. “With the way I love you, would I do that to you, sweetness? No. I would not. You must go and be young forever. That is your portion. Mine is to lead my men against your brother, to raise that demon army . . . and fight until I’m no longer able to do so. But not with you watching.” He shook his head firmly. “Not with you suffering on my behalf. I can protect you in this one final way . . . and I will.”

  He drew her tight into his arms, petting her hair with long soothing strokes. She wanted to believe he’d heard her and would relent in his decision. Her hopes were dashed with his next words. “I can protect you in this one last thing. Leave me, my love. Please, go now, before neither of us is strong enough to make the break.”

  He rose to his feet without another word. Without looking back, he left her kneeling in the middle of his bedchamber. She heard his heavy footfalls fade down the hallway, listened to the power of total silence that came after.

  And still she knelt and waited. Waited and prayed, supplicating every power of the universe, their Highest God, that he would return. That he would fall before her and claim her, finally.

  But, long as she waited and prayed . . . Leonidas, king of Sparta, did not return. So she made herself invisible, lingering in his bedroom like a ghost. If this was all she had of him, the only way to be near him until the end, she’d take the bitter blessing.

  Chapter 25

  Ari buried his face against his knees, trying for at least a bit of sleep. Nobody had returned to them, not Caesar, not even Ares, as the foul demon trader had threatened. It had been hours now, the cell’s confines growing only tighter, the smell of their sweat and anxiousness palpable in the heavy air. There was nothing but waiting and endlessly staring between Nik and himself, all the while their fears becoming more tangible.

  They may never get out of this supernatural prison.

  At least he’d left a proper farewell message for Jules, scrawled and nearly illegible though it was. Ari glanced sideways at Nik’s own epistle. The big guy had conked out against the wall, his jaw slack, and he was snoring—loudly. It brought back memories of those long nights at Thermopylae, the smell of blood and piss and death so strong, all they could do was prop against each other and try for at least a bit of sleep, waiting for death in the morning.

  He’d be damned if that’s what they were doing now. He’d lost Jules once; he didn’t want to lose her a second time by stepping into the afterlife.

  Glancing at the floor, he stole a glance at Nik’s note; yeah, the warrior had been all protective, but that’s because somehow the lug didn’t get that everyone already knew that he and Mason were lovers. That secret had come out of the bag, so to speak, months ago—the first time Nik had slept over at Mace’s house, and returned home the next morning grinning and rumpled and red-faced.

  The fact that Nikos was finally happy—insanely happy—made Ari grin, too. The brother had been way too uptight and dour for a long time before Mace came along.

  He stole a look at Nik’s writing on the floor, part of it obscured by one massive boot.

  . . . was the first time when I believed, dared hope, that you might return my feelings. That is where I wish to take you as my husband, by the river, the flowing ebb of eternity. Your home, too, the land that’s in your blood. I wish to marry you there, not by the laws of this world, but by authority of our king, all that matters . . . that, and my love for you.

  Damn, even Ari blushed after reading that. Nikos wasn’t just with Mason; he didn’t just love the guy. What ole Nik had going was an all the way smitten, totally overboard kind of emotion—the forever sort of love.

  Way to go, brother, he thought, watching Nik snore. You got yourself a good guy, too.

  Briefly, and he hated himself for it, but Nik wondered how Mason Angel would ever handle losing yet another man he loved . . . if their situation came to that. The guy had to be climbing the walls right now, he was sure of it—and that gave Ari a pang of hope. Mace wasn’t just Nikos’s boyfriend, wasn’t just the guy Nik loved; Mace was a full-on recon Marine, trained to break captives out of cells just like this one.

  With that thought, he sank against the wall, and like Nik, slid into slumber.

  Sable kept near the river while Mace walked by the warehouse club, baseball cap pulled low, doing a great imitation of someone who was extremely hungover and only now finding their way home. Early morning on the river like this, there was mostly trash from the partying the night before, a few steamers moving past on the water, and a motley crew of homeless people. Mace, for all his clean-cut military demeanor, somehow managed to blend right in.

  The hunter did a double-pass by the club, and then cut back in Sable’s direction. Mace, of course, could see him even though Sable was cloaking his form—such were the benefits of having supernatural sight like that human did.

  “Man, it’s shut down cold,” Mason hissed. “Not a peep coming from there. You sure it’s the spot?”

  Sable jerked a nod. “Trail ends right at that front door. I can smell them, and especially Caesar. Ari and Nik were taken inside there . . . and not brought back out.”

  Dead or alive.

  Mace shivered at the words, obviously tracking with Sable’s thoughts.

  “Let’s plan to keep the place under surveillance all day. You can park your hooves here without being spotted—”

  “Only by humans; other demons will mark me from half a mile away,” Sable disagreed. “You’re the better choice.”

  Mace gave him an incredulous look. “You do realize that I’m, uh, a bit infamous with this set, right? If they see me loitering around, we’ll never stand a chance of getting in there.”

  “All of you Shades are infamous with the demon hordes about town. Doesn’t mean we can’t get in there.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Mace asked, leaning against the railing along the dock.

  Sable rubbed his jaw. The Spartans had been taken inside—there had to be a way to get them out. “We wait till late tonight, when the bar is crowded; keep an eye on it discreetly until then. I’ll position myself farther down River Street. We can get Leonidas and others to bl
end in, too. We’ll have clear eyes on the entry and exit point, and that means we’ll see if they try and haul Nik and Ari out. Then about midnight, we go in blazing.”

  Mace thought a moment. “Sound plan,” he agreed. “But you do realize there’s only one reason they’re holding them, right?”

  To keep Ari from healing Leonidas . . . He almost volunteered the information because Sable had little doubt of one fact: Ares would never honor their deal, Sable would never gain human form again, not if he helped free the Spartans. But if he didn’t? He’d never have any kind of hope with Sophie, and it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t human . . . she’d hate him, revile him as the traitor he was.

  Still, for now, he didn’t see any reason to reveal that he knew why Ares had kidnapped the pair.

  Mace tapped his foot impatiently, clearly waiting for a response, so Sable said, “I don’t really know why they’d keep them prisoner.”

  “I do,” Mason said, expression grim. “I saw enough of it in Iraq . . . for intel. They’re being worked over for whatever goods Ares can get ’em to cough up. Ain’t gonna be pretty.” Mace looked away. “Nightfall can’t come fast enough.”

  Leo called out drills, working the warriors harder than he had in months. His armor felt like deadweight on his body, but he’d be damned if he eased up now. Perhaps by training even harder, he could keep the transformation at bay, something he desperately needed to do because he had a plan.

  He was going to raise that demon army and, along with these spectacular warriors who were drilling for him now, would rout Ares once and for all. It was the one lasting gift he could give Daphne, even if he couldn’t give her himself.

  She would be safe, free from the dominion of her sadistic brother, and as he stepped into eternity, he’d take that peace with him. The assurance that his greatest love would no longer suffer.

  He strode to a training table. River kept it supplied with bowls and fresh, clean water, as well as a modern concession: white terry cloth towels for mopping the sweat and grime off. Leo poured himself a bowl of water, thankful that it had been chilled—more of an indulgence than he typically liked, but this morning his throat was parched.

  As it slid down his gullet, Leo closed his eyes. Perhaps Apollo would look after Daphne; he’d seemed taken with her, and certainly to care for her as protector. Yes, that was the added assurance he could count on—that the god would protect Leo’s beloved.

  Ajax lumbered toward the table in his full armor, helmet propped against his hip, long black hair slick with sweat. That warrior was always particularly striking in full battle dress. Today he looked as if he’d spent hours battling the Persians. “Working us hard today, aren’t you, my lord?” Jax plopped down his helmet, reaching a grimy hand for the water pitcher. “Trying to punish us for current events?” Jax’s gaze slid to Leo’s wizening features.

  Leo scrubbed his beard. “Let’s see . . . two of my warriors are missing, my age now past fifty . . . and my beloved gone for good.” He tossed the bowl back, draining the rest of his water. “Wouldn’t you be looking for some results?”

  “I think I’d be out searching for my lady love.”

  Leo shook his head. “No. I’ve asked her to leave and she’s heeded my request. It will stay that way.”

  Jax spun to face him, glaring incredulously. “Then, my brother, you’re not just an old man, you’re an old fool! Daphne is the light of your life, she gives you the strength for every fight,” Jax told him hotly. “She’s always been our guide, and of late, she’s been your particular sustenance. And so now, you send her away! When she might help you solve this bloody crisis.” Jax glowered at him, pacing in front of the bench angrily. “Leonidas, you’ve been my closest friend for more years than I could count, but I never thought to see you behave like such an ass.”

  Leo busied himself with adjusting his breastplate. It felt off-kilter, as if with his body’s changes, it no longer fit quite right. “I did it to protect her,” he admitted quietly.

  Jax came right up on him, seizing hold of Leo’s breastplate with both hands. “You did it to protect your ego—and your heart.” The warrior released him with a light shove. “And if you want to beat that disrespect out of me, Commander, have at it. But I’ll be damned if I won’t tell you the truth.” Jax stared at him long and hard. “You summon her. Today. Not tomorrow, not later. But you fall to your knees and beg the Oracle of Delphi to return to your side.”

  Leo rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I have to focus. There’s something I must accomplish before I die.”

  “Loving your female isn’t good enough?” Jax demanded, still angry.

  “It’s because I love her that I must do this, don’t you understand?”

  They stared each other down for a long moment, and then Jax sighed, long and hard. He busied himself with adjusting his ponytail at first—he always kept his long hair swept out of his eyes when training. Then after a moment, he met Leo’s gaze, composed again.

  “I love you, my lord,” he whispered hoarsely. “Seeing you go through this . . . I shouldn’t have been so harsh or disrespectful.”

  “You’re the brother of my heart, Ajax. I need you right now, perhaps more than I ever have.”

  “Of course, Commander. You need only tell me . . . as always.”

  Leo strode forward, clasping Jax by both shoulders. “I’m going to raise a demon army. And you’re going to help me lead them . . . to defeat Ares.” Leo faced the training ground. “When Sable returns—when we have Aristos and Nikos back—we’re going to begin the plan. For now, we prepare and train, for the battle of our lives is at hand.”

  As soon as the warriors left the training ground, Leo sagged against an old live oak, allowing the tree to prop his own old body upright. It was as if his very bones needed the support, as if his frame were as knotted and weathered as the oak behind him.

  Gripping his eight-foot spear in his right hand, he shoved it into the ground. A spear for a cane, almost unthinkable for any Spartan warrior. But the ruse had worked and better that than for his men to see how weak he’d become in the past days. The process inside his body was escalating; he sensed it. The throbbing pain in his right knee was almost unbearable, seeming to pulse with every beat of his heart. The ice wasn’t even helping anymore. His left wrist had gotten in on the action at breakfast, beginning to swell and burn, adding its own dull pain to the arthritic symphony in his right knee.

  Extending that left hand, he studied its gnarled, ugly appearance. Two fingers gone, vanished some time during the training exercises. No idea how many he’d been missing upon his death, couldn’t recall. He only prayed that he wouldn’t lose the whole hand as Ares’s curse worked its dark magic over his body. Rotating his wrist, he felt the sharp burn of pain. He did remember that injury. He’d broken the wrist, snapped it back with a painful crack, on that third day of fighting at the Hot Gates. He’d fought on; there’d been no other choice.

  With a weary sigh, he gripped his spear and lifted himself away from the tree.

  And his knee gave out completely, dropping him to the ground like a felled giant oak.

  With a cry, he spat sand from his mouth, feeling out to his side for the spear, but he’d snapped it when he’d fallen. It was a mockery of real battle, his spear broken into shards, his body flailing and defeated upon the ground. Rolling onto his back, he gasped, his lungs sucking at the air until he laughed darkly. The irony was almost comic, if he weren’t too lost in despising his helpless state. Reviling what he’d become.

  With a weary groan, he forced himself into a sitting position, hands braced beside him on the loamy earth.

  “This Old Man must rise again,” he muttered, stretching to lay hold of his broken spear. The lower half of it still protruded from the ground, and he could use that to hoist himself to his feet—if he were lucky. If not, well, he’d strip out of the heavy armor and do his best to crawl up onto his knees, then his feet.

  Only one problem with that plan: the knee w
as pure misery.

  And another problem, too: he could not reach the broken spear. With a blistering set of curses, he began stripping off the brass greave that covered his ruined knee. The swollen, aching joint nearly sang with relief as he freed it. Rubbing his fingertips over the hot flesh, he let his eyes close at the temporary pleasure.

  But then cooler fingertips pushed his own out of the way. “Let me, sir,” the gentle voice prompted.

  His eyes flew open, and he was shocked to see Sophie Lowery kneeling beside him. “Sophie, I don’t—”

  “Shh, sir. Our secret. I won’t tell. I promise.” She skimmed her small hands all across his aching joint, below it, beneath.

  He blushed at the contact; not out of attraction, but at the sheer awkwardness of being touched so intimately by any female other than Daphne—especially one who had found him at such a vulnerable, appalling moment of weakness.

  He swallowed. “You won’t tell . . .”

  “The others,” she finished quietly, squinting as she stared down at his knee. She worked like a professional, as if she were a battalion medic, someone they’d brought along to tend their war injuries.

  “Sir, this is very aggravated. You should have sought some sort of care before now.”

  “Nothing to be done, Sophie.” He sighed as relief swept into his bones and leg and joint. “Oh . . . yes, very nice. Thank you.”

  “Something can always be done. There’s me, for one thing,” she pointed out, brushing a lock of curls from her eyes. “I’m a healer—obviously. You know how I helped Sable.”

  He shook his head. “Any relief will be short term.”

  “I don’t believe that this is terminal. I believe you’ll defeat Ares.”

  He shook his head. “I am cursed, Sophie.” He dropped his gaze to his breastplate, reaching to adjust it again. The blasted armor was so tight and painful today.