She lifted onto her knees, moving to his side. “Here, let me help you out of this,” she said, and he shivered.
Daphne. Daphne’s words; Daphne’s gesture the first time they’d wound up kissing. It should be his love tending him, his love helping him.
But he was a stubborn, vain fool. Just as Daphne and Ajax had both accused—and they knew him far too well to be wrong on that point.
Before he could stop Sophie, she was working her hands over the leather side bindings. He reached to prevent her, their fingers tangling together. “Don’t.”
“You’re in pain. Uncomfortable,” she argued, looking up into his eyes. Her blue, eerily beautiful gaze reminded him so much of Daphne’s. So did her determination to help him.
“I . . . it’s not appropriate for you to undress me.”
Her eyes widened and a high blush hit her cheeks. “It’s only armor, sir.”
“And only my linen shirt just beneath.” For a brief moment, he feared that Daphne might be nearby, watching unseen. Even now, he didn’t want to do anything to give her the wrong impression, or make her believe he had interest in young Sophie.
“Hasn’t our Oracle done the same for you?”
This time he was the one to blush, the heat of it crawling all beneath his beard and up across his cheekbones. “My relationship with our lady is . . .”
“Beautiful.” Sophie practically sighed the word, clutching her hands over her heart.
“Pardon?”
Sophie nodded vigorously. “You love her so much. Every time you even mention her, your voice changes. That’s the real problem with this knee, you know.”
“I don’t know . . . what you mean.”
She slid back to her ministering position, and as she began moving her hands over his leg again, he was shocked to see that the swelling had reduced by half.
“You’re denying what heals your soul. By denying her. By keeping her from your side.”
“You know about that,” he said flatly. There were no secrets in their mixed cadre, the gossip as loud as any henhouse.
“I saw it, just now while healing you. Oh, that was a dumb thing to do, good golly Molly.” Sophie shook her bent head, her curls bouncing. “Mistake. Big one . . . sir.” She tacked on the term of respect as an afterthought.
“Should I take love advice from you? A mortal of how many years? Twenty?”
She snapped a sharp gaze at him. “I’m twenty-five. Sir. Don’t make Ari’s mistake—I’m not a little girl.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Forgive my blunder.”
“I’m no kid, even though my family tries to act like I’m one,” she said. “And Sable . . . he treats me like I’m breakable or something.” She glanced away quickly. “Well, who knows now? He may never really come back.” Her expression became despairing, even as she tried to hide her face from him.
He touched her gently on the arm. “Sophie, he went to Mason, and he’s helping us find Nikos and Ari.”
“I know. I heard.” She sighed. “I just don’t know how things went so wrong.”
“You’re losing faith in him? Now?” Leo himself had felt doubts in the past hours, but Sable’s determination to help them locate the missing warriors had assuaged those hesitations. Especially because he needed Sable to be trustworthy; he was going to seek the Djinn’s help with raising the demon army.
Sophie slid her gaze to him, her eyes bright. “It’s hard to love someone who’s always running away . . . or pushing you out.” That gaze became pointed, and far wiser than any twenty-five-year-old’s should be.
“I believe you’re speaking to me.”
“I am,” she said, and her voice sounded tremulous suddenly. Slumping forward slightly, she pressed the back of her right hand against her temple, and Leo noticed that a sheen of perspiration had formed across her brow. Only then did he remember how she’d collapsed after healing Sable.
“Sophie, you have helped me,” he said firmly, reaching out to stop her from touching him any further. She shocked him by gathering both his hands in her much smaller ones.
“Don’t keep her away. It’s killing you, King Leonidas. I see it in your bones . . . feel it as I touch you.” She squeezed his hands emphatically. “This curse? It’s not what you think. I can’t explain what I mean, maybe one of the other Daughters can. All I know is . . . denying your love for her is a slow poison inside your skin.”
Chapter 26
Daphne watched from within the small peach grove, the copse of trees that Leo had apparently planted in her honor. The saplings were young, but strong. Her beloved, however, wasn’t thriving . . . he was suffering.
And seeing sweet Sophie apply her tender healing gift to him, so eager and desirous of helping her stubborn lover, only brought more tears to Daphne’s eyes. It should be her, stripping him out of that weighty armor, her touching him and restoring his beautiful but tortured body.
But she had to respect his wishes, so to the mists she clung, hoping that he might change his mind and realize that now, above any other time, they should be together. But that didn’t make watching him, hurting with him, any easier.
He ambled slowly toward the house, his knee better—at least for now—and it was all she could do not to rush after him, to materialize in his path and simply demand that he love her. That he accept her love for him.
But she would not do that. He’d told her his wish: that she let him die alone. So she would do that . . . and die more than a little bit herself in the process. Which left her with seemingly nowhere to turn, except here, unseen and grieving with him. But she knew that wasn’t what he’d intended; in fact, it explicitly violated his request.
She leaned against the same tree that Leo had sagged against, pressing her cheek against the aged bark. Tears that she’d been choking back for a full day finally spilled.
There had to be an answer.
There was only one last place to turn. Even if it was the last thing her beloved wanted.
Leo approached the riverfront dock, dressed in all black. It was after ten p.m., and although he wasn’t necessarily needed for this mission, he couldn’t stay away. These were his men who’d been taken prisoner, and until he saw them home safely, he’d never be able to rest. His knee was much improved thanks to Sophie’s handiwork, and he walked with barely a hitch in his gait.
That did nothing to steer his thoughts away from Daphne. She was everywhere, nowhere, with him nonetheless. To see things through with Ares was his only other desire, apart from making sure that Aristos and Nikos made it home safely. Other than that, every urge within him was about annihilating Ares, so that the wicked god would never threaten his beloved again.
And that was the other reason he was here, to corner Sable and present his plan; they didn’t have much time, not given how fast he was aging. So sitting at home and nursing his swollen knee wasn’t on the docket.
At the entrance to the club, the one where Sable claimed Nik and Ari were being held, a crowd was gathered. Mostly young art students ambled about, some of them smoking, a few drinking beers as well as some stronger drinks in this, an open container city. Leo scanned the perimeter, searching for his own people. At approximately three o’clock, he spotted Mason, decked out in a preppy button-down shirt and khakis, looking for all the world like nothing more than a tourist.
Another quick scan of the perimeter, and Leo located Jamie, too, just as prepped out, and waiting just as stealthily. Then, much farther down toward the water, stood a stalwart form that none of those mortal art students could possibly see, an edgy centaur who kept stomping his hooves, obviously ready to get into the fight.
Leo made a beeline for that male, ignoring Mason and Jamie, as well as the other Shades who had ringed that club like a garland. Sable caught sight of him, too, glancing up, his light blue eyes filled with shocked surprise.
Before he’d even reached the demon, Leo called out, “Sable. Elblas of Persia, I need a moment. I need . . . your help.”
The Djinn hesit
ated, rubbing his chest, then replied softly, “Of course, Leonidas of Sparta. Tell me the word.”
Sable gazed down at the king, working his hardest to hide his shock at the male’s changed appearance. The Spartan stood proudly, gathering his thoughts as Sable had often seen the man do. After a moment, Leonidas gazed up at him. “I want to destroy Ares.” Simple, to the point. But why, by Ahriman, would the man trust him now?
“And you think I can help?” Sable didn’t bother trying to conceal his shock.
Leonidas’s dark gaze became shrewd. “I know that you can.”
Sable glanced in Mason’s direction; the marine stalked the club with subtle vengeance, eager for the moment when he and his brother would go in and save the captured Spartans.
He turned back to Leonidas. “You actually trust me.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
Economy of words, always, with this one, but Sable respected that trait in the king as much as he loved Sophie’s prattling. For each, it signified their character, a rare goodness that for some reason, some keen, powerful reason, Sable didn’t want to disappoint in Leonidas. Not tonight, not ever again.
“Or, perhaps . . .” Sable shifted his hooves. “Maybe you should. Trust me. Tell me what you need, Leonidas.”
The king raked a thoughtful hand over his snowy-white beard. “Do you have associates, ones like you who might be . . . disaffected? Winnable, as it were, to my own side of things . . . against Ares?”
“What are you scheming?”
“My time is ending,” the king said softly, indicating his weathered face. “As you can plainly see. But before I depart for the afterworld, leaving all of you behind—my Daphne, your Sophie . . .” He gestured toward the club, his voice growing even quieter. “My warriors . . . and you. I want to ensure that all of you are safe from Ares’s cruel hand.”
Sable couldn’t meet the noble man’s gaze. He worried about Sable’s own safety, as well? He bothered to list him in that gentle litany?
Staring past the king’s shoulders, Sable murmured, “I might know some . . . who would follow. Understand a plan such as yours.”
Leonidas reached upward, clasping his shoulder in a gesture of fidelity and friendship. “I knew that I could count on you. I’ve been banking on it. The god has held all of you, us, under his sadistic hand for far too long. I want to lead a mutiny, meet kind with like kind.”
Sable didn’t understand those words, and his confusion must have showed.
Leonidas elaborated. “Ares has always used the underworld against us. He harnessed your demonic power. He bartered with us in Hades itself. We must meet him with the same weapons. Even the playing field, that’s the warfare that’s needed.”
Sable thought of his one-time minions Krathsadon and Mirapish, and how despite their recent mockery of his transformation, they’d seemed to miss his leadership, too. Not only that pair, but his mind riffled through at least two dozen other demons of his acquaintance, some of them antsy in the past years, wanting more than servitude and humiliation.
“I know some creatures.” Sable met the king’s gaze steadily. So strange, but his heart surged in his chest, a strange pride taking hold. For a man of Leonidas’s stature to believe in him, place faith? He wanted to live up to that responsibility. “I believe I can help,” he offered quietly.
The sturdy Spartan gave only one nod. “Good,” he said. “Let’s meet again tomorrow. At the compound training field. We can strategize then, once tonight is behind us.” Leonidas glanced toward the club entrance. “Once we’ve freed two good men.”
“Yes,” Sable heard himself agreeing. “We must secure them first.”
The Spartan began to walk away, but Sable couldn’t help calling after him.
“How is Sophie?” He raked a jittery hand over his short hair, pretending it was only the most casual of questions. “I’ve not seen her today.”
The king turned back, gracing him with another genuine smile. “Waiting for you to come home,” he said, his scarred lower lip pulling awkwardly. “Sophie is waiting for you.”
Somehow, mystically so, Sable heard the words that Leonidas of Sparta didn’t utter: Sophie was waiting for his light side to truly emerge. For the realest part of him to stand tall.
Chapter 27
Leo arrived home from downtown, weary, and hoping that Nik and Ari would be freed from captivity later tonight. Jamie had urged him to go home and get rest, promising to text a report.
When he’d come home, he’d gone straight to his chambers, and found a present waiting for him. Hanging from the knob was a small pouch, filled with a delightfully smelling mixture. A note was attached, penned in simple, broad strokes, and all it said was “Seek our Oracle once again. And please, please use these bath salts to help your knee.”
Sophie, he’d known it in a moment. Something about the sweet wisp of a girl made him want to be obedient to her care. So now he poured the healing salts into his garden tub, the one he almost never used. He stood there naked, watching them fizzle and dissolve in the warm waters, afraid of catching a glimpse of his changing body in the full-length mirror along the bathroom wall.
At last, drawing in a strengthening breath, he rotated slowly to examine the day’s damage. The usual, lifelong scars were still there, a parade of victories and losses engraved upon his skin, but new ones had emerged, as well. Wounds that had been healed in the waters of Styx now appeared as scars. Biggest of all the marks was the scar from the long belly-knifer that had disemboweled him after his death. The Persians had taken great pride in parading and abusing his fallen body—for hours they’d tossed him upon their spears and shoulders and shields. The worst damage had never even healed in the waters of Styx upon his bargain.
He touched that scar along his abdomen tentatively, not surprised to find it hotter than the surrounding flesh, but he was shocked, however, to discover how tender it was to the touch. That was a new effect. It seemed every day and hour held its own perverse surprise.
He faced the mirror again, letting his gaze travel the length of his body, noting another new scar now sketched the width of his upper thigh, looping it like a tourniquet.
That one he remembered, he thought with a wry laugh. He’d gotten it while training with Ajax long before Thermopylae. The Spartan had been horrified, apologizing the entire time he’d watched Leo being stitched up. Those had been carefree times, looking back upon them. Simple days. No demons; no gods; no weight of eternity. No loving a woman whom he could never really deserve. Oh, Daphne, why couldn’t I have known you in those ancient days?
You fool of a king, even then she was a demigoddess and you a blood-soaked warrior. You’ve always been too tarnished for someone as pure as she.
He stretched his arms overhead, turning to face his bath and yelped like a woman when he discovered Daphne sitting on the edge of the tub.
“Daphne!” he clapped his palms over his privates, heat crawling all over his body. She’d seen him when they’d become lovers, of course—all of him—but he’d evolved for the worse since then. He hated the thought of her glimpsing the horrific truth of him, nothing concealed, and every striated battle mark proving all the death and darkness that he’d lived through.
“You . . . you . . .” He had no words, especially because his ugly, disfigured body was naked and she wore only a bath towel for covering. “You . . . should not . . .” His chest heaved, his lungs sucked at desperate gasps of air. “I am . . . naked.”
“We are lovers, Leo.”
“We were.” Past tense; two wondrous joinings. But lovers no more.
She ignored that comment, instead tilting her head, studying him through flirtatious eyes. “When have Spartans ever minded nudity? You used to race that way on the open tracks of Sparta.” She smiled, lowering her lashes. “Too bad I wasn’t there.”
“I . . . I was a young man then,” he blustered. “And you were not, most decidedly, there.”
“I bet you let Gorgo watch you. With satisfacti
on.” There was no jealousy in the statement, only honest observation.
His jaw tightened at the memory, at recalling how he had once been proud of his masculine, honed body—a body that was vanishing before his very eyes with every passing day. Oh, how he ached for Daphne to see him as he’d once been.
“No snappy comeback, my king?” Her smile widened, dazzling him with its rare beauty. It seemed she’d grown even more beautiful during their absence. He dropped his gaze to the tiled bathroom floor, more ashamed than ever of what he’d become—of how ugly he must appear to her.
“As I said, Oracle. I was a young man, then. I’d not lived through wars and battles and mutinies. I was innocent in my own way, full of youthful vanity and stamina.”
“I don’t think you’ve lost either,” she whispered huskily, and he glanced up, aroused. Heated for her, through and through.
“You can plainly see that I have.” He adjusted his hands, attempting to conceal his rapidly lengthening erection.
Her gaze tracked with the motion. “Yes, quite the stamina you display, dear Leo.” She laughed huskily. “Won’t you let me take you on for a race? Or a wrestling match, perhaps?”
He shook his head. “Not when I’d emerge the loser, my lady. The shame would be too great.”
“Ah, but the thrill is in the challenge, no?” She adjusted her towel and for a moment, his hands itched to strip it right off of her—for it to be his hands moving across the fabric, unwinding the towel, not tightening it as she was doing.
“The thrill with you, Daphne, is in just beholding you,” he admitted softly, unable to bite back the confession.
“Then why do you keep me away?”
He shook his head. “You already know my reasons,” he growled. “I won’t hurt you. Won’t have you watch me . . . change.”
“Change is life, Leo!” she smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. “That’s part of love, you know that. You are not new to this; you had a wife, a family. I have never loved another besides you, and even I know that patience and acceptance and change are all part of any love affair that matters.”
Red Mortal Page 25