by Addison Fox
Who they were.
It had been that moment when she’d stood, angry again and ready to pace, that she’d seen the tall head bob past their fence. Curious, she ran to the large wooden play set that now sat empty since she and her siblings had grown too old for it and climbed up the wooden slats that ended in a fort.
The cotton robe she’d put on after the prayer ceremony wrapped around her legs, slowing her motion so she had to take the rungs at half her normal speed, but some sense of urgency pushed her on. She’d just cleared enough of the ladder to see into the backyard next door.
The man whose head she’d seen at the top of the fence was at the back entrance of the brownstone connected to theirs. He was bloody and bruised, looking exactly like she pictured the heroes of her books—Robin Hood, Ivanhoe and the Knights of the Round Table—after they returned from battle.
He rested his head against the door as she stared at him, his shoulders slumping. He looked utterly defeated, like it was an effort to even stand there. Like the doorframe was the only thing holding his body upright.
Emerson watched, fascinated that someone so large—a man so seemingly invincible—could look tired.
And so lonely.
Then he’d pushed off the door with some inner reserve of strength and stepped back. In quick movements, he shucked the filthy shirt he wore and her breath caught in her throat as moonlight coated his body. The heat of the summer night and the noise of the city faded away in that moment and she could do nothing but stare.
At the large form of his body—the broad shoulders and thickly muscled back that tapered down to a narrow waist. He was powerfully built, and the only thing Emerson could think was, This is what a hero looks like.
Her gaze drank him in and an odd awareness settled low in her stomach. She’d felt a slight tingling between her thighs. The sensation was foreign but exhilarating.
Feminine.
Powerful.
He’d stood there for only a moment before pushing through the back door, but it had been all she’d needed.
The man had captivated her.
Emerson waited at least a half hour, watching and hoping for another glimpse of the man, until she finally climbed off the play set and moved into the house to her room on the fourth—and highest—floor of the old brownstone. And it took until dawn peeked through her curtains for her to finally fall asleep.
After that night, Emerson stayed alert to any and all news of the occupants of the house next door. She’d always sensed the large brownstone held secrets, but now she had a face to put with those secrets. Stories had filled her head about the men next door—the made-up fantasies of a young girl. In addition to the man she’d seen, she knew of the others who lived there—large, imposing figures who looked like ancient warlords.
She imagined them on covert missions, saving princesses and keeping the world safe for humanity. And him…the large Warrior she’d seen in the moonlight. He’d fueled her fantasies for so long, always hovering in the back of her thoughts. Always causing her to take the men she dated and try to make them measure up.
But no one ever did.
“Emerson.”
Dragged from her thoughts, it took her a moment to focus on the dark brown eyes of her grandmother.
“What?”
“Where were you? I’ve called your name about five times.”
Emerson glanced down at her hands as her grandmother gently took the pestle from her. “I think you’ve done well enough there.”
“Just wrapped in my thoughts.”
“I can see that.”
Gram took the stool next to her worktable, a light mischief bubbling in her smile. “I suspect I know just who’s got you wrapped up, too.”
Shades of the conversation she had the night before with Callie came back to her. “Grandmother.”
A withered, gnarled hand stopped her from saying anything further. “I’m not prying and I don’t need the sass. I’m just teasing you.”
Emerson dropped onto her own stool, the wind effectively knocked from her sails. “Sorry.”
“You’re a grown woman entitled to your own business.”
“Thank you.”
“But I can’t help notice you’re not sleeping. Or eating all that much. Has Drake done something? Has he hurt you in some way?”
The fierce set of her grandmother’s mouth had Emerson reaching for her hand. “No, no, no. Of course not. He’s wonderful, Gram. Really.”
“Wonderful?”
Emerson didn’t often find herself backpedaling—she was far too comfortable speaking her mind—but the urge to do it in this instance was strong. “I meant he didn’t do anything.”
Gram’s eyebrows rose at that. “Nothing? He doesn’t look like a man who sits there and does nothing.”
“Gram!”
“I’ve got eyes, Emerson. And that man is a vision.”
And didn’t she know it. On a quick sigh, Emerson resigned herself to how neatly her grandmother had boxed her in. “What I meant is that he’s very good to me and you don’t need to worry that he’s not treating me right.”
“That sets my mind at ease.”
“Your nosy mind.”
Emerson leaned over and pressed a kiss to her grandmother’s cheek. Like a spring wind that lay gently against your face, the familiar earthy scent she’d always associated with her grandmother filled her senses and offered simple comfort.
Although her gram’s skin was thin and papery, the hands that clasped hers were strong. Firm. Capable.
“I guess that leaves only one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you treating him right?”
“Of course I am.” Emerson diverted her attention to the worktable and reached for the small sheet of parchment paper she’d set aside earlier. Emptying the heavy mortar over it, she worked the finely ground rosemary from the bottom of the thick bowl.
“That’s an interesting choice.”
“What is?”
“Unless my senses deceive me, that’s rosemary.”
“Yes. I’d like to have it on hand for the ritual tonight.”
“It’s a very intriguing choice.”
Emerson stopped the process of extracting as much of the fine powder from the bottom of the mortar. “What is, Gram?”
“Rosemary. Dew of the sea. Makes one think you had the Pisces on your mind the whole time.”
The heavy mortar wobbled in her hands as Emerson’s attention snapped toward her grandmother. She juggled it momentarily, but managed to keep the heavy bowl in hand before settling it back on the table. On a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts, willing herself to remember why she’d selected the herb in the first place. “Rosemary is for remembrance. It’s for Mom.”
Gram nodded, and her shoulders seemed to contract from the weight of her own remembrance. “Of course. Well, then, I’ll leave you to it.” Their conversation at an end, her grandmother slipped off the stool, her grip firm on the worktable as she got to her feet.
Guilt nipped at her heels as Emerson reached for the mortar once again. “I’ll come up in a little while and we’ll have some lunch, okay?”
“Of course, dear.”
It was a long while later, after she’d packaged the contents of the mortar in a small vile, that Emerson remembered rosemary’s other use.
It was traditionally associated with weddings.
“You look like hell, Drake.” Rogan slammed his cards down on top of the green baize card table and muttered a resounding “fuck” before continuing the inquisition. “What the hell happened?”
Drake shrugged off the question and reached for a beer in the full cooler next to Quinn. “Nothing.”
The Taurus slapped him on the back as he reached for his own beer. “Well, it looks like a whole lot of nothing planted itself across your face. Where’ve you been?”
“Mucking through drug-infested waters in Southeast Asia.”
“Why’d Themis send you the
re?” Brody threw his cards down with a sigh of disgust as Kane leaned forward and dragged the pot of chips toward him. “Couldn’t Takahashi take that one?”
“She’s got him in Tokyo right now and it couldn’t wait.” Drake took a long drag of his bottle, the ice-cold tang of the beer a balm on his throat. His body had almost fully shaken the effects of the drug-infested water, but he was still edgy. The way he saw it, a few beers and some cards should go a long way toward dulling those edges.
Insults were tossed over the next several hands and Drake was already well into his second beer when “the wives” bustled into the room. He enjoyed the company of Ava and Ilsa and he’d already warmed to their newest addition, Quinn’s wife, Montana.
“I know it’s poker night, but none of us could resist showing off our new shoes,” Ava sang out as they descended on the table en masse.
“It’s our lucky night, boys,” Rogan ground out around his teeth, which were currently clamped around a cigar.
“Oh, shut up and go back to smoking that smelly piece of shit in your mouth,” Ilsa shot back at him as she dropped herself into Kane’s lap. “I’m sure my husband doesn’t want your opinion of my FMPs anyway.”
The question was on the tip of Drake’s tongue before Rogan beat him to the punch. “FMPs?”
Drake saw Kane shake his head before Ilsa merrily chortled out, “Fuck-me pumps.”
“What the hell, Ilsa!” Rogan gently stuck his cigar in the ashtray next to him before shoving his hands over his ears. “You’ve scarred me for life.”
“Oh, come now. You’re a big boy, Rogan. I’ve no doubt you’ve seen more than your share of FMPs,” Ava crooned as she reached over her husband’s shoulder to sneak a peek at Brody’s cards before grabbing a handful of chips.
“Yeah. On women who should be wearing said articles of footwear. I have no interest in envisioning them on my sisters.”
“And it damn well better stay that way,” Brody muttered under his breath.
Drake took another swig of his beer as Kane tossed a handful of chips around the slender woman in his arms. Damn, but this felt good. A few hands of cards with his Warrior brothers and a bunch of good-natured ribbing and trash talk. Even the women had added a dimension to all their lives none of them had expected.
Family.
They’d always had a bond, but the women had turned their house into a home. And had formalized their relationship into something large and familial.
So yeah, he and his brothers had to hear about FMPs in addition to terrifying conditions like bloating, bad manicures and that horror of horrors, split ends. But these women had their back—not to mention some serious powers in their own right—and each and every one of them knew it.
Drake figured it was a more than fair trade-off.
“Speaking of FMPs,” Ilsa ground out before her gaze made a bull’s-eye on him. “There’s been some sexing in our Pisces’s room of late. In fact, I’m quite sure I heard someone sneaking out just last night, which, I believe, made for the third night in a row.”
“Ilsa!” Ava hissed.
Drake’s good mood fled on swift wings as Ilsa’s words hung over the room. And before he knew it, the double-edged sword of family skewered him clean through. “Drop it, Ilsa.”
Montana added a low-level “shhh” to Ava’s unspoken admonishment to shut up, without success.
“Come on, Drake. We’re all dying to know.” Ilsa shot a pointed glance at the other two women even as a bright pink color spread up her neck and into her cheeks. “All of us.”
He refused the bait. “I’m sure your immortality can withstand the torture.”
Heavy, awkward silence replaced the jovial air and Drake bent to review his cards and pull together the chips for his bet. Within a few hands the women got bored and disappeared to have their own bonding time and then he waited a few more hands to make his leaving as inconspicuous as possible.
“I’m heading up.”
“Drake? You sure you don’t want to try and win that grand back from me? It’d be a shame to let me keep it without a fight.” Brody’s voice boomed even as his smile was forced.
Drake snagged one last beer from the cooler. “Nah, consider it a favor. Especially since it looks like your wife just spent it on shoes.”
Five minutes later, he found himself wandering up to the top floor of the house, where they maintained an observatory. Long and narrow, it ran the roof of the brownstone and offered a clear view of the sky.
Through an elaborate set of physics having something to do with astral planes he had no earthly clue how to understand, the observatory wasn’t actually visible to anyone who might be staring at the roof. The brownstone’s simultaneous cohabitation on both the island of Manhattan and Mount Olympus ensured it was not only far larger than it looked, but that much of what made it a fortress for him and his brothers made it invisible to the average human.
Drake’s gaze was drawn unerringly to the Pisces constellation, where it bound the twinned fish together in the sky. No matter how disillusioned he grew with the depraved actions of humanity, he always found comfort in the proof of what he was.
The balance in the heavens Themis used so many millennia ago in her Great Agreement with Zeus. That same balance that allowed a disparate group of men—all with different strengths, skills and abilities—to work together on her behalf.
To save the humans worth saving.
He didn’t know why he was drawn there this evening, but couldn’t argue with the impulse once he sat breathing in the night air, watching the stars.
Long ago, before technology had made their lives both easier and harder, he and his brothers could communicate with each other through the stars simply by using the ink that marked their bodies. Now their sat phones did the communicating and the night sky was just something nice to look at.
“I thought I saw you head up here.”
Drake ignored the voice in favor of a deep drag on his longneck.
“I’m sorry for what I said.”
He kept his gaze on the stars, but his voice was easy when he finally spoke. “Don’t worry about it, Ilsa.”
“It’s no excuse, but I still haven’t mastered that fine art of knowing when to shut the hell up.”
Drake turned to look at her and saw the tense lines that bracketed her mouth. No matter how heavy the urge to brood, he couldn’t stay mad at that winsome face with the sky-blue eyes. He knew what it had taken for her to begin to feel a part of their lives after her betrayal by Zeus, followed by endless millennia of soul hunting for Hades.
“Don’t worry about it.”
She hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing her thoughts before they tumbled out in a rush as if she couldn’t help herself. “We’re only curious because she makes you happy.”
“Happy?” What a joke that was. And even if it were true, he sure as hell couldn’t find a way to return the favor.
If he made her happy, he’d have an armful of witch on his lap right now as he played poker, all the while imagining her clad in her own pair of fuck-me pumps later in the evening.
“You can’t possibly see what I see,” he muttered on a harsh laugh.
“What’s that?”
“A woman who wants nothing to do with me.”
Ilsa moved forward until she stood next to him along the narrow wall that made up the edge of the observatory. “She wants a whole lot to do with you, Drake. More than a lot, if I’m not mistaken.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Let’s just say I suck at social pleasantries, but I spent an awfully long time observing people. And I know what I see when I look at the two of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Sorry, cowboy, I’m not letting you off that easy. Besides”—she flashed the wicked grin he’d come to associate with her—“I think you already know.”
Before he could reply, Ilsa flounced toward the staircase at the edge of the roof, hollering over her shoulder as she went
, “Sorry to rush off, but I’ve got a pair of heels to go break in.”
Drake wanted to stay mad. He really did. But the wiggling ass that flashed her good-bye at him was too much to keep him in a dour mood.
Resuming his position at the end of the roof, he let his gaze drift toward the house next door. Brownstones lined the observatory on either side, but the front and back were edged with a half wall that allowed him to look over into the backyards up and down their block. His breath caught in his throat as his sights settled next door.
Emerson stood fully naked, her arms stretched toward the sky. She moved in long, sensuous motions, her sleek body exposed to his gaze like an offering. His own body tightened in response, the sheer beauty of her striking him on a visceral level he was powerless to resist.
And powerless to ignore.
Fascinated, he stood and watched her. She was so private—so closed off from him in every way except sexually—that the opportunity to observe her without her knowledge was far too large a temptation to resist.
So he simply stood and drank her in.
One enchanting moment spun into the next as she moved through what he could only assume was a prayer. Her voice floated up to him in small snatches as she used her entire body in offering, moving through the ritual that encompassed her worship. Long, slender fingers spread something from a pouch while the muscles of her thighs kept her balance as she moved through a series of complicated poses.
The long column of her throat caught the moonlight as her head fell back and he imagined himself pressing his lips there, drinking in the hot scent of her as it mixed with the light summer breeze that swirled through the air.
On a muttered curse, he took a long drag on his beer, draining the bottle in a desperate effort to cool the raging ardor that filled him.
Gods, how he wanted this woman. His body burned for her in more ways than he could count.
He craved the opportunity to hold her tucked against his heart and he yearned to talk with her at the end of each day, their words full of the everything and the nothing that made up daily life. He wanted her for his partner—that glorious knowledge his every thought, every need, every want was safe with her.