Poisoned Kisses (15 page)

“Given the alternative, how much more badly could it end?”

Kyra sighed. “There are worse things than death, and you know it.”

He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t going to listen; he wasn’t going to understand unless she told him the whole truth. So she did. She told him how Ares took her mother as a war prize, how he raped her, how he made her carry his child. She made Marco understand that if he was
war-forged,
Kyra was
war-born
in every sense of the word. “I only wanted to help her,” Kyra finished. “I only wanted to burn away the pain, but instead I left my mother blind and alone in the darkness of her own mind. She never recovered. She wasted away, a screaming wraith of herself, so lost and afraid. And I did that to her. Now the only thing I have left of her is this peridot choker.”

She realized that Marco was holding her hand. The silent aftermath of her story stretched on so long that her tears had dried in salt streaks down her cheeks. She hadn’t even remembered crying them, and it embarrassed her that he should have seen them.

“That’s why you were so compassionate with my mother at the funeral home.”

Kyra bobbed her head in answer. She’d like to think she’d have been compassionate either way, but she couldn’t deny
how much Marco’s mother had reminded her of her own. “I don’t know which mental illness has your mother in its grasp, but even if I vanquish your inner hydra, you may end up just the same way.”

He nodded quietly. They both knew that a proud man like Marco would rather die than go mad.

The hot sun sliced into the horizon over Rwanda as the soldiers finished loading the belly of the small cargo plane with weapons. Marco gathered an envelope full of materials that Kyra assumed were the necessary documentation they’d need at the border. He also made a point of asking for two shovels.

She could see the tension in his shoulders and the terrible resolve in his eyes as he walked around the craft, checking the fuselage. But it probably wasn’t the olive-green-painted plane he was worried about; they both knew that by returning to the Congo, Marco was walking right into Ogun’s clutches.

Finally, Marco slapped the side of the plane. “Time to go.”

It was the first thing he’d said to her all morning. She’d discovered a lot of things about Marco since that first night she tracked him down in Naples. But almost none of them surprised her as much as learning that he knew how to fly a plane. Strapped in next to him, she tried not to show her unease at the array of gauges and switches in the cockpit. She watched Marco go through his takeoff checklist, calm and levelheaded, but it was only a veneer over the stress. He was chewing gum again, the muscles of his jaw bulging with every bite. “Do you need a smoke?” she asked, pretty sure she’d seen a pack tucked behind her seat.

Marco put on an aviation headset and handed her a pair. “I quit, remember?”

Kyra didn’t argue. Instead, she put on her headset and
watched him press buttons and turn knobs with crisp efficiency. “What are you doing?”

He squinted. “Calibrating the instruments.”

A few moments later, Kyra wondered, “Why did you have them load shovels into the plane?”

“Can you just—can you let me concentrate?”

Kyra’s lips drew closed and she nodded. Then he turned on the engines one at a time, running them high. But they weren’t yet moving and the plane started to shake. This was so much worse than a passenger plane. It couldn’t be normal for a plane to shake this much. She knew she was supposed to be quiet but she asked, “
Now
what are you doing?”

“Kyra!”

She shut up, but as the plane rumbled its way down the pitiful excuse of a runway, Kyra had to squeeze her eyes closed for takeoff.

“You really don’t like heights, do you?” Marco asked, once they were up in the clouds. His voice came loud and clear in her headset, over the noise of the plane, and it soothed her. It may have been the only thing that could.
Gods above and below,
his voice was a thing of wonder.

When Kyra thought of Africa, it was the desert browns and hard-baked soil that came to mind. But peering over the propeller, she saw nothing but lush greens and blues. The clear water of Lake Kivu was nothing short of astonishing, and Kyra rapidly blinked as if she could not quite take in so much beauty all at once. Verdant mountains sloped gently into the water and palm trees swayed along the shoreline.

She realized that he must have done this before. He must have made flights into war-torn countries hundreds of times before. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that he was trading with a war god. Never with the certainty that the lives of two people he cared about hung in the balance.
She admired his steadiness, because her own palms were sweaty.

“I don’t belong up this high,” she said. “The sky is for the gods. For the winds. Not for nymphs like me.”

“You belong wherever you want to be,” Marco said.

As the sun kissed the mist-covered jungle mountains below, Kyra asked, “Should I be worried about being shot down over Lake Kivu?”

“The DRC doesn’t monitor their airspace. That makes it easy for people to fly in with weapons and fly out with diamonds, or other precious minerals. Like the stuff that goes into your cell phone. They’re stripping the country.”

“Who is?”

“Everybody,” was Marco’s reply.

“It’s a shame. It’s beautiful.”

“Looks like heaven,” Marco said. “But it feels like hell.”

“That lake is so peaceful, though.”

“Looks can be deceiving. It’s volcanic. It’s sitting on top of toxic gas. The whole lake could erupt any time…just like the Congo.”

And they were going to be a part of it. By bringing these guns to Ogun, they were going to set off a man-made eruption and they both knew it.

M
arco’s gaze was on the airplane graveyard below where carcasses of abandoned and crashed planes rose up from the tall grasses. Cracked steel and broken glass littered the ground. It was a wasteland of bent propellers, rusty turboprops and twisted landing gear. And unless everything went according to plan, the plane he was flying now would probably join them. The strip should be just over the horizon so he banked the plane to the left, into the wind, then lowered the flaps.

“What are you doing?” Kyra asked. “I don’t see an airport.”

“You think the DRC is just going to let me land a plane full of weapons in one of their airports?” he asked. “We’ve gotta land here.”

Kyra’s lips trembled behind the mouthpiece of her headset. “But it’s just a—a field!”

“Look a little closer and you’ll see the dirt road if we’re lucky. Otherwise, I’m going to have to put this tub down in the grass.”

“Are you insane?” Kyra asked, legs tensed in anticipation.

“Keep it together,
Angel.
” Marco angled the nose up and pulled back on the throttle. He wanted to slow the plane down as much as possible, and he didn’t like how muddy things looked. If the ground was too soft, if a wheel hit a hole, they could be in real trouble. They descended and Marco tilted toward the wind. The plane began to rattle. The wind buffeted the plane madly, as the ground rose up before them.

It was a close call. The wheels hit the mud and skidded, an eruption of smoke and dirt billowing behind them. He brought the plane to a jerking stop, and then there was silence. “I told you I’d never let you fall,” Marco said, feeling smug.

To Kyra’s credit, she never screamed. But now her eyes were glassy and dazed, as if she were sick with fear. “This was revenge for the car crash, right?”

“No, I forgive you for that.” He thought, in that moment, he might have forgiven her anything, but she had to push her luck.

“What about pretending to be Ashlynn?”

“Still working on it. Now, listen,” Marco said, once he’d shut down the plane. “I need to hike into Goma, and I want you to stay here with the plane. I don’t think anyone saw us land, but if you hear anyone coming, don’t do anything brave. Just hide.”

She ripped the headset off. “Wait, you’re doing what?”

“I’m hiking into Goma. It’ll take me a few hours.”

“Why can’t you just call Ogun to arrange for a swap? Your weapons for his hostages? You can call him. I know he has Benji’s phone.”

“I have to do something first, and there’s no time to explain.”

Red anger rose to her cheeks. “So you’re leaving me here?”

“It’s safer this way.”

“For who? There’s a UN mission in Goma. If you hike into that city, they’re going to arrest you!”

Marco almost laughed at her naiveté, but he didn’t have the heart to. “I’m more worried about Ogun. He has spies everywhere. If I’m spotted in the city, I want to be seen alone. I don’t want him to see you.”

Kyra turned to him in her seat, flipping that sexy dark hair. “Now,
you
listen to
me.
Ever since Benji and Ashlynn were kidnapped, I’ve let you run the show. I’ve followed you around and done everything you said like a good little girl. But it’s not my nature. And I don’t like your plan. You can’t expect me to sit here in the middle of the Congo without you.”

“Kyra, if someone captures one of us—mortal or god—wouldn’t it be better if the other of us were free?”

She clenched her teeth, then stared gloomily out the window. “So you’re just going to leave me.”

Damn it,
he didn’t have time to argue with her. “Kyra—”

“Fine,” she said, giving him a shove. “Just leave me like Odysseus left Calypso on the sands, so you can go off to rescue your pretty, proper Penelope!”

Penelope?
He’d have liked to have known what the hell she was talking about, but a quick look at his watch told him that he needed to get going. He cupped Kyra’s cheek, trying to calm her down. “I’m
not
just leaving you here. I’m coming back.”

“How do I know that?” Kyra asked.

“Because I’m giving you my promise. I’m giving you my word.” He leaned forward and kissed her, hoping it wouldn’t be his undoing.

“Why am I even here?” she whispered when he withdrew, her lips set in a near pout. “Why did you even bring me back with you?”

He put his hands in her hair, stroking it back behind her
ears. “Because, when Benji and Ashlynn are safe, I’m going to need you to bury me.”

He’d tried to say it as gently as he could, but the shock of his words sent a shudder through her. Marco couldn’t let her see even a hint of doubt in his eyes. “When this is all over, Kyra, we’re going to dig a hole in the sand. I’m going to climb into it and you’re going to shoot me in the head and bury me. This way, none of my hydra blood will ever hurt you or anyone else again.”

He couldn’t be serious…but then she saw that he was. He wanted her to kill him and hide the body. She pulled away, horrified. “You can’t mean that!”

“It’s the only way,” Marco said. “You’ve always known that. That’s why you tried to kill me in Naples.”

Acid boiled up in Kyra’s stomach. She thought she might retch. She was as sick at the thought as she had been when his blood had first poisoned her.

“You said it was your destiny to rid the world of a hydra, didn’t you?” Marco asked. “We’re both Greek, Kyra. We both know we can’t cheat fate.”

He was right, about everything. She had only one argument, and it was the one she dared not make. She didn’t
want
to kill him. She loved him and wanted to be loved by him. But those words would not come, no matter how hard she tried to summon them.

“I have to go,” Marco said.

He pressed a gun into her shaking hands, she shoved it away. “I don’t want one of your stupid guns!”

“Take it for your own protection. In case anyone comes while I’m gone.”

“I prefer knives,” she insisted, but she didn’t expect him to actually produce one.

Fumbling in a case in the back of the cockpit, he drew out a blade. “It’s a Glock field knife. Take it.”

She let her fingers curl around the hilt as he made his way out of the plane. She sat there with the weight of it in her hand as she watched him tuck an envelope into his shirt, sling a backpack over one shoulder and take off into the bush. It might be the last time she ever saw him, and she was acutely aware of it. She tried to burn the memory of him into her mind—the way his linen shirt clung to his back with sweat. The way his strong shoulders moved as he cut a swath into the jungle, like Odysseus working the rigging of his ship.

He’d promised to come back, but the promises of mortal men were nothing nymphs could cling to. In the end, Marco was going to save Ashlynn and the two of them would find their way back together. That is, if Kyra sat here and did nothing.

In Kyra’s defense, she tried to do as Marco asked. She sat in that plane for several hours before deciding to take matters into her own hands. She told herself it was his own fault for giving in to Ogun’s blackmail without considering
all
the weapons he had in his arsenal. Kyra was a deadly weapon in her own right and she wasn’t about to wait around for Marco to rescue his damsel in distress when she was perfectly capable of doing it. And she didn’t need Marco to lead her to Ogun’s rebel encampment, either; this place was filled with the shades of the dead, many of whom were eager to tell Kyra what they knew.

Ares held the cell phone to his ear. “Hecate swore we’d find Kyra there!”

“Maybe the old witch lied to you,” his vulture said hurriedly on the other end of the line. “I’ve been sitting outside the UN mission in Goma for days and I haven’t scented Kyra or her lover.”

Ares supposed it was possible that Hecate had lied to him. Oh, the once-mighty goddess had cried out in pain as he burned her. Her sweet shrieks still echoed in his mind
and gave him an erotic thrill. But perhaps he hadn’t let the delicious torture last long enough to ensure she was telling the truth…. No, Hecate dared not lie to him. Not about Kyra. “Listen, my little buzzard, do I have to come there myself?”

If he had to go to Africa himself, he’d make someone pay dearly. He hated the idea of roaming so far from his home. There were still-standing temples to him in North Africa, but the Democratic Republic of the Congo was much farther than his ancient influence had reached. He didn’t relish the idea of trespassing on the realm of another war god, but he was getting very tired of his minion’s incompetence.

“Wait,” the vulture replied. “I think I smell him!”

“Then you know what to do,” Ares said, and snapped the phone shut.

As Kyra moved silently among the huts, she came upon several child soldiers who purported to be guards. The sight of them, wearing chains of bullets around their little necks like tribal toy beads, was disturbing on more levels than she could name. Two of the boys were crouched, taunting a third, who was crying. The shades had told her to expect this—to know that some of the boys had come willingly to this warrior’s life, and others had been forcibly abducted from nearby schools and pressed into the general’s army. Drugged, beaten and forced to kill. And if Marco gave Ogun the guns, that’s what would happen to the crying boy. He’d kill or die. And Kyra couldn’t live with that.

With renewed purpose, Kyra faded and slipped past the boys. They didn’t see her. Even so, she was cautious, staying low and creeping from hut to hut until she found them. Kyra almost didn’t recognize Benji. His eye was swollen shut, and a gag held his jaw in a distended position. Ashlynn sat beside him on the floor, her face in her hands.

Kyra was surprised by the sudden surge of protectiveness she felt toward Ashlynn. She’d expected to want to claw the
woman’s eyes out in a jealous fit of rage. But Ashlynn was someone who Marco cared about, someone he’d once loved, someone he might love still. And though she couldn’t explain it, that made Ashlynn somehow precious to her. So Kyra was gentle when she put her hand over Ashlynn’s mouth and whispered, “Don’t make a sound. I’m here to help you.”

Then she let herself be visible and Benii’s eyes flew wide. Once she was sure that Ashlynn wouldn’t scream, Kyra cut the ropes and realized that Benji had already managed to slip halfway out of his. He was every bit as resourceful as Marco boasted. “I’m here for your boss,” she said to Benji. “There’s a car by the checkpoint at the bottom of the mountain. Marco tells me you can steal just about anything. Can you hot-wire the car?”

He nodded, still wide-eyed.

“And you’ll take Ashlynn with you? You’ll make sure she gets out okay?”

Benji nodded again. Could she trust him? A gentle illumination into his soul showed her the outlines of his devotion to Marco and she decided that would have to be good enough. “You might need to bribe some people to get out of the country.” Kyra wanted to give them money, but didn’t have any cash in the pockets of her cargo shorts. She thought it might just kill her to do it, but she unfastened the peridot choker at her throat and handed it to Ashlynn. “Please don’t sell it unless you have to. It’s antique, and very expensive.”

Priceless,
in fact. It hurt more than just about anything to give her mother’s necklace to the woman. Especially to
this
woman. But Kyra’s mother had been a priestess of Hecate. She’d have wanted her jewelry to help guide another to safety. That helped her let it go, even though she had to strangle a sob in her throat to do so.

“What are you?” Benji asked, pulling the gag from his mouth. “You look like…an angel.”

“Well, I’m not. I can’t flap my pretty white wings and
fly you out of here. I can only create a distraction outside to let you get away. So, when you hear an explosion, start running.”

As the daughter of Ares, Kyra had a preternatural sense for weapons of war. Ogun’s rebel cache of grenades wasn’t hard to find and since mortals couldn’t see her, she simply walked past the guards into the warehouse and pulled a few pins.

The resulting blast was cacophonous. Numbing.
Mesmerizing,
really. The sight of dirt plumes in the jungle air made soldiers come running from all directions. No one’s eyes were on the hostages; if Benji had an ounce of sense, he and Ashlynn would be well away by now.

Kyra stopped to appreciate her handiwork—a riveting show of fire and shrapnel. Daddy wasn’t
entirely
wrong when he said she was bred for destruction. But it was always her undoing. As Kyra turned to flee, a meaty fist closed around her throat. Clawing at an iron grip that left her no room to breathe, Kyra found herself staring into cold obsidian eyes.

“Now what manner of creature do we have here?” Ogun asked.

And then he laughed.