Red Mortal (34 page)

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Authors: Deidre Knight

Tags: #Man-woman relationships, #Goddesses, #Gods, #Paranormal, #Delphian oracle, #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal romance stories, #Immortalism, #Daphne (Greek deity), #General, #Leonidas, #Contemporary

BOOK: Red Mortal
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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 was 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.
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
 
D
aphne 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 hesitated, 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?”

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