Warrior Rising (15 page)

“She was.”

“Okay, this is something you need to understand once and for all. I. Am. Not. Like. Briseis. Actually I'm not like any of the women you've ever known. If you and I are going to get along—and I think we are—you're just going to have to accept that and quit judging me like you would other women.” She looked around and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw another goblet sitting on the bedside table. “God, I need a drink.” Kat got up, grabbed the goblet and headed for the pitcher of wine she'd already started to empty. She glanced through the gauze curtain back at Achilles. “Mind if I have a glass of wine?”

He looked perplexed. Again. “Of course not.”

“Good.” She poured a full goblet and then, carrying the pitcher with her, went back to his bed. She set the pitcher on the bedside table next to the lantern, then this time Kat didn't perch nervously on the edge of the bed like she was a demented pigeon scared of a statue (a.k.a. Achilles) who had suddenly come alive. She plopped down on the bed, curling her legs under her comfortably, sitting closer to Achilles, and took a long drink of the excellent red wine before she spoke. “Okay, here's the deal. I think I can help you. Not just with your nonsleeping issue, but also with your, well, nontouching-of-a-woman-you're-attracted-to issue, too.” She gave him a nervous little smile. “That's assuming that you really are attracted to me.”

His mouth twitched in his little almost-smile. “I am.”

“But if you touch me too much, which, and again I'm assuming, includes stuff like the make-out session we had on the beach earlier, you're going to have a problem with turning from you”—Kat pointed to him and then off into the distance, kind of like he was part of a PowerPoint presentation—“to that other you I almost met this evening.”

“Then you don't see me as him.”

The tension in Achilles' voice was beyond obvious, and Kat reached out slowly to rest her fingers lightly against a puckered scar that ran the length of his left bicep.

“No, I don't. How could I? Odysseus explained what happens to you, and I witnessed the beginnings of it. What you were turning into is definitely not what you are now.”

For a moment Achilles bowed his head, as if such an enormous weight had just been lifted from him that he had to bend to bear the absence of it. Then slowly, meticulously, his shoulders straightened and his head lifted. Achilles met her eyes.

“You are the only woman I have ever known who has understood that. It is not me. It is something that possesses me. I cannot control it. I can rarely stop it. I cannot even summon it at will.” He made a derisive sound deep in his throat. “If I could I would not have had to make myself hideous with these scars.”

“They don't make you hideous,” Kat said. Her fingers still rested on the ridge of the old scar on his bicep. “They're a part of you. In my mind they're just the physical evidence of how hard you've had to work.” She smiled at him. “There's bound to be a price for everyone knowing your name.”

“You've said it correctly. It is my
price
. My penalty. My burden and, ironically, my choice.” He looked down at where her fingers lay gently against his arm. “When I was a boy I was given the choice of my fate. I was asked to choose happiness and love and a life that would be full, but forgotten, or a warrior's life of battle and death too soon, but eternal glory. I chose glory. I wanted my name to be sung for untold generations.” Achilles' deep voice was bitter with self-loathing. “Do you know that I will meet my death here, before the walls of Troy?”

“I've, uh, heard the rumor that you would.” Of course Kat had heard about it. She remembered that much mythology. Achilles, the warrior who was invulnerable except for his heel, was killed by an arrow through said heel, near the end of the Trojan War. Kat felt a jolt of panic. Why the hell hadn't she thought more about that?

“How long have you been here fighting the Trojans?”

“Almost a full decade,” he said.

“Well, shit!” Kat grabbed his hand. “I don't want you to fight anymore.”

His brow lifted. “Did I not just proclaim to Agamemnon that I have withdrawn from the fighting?”

Kat felt a ridiculous surge of relief that was extraordinarily short lived. Wait . . . in Homer's incredibly boring
Iliad
hadn't Achilles withdrawn from the battle, too? But then he'd rejoined it and ended up being speared through the heel. But why? What had made him fight again?

“Goddamnit!” Kat cursed, turning to refill the goblet again. “I so should have paid better attention in school.”

“School?”

She shook her head, brushing off his question while her mind raced. Okay, it was logical to believe the reason he rejoined the war, and was eventually killed, had something to do with his berserker rage. Fine. So she'd work on helping him break the triggers for the rage and then, voila! He wouldn't be uncontrollable. He'd actually stay out of the fighting and wouldn't be killed.

“Okay, yes. I've heard you're supposed to die in the Trojan War. But I've been sent here by Athena to make sure that doesn't happen,” she said boldly, shrugging internally. Athena and the other two goddesses didn't want him fighting. Him not fighting and him not dying were practically the same thing.

He was watching her with an intent expression in his compelling blue eyes that she thought might be the beginnings of hope.

“I am fated to die before the gates of Troy after the death of your brother, Hector.”

Kat felt a terrible clutching in her stomach. That's right—she remembered something about Achilles killing the King of Troy's son, who just happened to be the brother of the body she was temporarily inhabiting.

“Well, then we will just have to be sure you don't kill Hector, won't we?”

“You believe a god-ordained fate can be changed?”

“I know a goddess who believes it. Actually I know several goddesses who believe it, and I've found that women are usually more reasonable about subjects like war and violent death than men. So let's go with the goddesses' version on changing fate, shall we?”

Achilles' expression was absolutely serious. “There is little I wouldn't give to change my fate, Princess.”

“Good. Then let's get started.” Kat smiled and held the goblet out to him. “Have a drink with me. I'm going to talk to you about relaxation.”

An hour and two goblets of wine (mostly drank by Achilles) later Kat had the urge to grab his wide shoulders and give him a massive shake. And she would have, if she thought it would have done any good. Achilles was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His body was rigid and he was definitely not relaxed.

“Look, you're never going to relax if you don't believe you can.”

“I don't allow myself to relax,” he said gruffly.

“Well, you're going to have to learn how. All right. Try this. Think about each area of your muscles like they're parts of you that need to be trained—individually. The training you're giving them is to relax completely. So you're really just ordering parts of your body to do something. It's no different than ordering your arms to pick up a sword and then swing it to protect yourself.”

He turned disbelieving blue eyes on her. Kat sighed.

“When you sleep do you lay flat on your back like that?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “No.”

“How do you lay? What position makes you comfortable?” He hesitated, then lifted his left arm over his head and cocked his left knee up. His right arm he rested loosely over his waist. Achilles tilted his head a little, looking marginally more comfortable.

“That's better,” she said, thinking how utterly sexy he looked lying there with no shirt on, his thick mane hanging around his shoulders, his gorgeous blue eyes trained on her and all of that lovely, toned muscle with those dangerous scars muted by the flickering lantern light.

“It is difficult to relax while you stare at me like that.”

Shit! She jumped guiltily. “Try harder. Ignore me.” Then she remembered that the wife of one of the couples she'd counseled used to hold her husband's hand all during their sessions. No, she hadn't just held his hand. The woman used to rub it gently and her husband, who was ridiculously nervous about going to a counselor, always relaxed under her ministrations (they had actually stayed married— they'd just needed some communications help). “Okay, give me one of your hands,” she said suddenly.

Achilles frowned at her. “What do you want with one of my hands?”

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Kat said with an ironic lift of one brow. “You don't need to be scared of me.”

“I am
not
afraid of you.”

“Then give me your hand.” She held out her own in invitation.

The frown turned into a scowl, but he gave her the hand that had been resting behind his head. Kat held it in both of hers, and slowly began to firmly massage it, working on the callused pad. She glanced up at him. He was watching her with hooded blue eyes. The scowl had been replaced with a carefully expressionless mask.

“Tell me about your favorite place,” she said.

“What is it you wish to know about it?” he said after a moment's hesitation.

“Describe it. Close your eyes and pretend like you're taking me there.”

He watched her for a few more breaths, and then—to her surprise—he actually closed his eyes.

“There is a hidden cove off the coast of Phthia.” He paused and opened his eyes. “Phthia is my birthplace.”

Kat nodded and kept rubbing his hand. He looked down at it, then back up at her. “Go on,” she prompted when he didn't continue. “Tell me what the cove looks like.”

“The water there is calm and clear,” he said.

“Close your eyes and take me there,” she said.

He frowned again, but closed his eyes. “The sand of the beach is white. The rocks that jut from it are dark. The water is a distinctive blue.”
Probably just like your eyes,
Kat thought, but kept the notion to herself. “It is a shallow cove, and there is a hoof-print shaped ridge of coral in the middle of it.” At first he spoke self-consciously, in short, halting sentences, but soon he seemed to forget she was there, and as he painted a picture of his favorite place while she rubbed first one hand, and then the other, Kat could see his wide shoulders relax and his breathing deepen. “My mother, the sea goddess Thetis, comes there often. Oysters that grow black pearls live there, beneath the coral, and I have often retrieved them for her. The fish there are fat and lazy, like the sea birds that perch on the black rocks. . . .”

He paused, and Kat spoke in the calm, steady voice she used to help induce a hypnotic state in her clients. “Think about being there, Achilles. Let my voice take you back to your cove. You're laying on the beach . . . the sand warm against your body . . . the gentle waves are kissing the shore . . . rhythmically. . . . Listen to me . . . let my voice take you there. You're totally at peace . . . completely relaxed. Your feet are relaxed, warm in the soft sand. There is no anger in your cove . . . no war . . . It is warm and protected. Your legs are completely relaxed. . . .” Kat went on, methodically taking Achilles through the relaxation exercise as she gently released his hand and watched him closely as his warrior's body finally let loose and his breathing became deep and regular.

With no change in her tone Kat asked, “Are you there, Achilles?”

He paused, and then said, “Yes.” His deep voice was slightly slurred.

“Good. I want you to know that no anger can reach your cove, or you while you are there. Your mind is at peace. Your body is relaxed. Do you understand?”

"Yes.”

“Good. You're in your cove tonight, which means you are going to sleep deeply. As I count I want you to become more and more relaxed. Your body is heavy . . . ten . . . you need to rest it . . . nine . . . the sand is warm . . . eight . . . inviting your weight . . . seven . . . you are safe . . . six . . . completely relaxed . . . free of rage . . . five . . . it cannot find you there . . . four . . . tonight you will sleep in your cove . . . three . . . and not awaken until past dawn . . . two . . . until then your heavy body will rest peacefully . . . one . . . safely. . . .”

Kat let her voice trail off. If she were any judge, and she definitely was, Achilles was extremely susceptible to hypnosis. Which, she decided, made sense. This berserker thing that possessed him had to screw with his state of consciousness, and once that was messed with it left his subconscious open to suggestion. She smiled, totally self-satisfied. He was definitely hypnotized, which actually meant he was in what amounted to a trance state. He would awaken from the state, presumably after dawn, as she had suggested, feeling completely refreshed.

Kat studied his face. He looked different so relaxed. Usually he carried himself with a rigidity that made it apparent, at least to her, that he was constantly worried about what would happen if he let loose. And she could hardly blame him after getting a firsthand glimpse of the berserker that waited to possess him. But right now Achilles thought he was on his special beach, safe and warm and relaxed. His face had lost that hard edge to it. His lips had softened, and were parted just a little bit, reminding her of how they'd felt against her mouth. What Achilles lacked in kissing experience he certainly made up for in enthusiasm and in strength.

Her gaze glided across his naked chest. She usually wasn't a fool for muscles, but Achilles didn't have the stupid steroid-pumped body of a preening gym “warrior.” His body was his tool. He used it well and he used it hard. And it bore the marks of such use.