by Kelly Keaton
“You’re here because Lamia saw an opportunity and took it,” she said simply. “She believes you can further her agenda. And . . . she is not wrong.”
“And what agenda is that?”
She leveled a blunt gaze his way. “Furthering the cause of the Salian Front.”
His brow rose, surprised she’d answered.
“And Archer?”
“What about him?”
He eyed the advisor. When Lamia had appeared in New 2, she’d gone to Apollo and persuaded him to reveal who had taken Archer. She’d gotten her answer. Sebastian had no idea if Archer had been retrieved. Hell, he could be here right now. And Sebastian had to find out because if he was planning to escape, he wasn't going to do it without Archer.
“Is he here?”
The advisor laughed, the humor in her eyes making him feel like he was missing some kind of inside joke.
“Children and young adults are only permitted in the sanctuary once every hundred years. To feed the Dark Mother.”
“Come again?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“The history. You are part Bloodborn, Sebastian. Do you think vampires are just a divergent along the human evolutionary chain? Is that what they tell you? Of course it is.” She laughed softly and shook her head. “And the Lamia story is just myth.”
Yes, he’d been taught that vampires were a species that broke off from humans long ago and evolved separately. So what. Being Bloodborn had never been important to him. Everyone he’d over known from his mother’s side of his family had been self-serving, power hungry, and bloated on their own ego and importance.
“Lamia is the first of us, Bastian. Once a queen, a demi-god. She was cursed by Hera, who wanted Lamia to pay for her affair with Zeus, an affair that spawned several children, ages six to nineteen. Hera was always very,” she looked at him with a wan smile, “creative. She sank evil into Lamia’s mind and heart, causing her to kill her own children. Myth says she ate them, but she didn’t, not completely. She attacked each one, drinking all the blood from their bodies, sucking it from their hearts and organs.”
While he didn’t need her to help him fill in the gaps of his Bloodborn lineage, the history lesson could prove useful.
“Hera also cursed Lamia’s eyes to remain open, so she could see the carnage she wrought on her own beloved children.”
A shudder went down his spine. No wonder her eyes had seemed . . . off. The gods could be so cruel.
The advisor looked at him for a signal to continue. He nodded.
“Lamia’s mother, the great Hecate, took pity on her daughter and gave her the means to resurrect her children by feeding them Lamia’s own blood in return. The magic worked and the vampires were born. Lamia and her brood were made immortal--Hecate’s own way of getting Hera back for what she’d done, I believe. Zeus also took pity and offered Lamia anything she wanted. She begged him to fix her eyes, but he couldn’t counter Hera’s curse, so Lamia asked him for the ability to remove her eyes so that she could rest. He did and in the process gave her the gift of prophecy.”
The sympathy the advisor felt for Lamia was clear. He had to wonder if she excused Lamia’s behavior simply by nature of her past, or maybe she was telling him the tale so he’d fear the Dark Mother and stop resisting.
“Lamia can only find sustenance by drinking the blood of those nineteen and younger, an unforeseen side-effect of pitting Hecate’s magic against Hera’s curse. It is why she was able to drink from you, and why Archer will never be held here.”
The advisor stared at her hands in her lap and idly picked at her fingernail. “I would have thought you’d learn all about her at Presby.”
He recoiled in shock. “What do you know about Presby?”
She shrugged and put more focus on her fingernail, pushing back a cuticle. “I know a lot of things about Presby,” she said slowly. “About New 2. The Square.” Her eyes closed and she breathed in deeply, “The warm beignets...”
Unease rippled through him because she wasn't talking about things she’d heard of, she was talking about things she’d seen, things she’d experienced. “Who the hell are you?”
“Think, Bastian.”
His throat went dry. His temper ignited and flared through him with the force of a gale wind. Her insinuation burned and turned his stomach. She hadn’t gone for physical torture or planting seeds of fear. No, she went straight for the heart, trying to make him believe that she might be his mother.
“You don’t want to go there,” he warned, eyes hot--if he could have killed her with a look, she’d already be ashes. His mother died when he was seven years old. Period. But even as he steeled himself against her lies, he couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of hope, couldn’t help but look at her features in a different light...
His mother had always been a shadowy image in his mind. He’d long since forgotten her face. A fact due to his grandmother removing all of her pictures from the house, saying she couldn’t bear to look at them.
He’d thought, up until recently, that his father had saved his mother’s effects, but the truth was there were no photographs among the clothing, jewelry, keepsakes, and albums. Josephine had taken Michel’s memories, too, when Michel disappeared shortly after the death. Which explained the animosity between them. Sebastian had found one grainy photograph six months ago when going through his mother’s things and he’d left it where he’d found it, not wanting to take it from his father.
He’d have to look at it when he got--
No. No, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Her head cocked as she stared at him, trying to read him, assess his belief in the filth she was spewing. Manipulative bitch. Her eyebrow lifted as though she read his thoughts.
Then, she sighed deeply, pushed to her feet and left the room.
With a shaky hand, he ran his hand through his hair. Hell.
Phillip returned just after the advisor left, carrying a tray with three large cups. He set the tray on the table by the bed, walked to the door, and locked it.
Sebastian tensed, ready for Phillip’s attack.
But it didn’t come. Gone was the usual pompous smirk on Phillip’s face. He grabbed a cup and held it out. Carefully, Sebastian took it, not trusting Phillip for a second.
Then, he smelled the blood.
It called to him, singing its siren song. He brought it to his lips and drank, eyelids fluttering, wanting to close, but he kept them open and trained on Phillip.
He finished the last drink, swiped his mouth and said, “More.”
He finished the second and the third.
When he was done, he felt a little unsteady. His mind was growing cloudier and cloudier. He blinked hard. “What the...” Shit. Phillip had... The room started to spin.
He began to tip over, the stone floor coming up to greet him, but Phillip caught him and laid him back onto the mattress. Then, he was leaning over him. “Listen, there’s not much time...” Phillip’s voice sounded as though it was coming from under water, garbled and far away.
Phillip glanced at the door, fearful and rushed. “Won’t feel ...over... going to get you out of here. Hold tight.”
Sebastian’s head fell to the side. He saw Phillip walk to the door, straighten his shirt, square his shoulders and unlock the door. A shadow was waiting. It moved.
And then everything went black.
“Come on!” Bits and pieces began to flash in his mind. A voice. Rocks. Water. Waves. Stumbling. Being pulled, carried, rushed. Stopping to puke. Scents of the sea. Birds. Light and darkness. “We’re almost there.”
His arm was around Phillip’s shoulder. They were moving fast.
The sun blinded him.
The full scent of the ocean hit him. The breeze. The sound of the waves crashing on rocks below.
Freedom.
Phillip was running now. Sebastian tried to help, to move his legs, but he could barely feel them. A truck was waiting
on the curve of a one lane road. Phillip lifted Sebastian into the back, more interested in hurrying than being careful.
“The gods are leaving Egypt now,” he spoke in between ragged breaths. A slap to the face shocked Sebastian upright. “Sebastian! Listen! Artemis plans to heal Apollo if she can, then they’ll take back Olympus. Ari is in the Underworld, getting Archer from Thanatos. The folks back home want you to hop a plane, but the truck is taking you to an entrance of the Sybilin Caves. It’ll lead you to the Underworld. A Lady of Sybil will greet you there and escort you in. Bran figured you’d want to be with your girl. Give him my regards. Godspeed, my friend.” Phillip banged on the side of the truck. It lurched forward. Sebastian struggled to sit up and comprehend everything Phillip said.
The last thing he saw was Phillip standing in the middle of the road with one hand up in farewell.
THE JAR OF THE truck woke him.
He wasn't sure how long he’d been out. Sunlight beat down on him, flashes of light and shadow as the truck passed beneath tree limbs, and weaved through the cliffs along the sea.
He’d be sick again if there was anything actually in his stomach. He cracked his eyes open and struggled to sit up, grabbing the side of the truck for support. Slowly, everything came back to him, well everything before he blacked out.
Through the back window of the truck, he could see an elderly couple.
He had no idea where he was going, but Phillip wouldn’t have risked his life only to have him killed or put in danger.
He thought of the pompous Frenchman. Him standing in the middle of the road. His hand up. His face worried.
Give Bran my regards, he’d said.
Bran had a spy in the Dark Mother’s sanctuary. Damn. This was all so much bigger than he’d thought. How long had they been watching the Front?
Sebastian drew in a deep breath, wanting to clear the drug fog from his system. He took several more deep breaths and then saw a basket in the corner of the truck bed, close to the back window. Inside was bread, bottled water, fruit, cheese... He grabbed it, pulled it over, and saw olives. And with the sea and cypress trees, he guessed the sea was the Mediterranean. And he was pretty sure he was on the French or Italian coastline.
Which would make sense. If Lamia was closely connected to the Front and their headquarters were in France, she’d be nearby.
He ate quickly, ravenously, drank the water, and let the truck take him to his next destination.
As far away as he could get from Lamia, the better.
As the postcard view went by, the advisor’s face appeared in his mind. Her eyes, all the conflicting emotions she’d revealed in them. Her words, the unspoken suggestion she put in his mind.
His mother was dead.
Gone when he was just a kid.
The advisor was a fraud, Lamia’s puppet. And if they ever crossed paths again, Sebastian might just put a suggestion or two in her mind. Payback before he killed her.
Clarity filled him and he sat straighter, urging the truck faster to the caves. He’d read about the Sybilin Caves before. Supposedly, there were a hundred entrances that led to the caves and into the Underworld. It was guarded by the Ladies of Sybil, oracles and priestesses of the first Sybil of Cumae.
Ari was in the Underworld. Jesus.
He could kiss Bran and Phillip for putting him on the truck instead of a plane home. Soon, he’d reach Ari and together they’d bring Archer back home.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A POKE ON THE SHOULDER woke me. I cracked my eyes open to see the end of Mel’s staff pressed into my skin. “Time to go,” she said quietly.
Violet was up already and shaking her Mardi-Gras mask, trying to fluff the feathers. Mel was untying Thalia and leading her into the trees to do her business, which was cue for me to get up and do the same.
Stiffly, I pushed to my feet, stretched, and then headed into the woods.
Once everyone was ready, we began the hike back to Mel’s temple and her mystical fire pit.
Thankfully, we didn’t encounter any obstacles and were soon, stepping through the gray flames and into the Fields of Asphodel. Once there, Violet transformed into my shieldmaiden.
Thalia struggled to come to terms with her first glimpse of the Underworld, but I had to give her credit. She was no simpering princess. Despite being visibly shaken and her eyes as round as saucers, she carried herself pretty well. She held her head high and walked as though she was going to her doom just out of spite, just to look Thanatos in the eye and go out knowing she'd ruined his day before he put the touch of death upon her.
I always thought of a grace as being sweet and charitable, the epitome of beauty, poise, charm, and refinement. But, I realized, there was a certain grace to Thalia’s defiance, a strength and dignity that impressed me very much and made me see that grace could mean so much more.
As we began our trip through Olympus, Thalia remained silent. There was no begging, no crying. The grace was tough as nails, and the more I knew her, the more wretched I felt that fate had brought us together.
As Mel walked, her battle gear dissolved into her ethereal gown of gems. The spectral train grew and flowed, the ghostly apparitions seeming to stretch and yawn. I was starting to get used to the thing, finding it oddly beautiful, which meant I’d spent way too much time in the Underworld already.
“Dear gods,” Thalia breathed at the sight, stopping in her tracks.
I froze, rounding on her. “What did you say?”
Her expression shifted from awe to shock. She understood me. We stared at each other unsure of what was happening.
“All languages become one in the Underworld,” Mel said offhandedly. “Imagine the difficulties if all the creatures here and all the dead spoke different languages. A managerial nightmare.”
As we went, Thalia kept stealing glances at me before working up the nerve to say, “You brought me back to life.”
“Yeah. I was kind of expecting someone else, though.” A glint came into her eyes, telling me she was and would continue to be protective of her sister. “Look, I get it.” She frowned. “I mean I understand why you did it, why you took your sister’s place.”
She digested my words, but didn’t respond. Finally, she asked, “From what pantheon do you hail?”
Mel snorted. “If she were a goddess, you overstep your station by asking such a question.”
A muscle ticked in Thalia’s jaw, her eyes shooting daggers at Mel. “I walk to my death, daughter of Hades. The last thing that concerns me is propriety toward the gods. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here.”
And that was a song I knew well.
“Well said.” I held my fist out. “Fist bump.”
She just stared at me like I was touched by madness. Mel let out a deep chuckle. Thalia rolled her eyes and grunted her distaste for us and the entire situation.
“What?” I said to no one in particular. “I thought I was funny.”
After a while, we came upon the field where Hades’ cattle grazed on dry weeds, papery grass, and white flowers. The gigantic figure of Menoetes commanded a high vantage, leaning against his staff, overlooking the herd. I didn’t have to see his face to know he watched us intently.
Mel’s voice dropped. “What you said before,” she began, her tone one of discomfort, “about helping me become whole without bargain or payment...” She swallowed and canted her head to look at me. Her eyes were true, the truest I’d ever seen. “Thank you for that.”
“Anytime.” I shrugged. “That what friends do, they help each other. I want you to be whole, Mel. I want you to get the hell out of here and live a little, be happy, you know?” It'd be really great if she rescinded the bargain she'd made with me and Violet, but I didn’t see that coming. The gods weren’t fast to change.
Her frown suggested she couldn’t understand why I’d want good things for her.
“He’s not moving.” I gestured to the Titan on the hill, thinking we might just get lucky and he’d leave us a
lone.
A hum of agreement came from Mel. She kept her gaze locked on him, letting him know she wouldn’t drop her guard or let him intimidate her. I had to give her props; she moved as if she owned the place and wasn’t afraid of jack.
Without incident, we made it through the fields and began the journey that would lead us passed Hades’ palace and the Fields of Punishment and onto Erebos.
In was pretty sure the look on Thalia’s face mirrored the look on my own face the first time I’d come through. It was a lot to take in and a lot to come to terms with. It was one thing to come here with a purpose, but quite another to come and know you might be staying. Forever.
She might have outfoxed a god thereby instilling his wrath, but after the sacrifice she made for her sister, she deserved a better afterlife than this.
“Were you aware?” I asked her at length. “When you were frozen in stone?”
She stumbled over the uneven rocks, her flat sandals completely inadequate for this kind of terrain. A frustrated breath escaped her and she wiped her brow with her forearm. “No. But I did dream.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Being frozen or coming back?”
“Both.”
“It’s . . . suffocating. The way the body hardens.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps similar to being buried alive, except the dirt fills you from the inside out.”
I’d suspected, but to hear it out loud... The kind of death I could deliver wasn't swift, wasn't merciful, it was terrifying and horrible. The power I had in me, the implications and accountability, the weight of it was stifling. “And coming out of it?”
“The burden is lifted. You feel lighter than air, free, and you are as you have always been, as if no time has passed.”
A low, relieved breath eased from deep within me. At least there was a balance, a counter to the vicious side of my power. Still, her admission had a profound effect on me. My power was born from a curse, created to cause harm, to punish. It wasn’t meant to be good, but I could wield it however I chose. No matter how awful it was, in the end it was just a vehicle. I was the driver.
