by Addison Fox
Stalking his prey?
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. Move your limp little dick away from the woman.” Ava caught sight of a wicked-looking blade in the guy’s hand, light from the overhead streetlamps shining off it.
Oh. My. God.
The sight of the weapon and the fact that it was clearly intended for the man behind her gave her a small measure of hope that she might get out of this alive.
But—oh, shit—that was a nasty-looking knife.
Although weaponry wasn’t her strong point, she’d worked in the museum long enough to have a basic, working knowledge, and that thing looked very old and very lethal, the point no doubt able to slice through her captor’s chest with a flick of the wrist.
The need to struggle infused every single fiber of her being, but she held still, even as the air in her lungs whooshed out with heavy pants. Her gaze followed the blade again, the flash of lights along its shaft nearly hypnotic in its sheer malevolence.
Was she going to get out of this alive?
And then there were no thoughts—only feelings—as everything happened at once. Her blue-eyed hottie let out a war cry as he leaped.
Something—a taser?—flared off the end of her captor’s hands, slamming into the guy fast shaping up as her protector. His large body stopped in midattack as an invisible wave seemed to knock him backward to the sidewalk, his long, blond hair stiff with static.
Her captor’s focus on the other man gave her the opening she needed and, again, she used the silky smoothness of his shirt to slide out of his arms. The need to flee pounded through her, while a strange compassion for her felled blond hero gave her the mad urge to stay.
Stay?
Had she finally gone over the edge?
She had put quite a few yards between herself and the two men when the prick of her conscience had her turning around to check that GQ had gotten to his feet.
He still lay on the ground, but he definitely had movement. She could see him struggling to stand, looking as if his limbs weighed a thousand pounds.
Ava edged back a few steps, that odd need to debate the situation still holding her back from a full-on run when she caught a whiff of something on the air. What was that? Ozone? Like during a lightning storm?
Ignoring the large man lying on the sidewalk as if he no longer posed a threat, the Hawaiian-shirted stalker fixed his gaze on her. His movements were measured.
Deliberate.
And filled with pure menace.
Her hesitation firmly gone, one thought pounded through Ava’s mind, signaling her muscles into action. Run!
Only she couldn’t, as a strange, restless energy seemed to drift toward her, like the shimmering waves of heat that floated off the sidewalk on a hot summer day. As the slow-moving waves came straight at her, she felt prickles of static slamming into her body, which made no sense, but she could feel them as they ran up and down her body. Sharp pricks, just like when she tried to make her arm wake up after sleeping on it wrong.
Ava shuddered as another wave of prickly energy ran through her. What was this? It felt like sleep numbness, but instead of her limbs waking up, it happened in reverse.
The tingles grew worse, morphing into hot, sharp spikes of pain as she tried to shake some movement into her limbs.
Even focusing all her attention, she could barely move. Small, uneven twitches were the only response to her focused efforts.
The stalker moved closer as the roar of adrenaline rushed her veins.
She had to get away from this. Had to move faster. Hell, had to move at all. She looked down to her frozen body. She tried to lift a foot, but nothing moved and the smell of lightning got closer.
Her windpipe tightened as panic filled her chest cavity.
If she could have moved her arms, her hands would already be at her neck, scratching, clawing. Desperate for air as the panic took over. Drowning without water. No escape.
In the midst of it all, one single image kept floating to the top, past the madness of fear, beyond the paralyzing terror.
Last guy . . . Neck . . . Disabled him . . .
She had to get to his neck.
But she couldn’t move.
And then Hawaiian Shirt was on top of her and a weird roaring noise filled the air, so loud it drowned out the heavy thuds of her racing heartbeat. And then he wasn’t on top of her because her hottie had come to her rescue again, locked on the sidewalk with the stalker in a death grip.
Loud grunts wafted up to her as she tried to shake herself free of the paralysis. Waves of pain ran through her nerve endings as her limbs fought to wake up. There was more of that sharp, prickly pain as skin and nerves and muscle came back to life.
The moment she felt enough strength in her feet to move, she leaped aside as the two men rolled over the hard concrete of the sidewalk.
With screaming insistence, her mind pressed her to act, to run, to survive.
“Ava!”
Her hottie grunted her name as he pinned the stalker’s arms over his head on the ground.
“I need you!”
The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed her. Then she saw the appeal in those sapphire orbs and ran over.
“The head,” her protector grunted, pressing harder on the stalker’s arms as his legs pinned the lower half of the struggling body.
More grunts. “You need . . . to snap . . . the head.”
Like a small piece of kindling setting fire in a cold fire-place, the fear that hummed perpetually under her skin was squashed, killed by the desire that somewhere inside of herself there was a woman who was bigger than the fear.
Ava understood his terse orders and the moment she saw a chance—the moment her hottie had rolled the guy over in a show of pure strength advantage—she took her shot.
With a loud, feral scream, she ran to them and locked one foot firmly on the stalker’s neck. He twisted so that she nearly lost her balance, but she managed to keep it by planting her back foot. Strength she didn’t know she had kept him from moving, but it couldn’t stop the movement of his eyes as they locked with hers while a hand snaked out and grabbed her ankle.
Her own movements quick, she lifted her other foot and came down on his head. Where she’d expected a loud crack, all she heard was a soft pop as the man’s body went limp.
And then a wave of electricity went through her as though she’d stuck a knife in a light socket. Great waves of pain lasered into each and every nerve ending, like her body was on the verge of exploding into a million pieces.
It slammed through her so hard, she went sailing through the air. The last thing she felt as she hit unforgiving concrete was a sense of wonderment.
How did her hottie know her name?
Chapter Three
Enyo shot her nephews a glance as she refreshed her lipstick. “Read it to me again.”
Although Phobos and Deimos normally engaged her with their seemingly endless supply of ideas to cause fear and dread, the last few weeks she just hadn’t been in the mood.
It all started the night she learned of the prophecy.
What the hell good did it do to have a series of minions, ready and willing to do your bidding, if none of them could keep current with the times?
And damn Wyatt Harrison’s black soul; he’d kept the news from her. Oh, he’d done his fair share of groveling—even pretended he had no idea what the hieroglyphics meant—but she knew better. She smelled the lie on him like it was cologne.
Even her lover’s most strident attempts to distract her hadn’t abolished the anger, or her raw fury, at Wyatt’s lie.
The prophecy had been found two months before in the very same chamber where Wyatt’s brother made the discovery of the Summoning Stones. And he’d kept the information to himself and told her about it only two weeks ago.
He might offer a wealth of contacts and connections, but the man had outlived his usefulness. He’d grown far too cocky, too sure of himself.
Well, she could fix that. She’d man
aged many a similar situation before. Men and those dicks of theirs. Always getting themselves in over their heads, thinking no one could touch them.
But later for that.
Despite her raging anger at being so ill informed, the prophecy had gone a long way toward explaining some things.
She recognized the Summoning Stones had power. She had always felt it. She even knew of their existence during Thutmose’s reign, but had been prevented from gaining a full understanding of their use. Thutmose’s damn high priest—he’d known just how to block her.
After the rediscovery of the stones two decades ago, she’d returned her attention to them, but no matter how hard she’d searched for a link, nothing presented itself—no supernatural force she could detect on a higher plain of reasoning; no extraordinary reaction when put together. Not even a whisper of power emanated off their surfaces.
But now. Ah yes, now it all made sense. The prophecy explained it all.
Deimos smacked Phobos on the head. “You got ketchup on it.”
Phobos struck back, the blade he wore on the underside of his ring, slashing his brother across the cheek. “I’ve told you not to hit me. And the ketchup was an accident.”
At the best of times, her nephews had the energy of puppies. The fact they hadn’t been let off the leash in months had only made the problem worse. “Read it again!”
“Yes, Aunt Enyo,” came the matched replies.
Deimos’s voice rose above his brother’s, the macabre undertones resonating through Enyo’s residence on Mount Olympus. “Once in every age, a Chosen One, selected by the great god Ra, will harness the Great Summoning Stones of Egypt. The five stones grant the Chosen One dominion over everything. Death. Life. Love. Sexuality. Infinity.”
Phobos’s voice overtook his brother’s. “The Chosen One—the Key—will bind the power of the stones under its command. The Key will rule over all the earth and no portal will be immune to its influence. No god can rule above the Chosen One when he commands the power of the stones.”
The stones did have power.
And she needed every drop she could wring out of them to replenish her own.
Hell, once she had the stones, her own power was immaterial.
Take that, dearest father of mine.
And yeah, okay, fine. The rules had been laid out for her before she said yes to this little contest with Themis—everything must be done fair and square in the hallowed, rarified air of Mount Olympus, after all—but she’d barely paid attention in her eagerness to get started.
Admittedly, she’d caught on quickly when reality came crashing in.
Every battle she lost diminished her powers.
When she’d begun so many ages ago, her eagerness had rivaled that of Deimos and Phobos, her enthusiasm for her task a bright, shiny object of joy. The truth, though, had become evident during her tenth loss. She’d weakened to a point where she required aid to execute her plans against Themis’s damn Warriors because she could no longer handle it all on her own. And this, when added to the insult of the loss, was a special sort of punishment all in itself.
Oh, her father would never call it punishment. He simply called it balance. A necessary requirement in the bargain that got her this gig in the first place.
He was so fucking old-school sometimes.
Who needed balance? They were gods. They needed power and nothing more. Seeing as how that reasoning regularly fell on the deaf ears of everyone but her mother, whining about it got her nowhere.
The die was already cast and each loss weakened her. Each minion she created to help her weakened her more. Like some cosmic wheel of balance, her power had finite limits. If she used it and didn’t replenish it with wins, it was spent. And if she wanted more minions to help her battle Themis’s damn zodiac assholes, she had to give up a little more power to get them.
Not that it mattered in this case. When she could get the stones under her control, there’d be no more lost battles. She’d have all the power she needed, all the power she could ever use.
Maybe it would assuage some of her ire about that whole World War II thing, which still pissed her off. Of course, it had taught her a valuable lesson. That was the first—and last—time she’d pinned her hopes fully on a human. Adolf had talked a good game, but he’d still failed her in the end.
Brushing the thought away, she stood and walked around her study, her focus on the weaponry table in the corner. She really shouldn’t complain. There were perks to her situation. Themis might have believed humanity needed protectors from some giant, evil forces beyond their control. What they really needed was protection from themselves.
They were so easy to manipulate.
So easy to turn.
Drugs. Sex. Money.
They were such willing pawns, she almost didn’t miss operating at full power.
Almost.
Enyo took stock of her arsenal, the various toys she kept lying around the house an avant-garde form of self-expression. A guillotine sat in the corner, sadly out of fashion. She’d so enjoyed that delightful reign of terror.
Her gaze shifted to her antique sideboard, the top littered with the most fascinating items. Crossing to her collection, she couldn’t stop the rush of pride at what she’d amassed over the years. Brass knuckles, a tomahawk, throwing stars—all winked brightly back at her under the lights.
She ran a finger over the wicked end of a ten-blade, images of the disease she could paint on the edges of the blade buoying her thoughts.
Ah, hope really did spring eternal. And if there was one trait she had in spades, it was an innate belief in her own power.
She would prevail.
Always.
Because she had one great advantage people always forgot. Her brethren on Mount Olympus forgot it. Themis in all her justice bullshit always forgot it. Even the dumb humans always forgot it.
She was the goddess of war. And everyone who went to war believed in what they were doing, both sides fiercely willing to sacrifice for their goals.
As long as that held true, she’d never be out of a job—sort of like her own personal insurance policy. Even if she never conjured up another battle on her own again, Themis’s beloved humans would never cease to provide her with entertainment.
Of course, the problems she generated were so much more interesting than puny human concerns, but, still, a good battle was a good battle.
Period.
With another glance at Deimos and Phobos, she decided to bump up her recruitment schedule. She had Wyatt in line, which meant she’d have the stones soon enough, so what did a few extra shots of power drain hurt?
And the task would have the added benefit of getting Deimos and Phobos out of her hair.
After a quick outline of what she required for the next job, she watched them run for the door in excitement.
“Boys. Remember what I said! Find the drug dealers, not the addicts. The dealers can be motivated. The addicts are useless, even by human standards.”
The door slammed in the twins’ wake as Enyo reached for her cherry red nail polish. Unscrewing the bottle, satisfaction hummed through every pore. Once she got her hands on those stones, Themis’s little puppets were never going to know what hit their oh-so-fine asses.
Brody cradled Ava in his arms, willing her to open her eyes. A litany of anger ran through his head on a loop.
If only he’d thought to find the second Destroyer before he found them; if only he’d found a way to keep her out of harm’s way instead of simply following her. If only he’d been quicker, he could have ported and caught her before she landed.
If only . . .
He drew her closer as the mental tongue-lashing continued. Why had he been so distracted around her, like a moronic teenager dealing with his first hard-on? Why hadn’t he taken care of her as he should have, keeping her away from the danger that, while not expected, wasn’t a complete surprise, either?
“Ava.” Her breath came out in light gasps as he conti
nued to rock her. He’d tried to feel her body for broken bones, but the impatience to have her in his arms overrode the good sense to leave her on the ground. “Ava,” he whispered, his voice more insistent.
Her eyelids fluttered and she mumbled something unintelligible, but the fact that she mumbled anything at all gave him hope. His voice louder, he purposely made his tone harsh to get her attention. “Ava!”
Her lids fluttered back to reveal the dark, chocolate brown of her eyes. Even in the darkened light of the street he could see her pupils respond normally. A good sign. “What?”
His grip tightened, willing her to stay conscious. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
“Mmm.” The lids fluttered, but she fought to keep them open. “Mugged.”
Is that what she wanted to call this? That explanation would make it a lot easier for him in the long run, so he went with it. “That’s right.” He gentled his voice, but kept it at an insistent tone to keep her awake. “And do you know what they were after?”
“Purse, I s’pose.”
“Why did you try to fight them?”
“I didn’t fight them. I couldn’t fight them.”
“Why not?”
“Too ’fraid.”
Too afraid? The librarian-turned-goddess act he’d just witnessed suggested otherwise. “You didn’t look afraid to me. You fought those guys like a sexy little Amazon.”
She shook her head, but the movement clearly caused her pain, because she stopped almost instantly, clamping her eyes shut again. After a few moments, she took a deep breath. “Wasn’t me. I don’t act like that.”
What was she talking about? She’d just kicked serious Destroyer ass.
“You just did act like that. You were amazing.”
“Had to help you. Had to be bigger . . .” Her voice trailed off and he hugged her closer, the movement forcing her eyes open again. “Had to be bigger than the fear.”
Relishing the feel of her body in his arms, he reached for the hair at her temple. Smoothing her hair away from her face, he continued to pepper her with questions to keep her awake. “Is there someone I can call for you?”
