The smaller god shook his head. “I know. But I still feel bad.”
Poseidon leaned back as he listened, long fingers toying with his wine glass. Thetis’s latest move in their ongoing battle had been to go beyond the mutated mermaids known as ilkothelloi and use her nanotech-laden venom to create more powerful minions that would be just as savage but maintain their original intelligence. To that end, Thetis had bitten and poisoned a minor sea goddess named Claire, intending to turn the resulting monster into a leader of her army.
But the brave goddess had defied Thetis, choosing to end her life and return her divine spirit to Gaia. While Claire’s death was a setback in the Mad Nereid’s plans, Poseidon had no delusions that it would dissuade Thetis from her course of revenge.
“We need to obtain a sample of this venom as soon as possible,” he said. “Ideally from an ilkothella. It won’t be as powerful as Thetis’s venom, but it should carry the same nanotech.”
“Yes, except that the ilkothella has to be captured alive,” Bythos reminded him. “They turn into sludge when they’re killed.”
“I’m aware of that. At the moment Aphros and his tritons are the most experienced with the creatures,” Poseidon said. “I’ll have him set a squad on capturing one. Where would you and Nick wish to study it?”
The demigod frowned in thought. “The cove would be the best place, but the protective geas would kill an ilkothella as soon as it came in. I’ll see about setting up some kind of holding pen outside the cove entrance.”
Ian grimaced. “Do we need to keep it alive once we have the sample? What if it breaks loose?”
Poseidon remembered that a human town lay close to the cove. During summer, its residents would undoubtedly be spending time in the warm waters of the Atlantic, providing a veritable buffet for an ilkothella. “We make sure it doesn’t break loose. I have no wish for mortals to become aware of the ilkothelloi’s existence. They tend to be panicky enough as it is.”
“Plus there’s the whole dying horribly thing,” Ian muttered. His own ascension to godhood had taken place after an ilkothella had bitten him, almost killing him with its venom. Gaia had chosen to spare Ian’s life by granting him divinity, but Poseidon knew the former mortal still looked on the ilkothelloi with revulsion.
Someone knocked at the back door. It opened, and a smiling brunette’s face appeared in the gap. “Darlings, are you home? I—”
She froze, her expression changing to a bland mask when she saw Poseidon. “Oh. I’ll come back later—”
“That’s not necessary, Amphitrite.” Poseidon got to his feet, arranging his own features into something he hoped was pleasant. “Aphros isn’t here, but if you wish to speak to Bythos I can step out for a moment.”
Her smile was perfunctory. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
Inside, Poseidon sighed. The formality between them was second nature by now. It was something he regretted, but had become resigned to over the past seven thousand years.
Once, of course, there had no formality whatsoever between them. Once they’d been passionately in love, inseparable, destined mates despite their lack of agapetos marks. Amphitrite had ridden with him in his chariot and fought alongside him during the Titanomachy, the ten-year battle that overthrew the Titans and crowned the Olympian Gods as rulers of the Mediterranean. She had been Poseidon’s glorious, brilliant, beautiful consort.
Now my estranged consort, he reminded himself. But still beautiful as ever.
Amphitrite glanced at their son now, her expression gentling. “I just wanted to ask Aph about a recipe,” she said. “Liam wants to try making something called cassoulet. Apparently it’s Nick’s favorite dish.”
“Aph is having a tactical meeting with his tritons,” Bythos said, crossing to his mother and kissing her cheek. “He should be back in a few hours. I can have him call you, if you like.”
“Thank you, darling, that would be fine. I won’t interrupt you any longer. Gentlemen.” She nodded at Ian and Poseidon.
Poseidon nodded back stiffly, unsure of what to say. Bythos glanced between then, then cleared his throat. “Why don’t I walk you out, Mother? I need to have a word with Aidan anyway.”
As quickly as was polite, Bythos escorted the Nereid from the cottage. Poseidon waited until they were gone before dropping back into his seat.
I curse both of you for your betrayal. May you never find happiness together.
His hands clenched at the memory, the voice still so familiar after all these years.
“You all right?”
Belatedly Poseidon remembered he wasn’t alone. “I beg your pardon?” he said, frost in his tone.
Ian raised his hands. “Sorry, not trying to pry. It’s just—look, I know you two have issues. If you want to talk or something, just say so.” He suddenly looked sheepish and shrugged. “Or tell me to fuck off, whatever.”
Poseidon considered the offer for a moment, then imagined how his son-in-law was likely to respond to the story of his gravest failing. It made him want to reach for his trident and destroy something, preferably an island.
“I … thank you,” he said, sounding a bit strangled. “But there is nothing on earth that can help.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything as Bythos came back into the kitchen. “Father, there’s a triton in the cove,” the demigod said. “He has a message for you from the Oracle.”
Poseidon sat up at that. The Oracle of the Waters was one of the last surviving seers, the mouthpiece of the Fates themselves. His messages were rare and could be cryptic at times, but they were not to be ignored. “Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“There are humans on the beach launching a boat,” Bythos said. “It would be rather noticeable if an armored man suddenly walked out of the water. I told the triton to stay in the cove and wait for you.”
“A boat?” Ian said, turning and peering out the kitchen window. “That can’t be Nick’s. He doesn’t know how to sail.”
“I suspect Ms. Kuttner has finally managed to rent out one of the other cottages,” Bythos said. “It was bound to happen at some time. We’ll simply need to be more cautious moving in and out of the water. Speaking of that…”
He reached into thin air and pulled out a dusty bottle, handing it to Poseidon. “For the Oracle. He does appreciate his tribute.”
Poseidon noted the bottle’s impressive vintage. It was in Bythos’s nature to be generous, but their relationship was still rocky enough to make the sea god wonder at such a gift. “He does at that. Thank you, my son. This is—unexpected.”
A hesitant smile played over Bythos’s lips. “Let’s just say I’m hoping for good news.”
“That would make a nice change, wouldn’t it?” Poseidon agreed, getting to his feet. “Well, I’d best go see what he has to say.”
He gave Bythos and Ian a brief nod, then concentrated. The air molecules around his body shifted, refracting light and making him effectively invisible to mortal eyes. That done, he left the cottage and headed down to the beach. As Bythos had said, a crew of mortal laborers were working at the boat launch, chatting to each other in Spanish as they eased a sailboat into the calm water. The craft appeared to be old but well-maintained, and small enough for one man to handle.
Poseidon tamped down a flicker of irritation. Passing undetected among mortals was simple enough to do, but he’d enjoyed the freedom of Olympic Cove and being able to move about without disguising himself. Oh, well. All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
He stepped into the warm water, checking the condition of the cove as he moved into its depths. The water was clean, the creatures in it healthy and thriving, and the protective geas laid on it by Bythos still held. No evil could enter to threaten his sons and their mate, or their friends.
At least, not yet.
At the cove’s deep end was a sizable field of fan-like coral, engineered by Bythos to filter out pollutants from seawater. Next to the field stood an elegant chariot with two magn
ificent creatures harnessed to it. In legend they were known as Skylla and Sthenios, the hippocampoi. This translated to “sea horses”, but Skylla and Sthenios bore little resemblance to the tiny sea creatures the modern world called by the same name. Instead, Poseidon’s steeds possessed the head and front legs of a horse, with a foam-colored coat and a golden mane and hooves. Their back ends were large, powerful fish tails, giving them the ability to move swiftly through the waters.
A triton in full battle armor floated a wary distance from the chariot and seahorses. He snapped to attention at Poseidon’s approach, dark grey porpoise tail flicking at the cove’s sandy bottom. “My lord, I bear a message from the Oracle of the Waters,” he announced, bowing his head. “He humbly requests your presence as soon as possible.”
Poseidon suppressed a snort. The Oracle he’d known for centuries didn’t possess a humble bone in his body. “Did he tell you what this was about?”
The triton shook his head. “No, lord. But he did say that it was important, and that time was of the essence.”
“Understood. Dismissed.”
With another salute the triton swam off. Poseidon turned to the steeds, checking their harness. Skylla tossed her mane, nickering at her master. “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long,” he said. “But you’ll have a good long run now. How does that sound?”
Sthenios whinnied happily as Poseidon climbed into the chariot, pushing the wine bottle into empty space and pulling back a massive golden trident. He snugged the butt securely into a small depression in the chariot’s bottom, wrapping the reins around his left wrist. “To the Cave of the Oracle,” he ordered.
The mighty sea horses surged forward, pulling him toward the cove entrance and open water.
****
The Oracle of the Waters resided in a remote grotto set in one of the calanques, or inlets, along the coast of France near Marseilles. Skylla and Sthenios went unerringly to the hidden entrance, neatly skirting a loaded cargo ship trundling alone one of the busy Mediterranean shipping routes.
Out of habit Poseidon extended his senses, reading the mortals who crewed the ship. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. There were the usual numbers of grudges and violent thoughts, but those existed wherever mortals gathered. He bestowed a casual blessing on them as his chariot landed on the sandy sea floor.
Leaving Skylla and Sthenios to nose at a patch of seagrass, Poseidon headed for the porous limestone rock face that, above, would become part of France. Down in the depths, however, the territory belonged to the Oracle of the Waters. He located the camouflaged entrance in the rocks and went in, first swimming and then trudging upwards through a narrow tunnel that terminated in a saltwater cave pool.
Emerging from the pool, Poseidon dried himself with a thought as he glanced around the long, lozenge-shaped cavern. An array of glass globes hung suspended in netting from the rocky walls. Each globe was filled with a liquid that illuminated the cavern with a soft white glow, reflecting on the pool’s surface with a ghostly shimmer.
About thirty feet from the water the walls narrowed, slabs of rock forming a rough rectangular doorway. A tall, white-haired man in an old-fashioned linen shirt and homespun breeches waited there now, pale blue eyes lit with amusement.
“Welcome, old friend,” he said, his voice low but still retaining a faint Irish lilt. “I see you got my message.”
“I did.” Poseidon raised the bottle. “And I bring tribute. From my son’s private wine cellar.”
The Oracle’s eyes brightened. “Bythos? Aye, that lad always had a knack for picking vintages. Come in, then, and be welcome.”
Poseidon followed the white-haired man into the back part of the cavern. The anteroom was where the Oracle met those who braved the waters to learn the will of the Fates. From there, he accepted tribute before giving them their pronouncements. Behind the doorway, however, were the Oracle’s private chambers.
Poseidon was struck by the amazing hodgepodge of shipwrecked items collected by his friend over the centuries. Gold and jewels poured out of numerous wooden chests, some of them rotting with age and the ever-present moisture. Salvaged planks and driftwood sat piled in neat stacks, and various pieces of statuary had been placed in available niches. In one corner, a peeling but still beautiful figurehead in the shape of a topless mermaid smiled at him in welcome.
The center of the room had been comfortably furnished with rare old carpets and pieces of carved furniture, rescued from the deep and carefully cleaned for their new owner’s use. Two chairs sat on either side of an elegantly chased brazier that filled the room with welcome warmth.
He was waved to one seat, and the Oracle took the chair across from him.
“I’m glad you got here quickly,” the old man said, taking the bottle and pulling out the cork. “I had the feeling that there was some urgency behind the Fates’ words.”
Poseidon accepted a filled golden cup. “Does this have something to do with the events of the past month?”
The Oracle shrugged. “I’m simply the messenger. Only you can put meaning to the words.”
“Which are?”
Pale eyes focused on him. The Oracle had once been a mortal man named Donald, but now Poseidon could sense the Fates gazing at him through those piercing eyes.
“The wheel has turned,” the Oracle said. “Heal old wounds and regain the trust of those you betrayed, or the Mad One will prevail.”
Poseidon waited, but nothing else came. “I assume the Mad One is Thetis.”
The old man sighed, settling back in his chair. “Can you think of another crazed creature that needs to be defeated?” he said. “The question is, do you know what the rest of it means?”
The wheel has turned. That would require some thought. Healing old wounds could possibly apply to any of the beings he’d quarreled with over the centuries. Gaia knew there were enough of them.
The betrayed trust, however, could only refer to one thing. “It seems the Fates have decided to move into the field of marital counseling,” Poseidon muttered, taking a deep gulp of his wine.
“Ah.” Donald nodded over his own cup. “The lovely Lady Amphitrite. I take it you still haven’t reconciled with her?”
“I don’t care to discuss it.
Donald waved it off. “As you wish. But if the Fates say that you’ll need Amphitrite at your side to defeat her sister, then you might want to pick out some nice posies and work on your groveling.” He saluted Poseidon with a golden cup. “Just a suggestion.”
“Groveling didn’t work. Neither did flowers,” Poseidon said morosely, taking another sip. “My head on a pike—that might do the trick.”
Donald made a deep, throaty sound that could have been agreement or censure. “Aye, and there’s some that say the lass deserves just that,” he said. “But you can’t be lopping your head off now, friend. It needs to stay on your shoulders, where it’ll do the most good against Thetis.”
“Will it? I tried to stop her, you know.” The admission pained him. “After her minion poisoned Bythos, I tried to hunt her down. I couldn’t find her. I’m the God of the Sea and she’s merely a Nereid, part of my demesnes. I should have been able to find her anywhere.” He shook his head. “But now she’s … other. Something I’ve never seen before. She’s been removed from my control, somehow. And that disturbs me greatly.”
The Oracle’s eyes narrowed. “How could that have happened?”
“I’m not sure. But if that’s the case, then this entire planet may be in the gravest of danger.”
“Have you talked to Gaia about this?”
Poseidon spread his hands. “I tried. She has declined to answer.”
“Hm.” Donald fell silent, allowing Poseidon to hear the sound of the ancient stone around them murmuring to itself. He had always assumed that the position of Oracle must be a lonely one, but listening now to the living bedrock he realized his friend might have more company than he’d thought.
“Well, then
, you must rely on your own counsel and fight Thetis as best you can with the allies at hand,” Donald finally said, nodding. “And from what the Fates say, that includes Amphitrite. I would suggest you go find her and tell her what I’ve told you. It might help.”
“Ha.” Poseidon drained his cup. “You’ve set me a difficult task, my friend. Almost Herculean, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”
The old mortal chuckled. “Better you than me, sea lord.”
****
Thousands of miles away, Heather Turnlow contemplated her latest acquisition, absently tapping a purple feather duster against one thigh as she pondered where she should put the gorgeous marble bust.
For a junk store masquerading as an antique shop, The Lady’s Touch held some genuine treasures for those willing to search through its many shelves. Heather was quite amused that the mortal shoppers who came in to browse never noticed that the interior dimensions of the store didn’t quite match the exterior dimensions. Except for that nice Englishwoman, Verity something. Such a good eye for spatial volume.
Unfortunately, the interior of The Lady’s Touch developing a certain elasticity over the years also meant that its display system had become rather haphazard. As a result, Heather wasn’t quite sure where to store the bust currently sitting on her counter. Garden statuary? Library decor? Halloween decorations?
A familiar presence bloomed at her back. “Darling, do you have time for tea?”
“Hello, Ammie.” Grinning, Heather turned to face her sister Amphitrite. The Nereid’s long, dark hair was caught up in a tidy chignon, and her casual but tasteful clothing—designer jeans, silk shell top, and Jimmy Choo flats—made her look like a rich young matron slumming it in a seaside junk shop.
Until you looked at her eyes. They held an ancient pain that made even Heather wince.
“Oh, crumpets,” she said, tossing the feather duster onto the counter. “What’s he done now?”
“Nothing—” Amphitrite stopped, staring at the bust. A flash of raw emotion flickered across her face. “Where did you get that?”
Heather winced as she remembered the bust. Damn, damn, damn. “I bought it at an estate sale,” she said quickly, hunting for something to throw over it. “The woman who sold it said it had been sculpted by her uncle, some sort of local artist. It’s really rather well done, but I didn’t know you were coming in, otherwise—”
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