by Ines Johnson
“Can your intuition tell us where the fight is and how to get in?” Geraint asked.
“As a matter fact, it can,” I said. There was magic in the air, like a ley line but different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what I was feeling, but I knew it was supernatural. “I can feel magic underfoot.”
My body felt like a homing fork. I began to walk around. Not using my sight, I was using that well inside me where my magic laid.
The magic down below called to me. It brought me to a stop at a grate in the street. I reached down to the circular piece of metal with my magic. My fingers spread, and a warmth spread through my palm.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but my magic knew. The grate wiggled. Then it twisted. One more pull, and the circular disk flew up into the air, landing a few yards away.
Look at that. I’d opened a magical door. I did a little cheer and dance. I took a few steps toward the opening, and then I looked over my shoulder at Geraint.
He sighed, shrugged, and finally took a step forward. “Carpe diem.”
Chapter Twelve
I’ve seen a lot of crazy things in my human life. I’d swam in the Devil’s Pool in Zambia. Why was it called the Devil’s Pool, you ask? Because it was the natural pool at the edge of Victoria Falls where the waters fell down a one hundred meter drop.
I’d walked on the same ice as an Arctic polar bear. I held my ground when the bear spotted me on the other side of the ice. I only took a step back when I heard the ice crack. I wasn’t stupid.
And it wasn’t like I’d never been to a boxing match or a martial arts bout. I’d been on the fencing circuit for all of my teen years. Hell, I’d even found my way into a couple of real-life fight clubs in New York City. Though I can’t talk about them because of the rules.
I’d seen crazier things during my adventures with Nia. There had been high-flying cannibal assassins of the Gongyi in China when we’d searched out dragon bones. Or that time we’d come to Greece not too long ago where we’d watched humans get their life essence sucked out through their eyeballs. Not to mention that I now lived in freaking Camelot with witches, knights, and talking horses.
All these wonders paled in comparison to what we walked into beneath the Colosseum.
“You told me dragons weren’t real,” I said.
“I never said that,” said Geraint.
A dragon spread his wings and roared as a troll charged it. The dragon reared up on its hind legs, standing over ten feet tall. Its black wings spanned at least fifteen feet on either side. Its long, snake-like neck was the most beautiful emerald green I’d ever seen. I expected its head to be the pointy angles of a lizard or a snake, but it was shaped more like a hairless lion’s with a proud jaw and a pug nose. The animal was simply beautiful.
It raised its sharp black talons and sliced downward. Red coated its nails as though it had just gotten a manicure. The bloody polish dripped onto the ground as though in need of an air dryer.
I admired the color of the glossy coat. I brought my own nails in front of my face as the dragon’s opponent, the owner of that lush red liquid, roared in anger at the gashes on his chest.
The dragon faced off against what could only be described as a troll. It had three rows of teeth, two on the top and one on the bottom. There were a few jagged teeth missing here and there.
The troll was half the size of the dragon. Its fleshy body looked like it would make a tasty meal. Instead of cowering, the troll dug in its heels. Then it launched itself at the dragon. No one was more surprised than me when the troll piledrivered the dragon, upending the large beast and dropping it head first into the arena floor.
The crowd leapt up onto their feet and roared louder than the two beasts at center stage. We were beneath the Colosseum. I’m not sure how far down we’d traveled. One moment, we were on the streets and, the next moment, we were here in the underground space. I knew we were not exactly in Kansas, or maybe even Rome, anymore.
The amphitheater before Geraint and I was made of pristine marble that glistened under the bright lights. I didn’t see a single light bulb or fluorescent tube. It was as though a sun lit the area to be a warm spring day.
Magic. It was all magic. But not like mine.
This was different. Older. Purer. Stronger. My fingers and toes were tingling, aching to reach out and touch it.
In the gathered crowd were beings of every color–and I don’t mean human races. You know how people try to be inclusive and say they don’t care if people are white, black, or purple. There were purple people here.
There were people with petals as wings. There were people with antennas reaching out of their heads. This one female, every time she moved, sparkles shook off her body like a cloud of baby powder.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Fae,” said Geraint. “It’s believed that they evolved from plants before humans evolved from primates.”
The fae were all slender folks like wispy willows. They came in every shade of pastels like lavender, rose, and periwinkle. They looked like they were walking flowers and butterflies. But they cheered with the bloodlust of starved vampires.
On the arena floor, blood poured as the troll pummeled the dragon with its meaty fists. For a moment, the dragon just lay there and took the pounding. The troll began to tire as it tore at the rawhide. At the first lull in the troll’s assault, the dragon blew a stream of fire that burned the troll to a crisp.
The crowd of dainty flower people went absolutely wild. The smell of burning flesh hit my nose from the nosebleed seats we’d walked into. Another plume of smoke rose from the far side of the arena as the troll’s bones burned to a crisp and then sprinkled over the dragon’s body.
The plume was not the dragon’s. It was a rainbow of pastels. Sparks spread out of the clouds, twirling like dive-bombing sparkles. From the merry pyrotechnics emerged a male. I think?
His skin was pale purple—like lavender. His brows were the deep blue of Morning Glories. His lips were the pink blush of carnations. Gold sparkled at the edges of his eyes like magical mascara.
He was beautiful. But still masculine with a broad chest, strong thighs, and big hands. I couldn’t help myself. I looked down. Yup, big designer shoes. Complete with pinstripe pants and a cream colored shirt with more ruffles and lace than should work. But it did.
The man spread his arms wide and tilted his head back to look up at the crowd. His stance, his outrageous clothing, and his colorful person reminded me of a circus ringleader.
“Thank you all for viewing our pre-show entertainment,” he said.
That was the preshow?
The dragon limped off the arena stage. A chant rose up in the crowd. “Gyges! Gyges!” they shouted. It was him. The fabled Gyges. The fae king who liked to play games of morality and cunning.
“Do we have a show for you tonight,” he said. “In this series of bouts for The Ring of Invincibility, you will witness battles of will, the unveiling of secret desires, the might of physical prowess, and the elasticity of mental fortitude, as we get to learn what lies in the hearts of men. So …”
The crowd of fifty thousand was quiet, enough to hear a caterpillar fart. Gyges’s grin widened as he held everyone at the edge of their seats. More pastel pyro exploded around the showman.
“Let’s get ready to rumble,” he shouted into the thin air without a microphone, but his voice boomed up into the corners of the highest crevices of the arena. “Up next, we have two contenders. The first has tumbled into debt. His house is on the line. If he doesn’t win, his family will suffer.”
A man walked into the ring. He looked fairly nondescript like he could’ve walked in from the streets. The man’s eyes widened at the creatures assembled. It was clear he was human. He tripped as his feet brought him to his corner of the arena ring.
“And in this corner, our second contender was diagnosed with an incurable disease and only has two months to live.”
The other man walked into the ring. H
e also looked nondescript, like he walked in from the same street as the other guy. The exact same street.
“Did I mention they were brothers?” said Gyges.
From their opposite corners, the brothers froze as recognition dawned. A saga played back and forth across the features of their faces as they realized what was before them. To punctuate the dilemma, Gyges made it clear.
“Only one wins,” said Gyges. “Or neither.”
“This is unconscionable,” said the indebted brother.
“Yes,” agreed Gyges.
“I can’t fight my brother,” said the terminal brother.
“Then you’ll die,” said Gyges as he backed out of the ring.
The brothers faced off. I turned from them. The crowd watched the drama unfold at the center of the ring. But my attention zeroed in on a small corner of the massive arena. Watching the festivities on the other side of the arena in the crowd of thousands, I saw him.
Baros.
Chapter Thirteen
“Loren wait,” said Geraint. “Where are you going?”
But Geraint’s voice was drowned out. So was the pounding of flesh as one brother took the first swing. I ignored it all as I made my way down the steps towards the ground floor.
My palms sweated as I got nearer to him. My heart was a drum in my ears. The only thing louder was the crack of bones from the arena. I had a fleeting thought, wondering if it was the indebted brother that went down at the terminal brother’s hands. Death was a strong motivator, stronger than love.
I’m not sure I believe that; that the fear of death was stronger than the bonds of love. Maybe a few weeks ago, but not now. Especially not when it came to familial love. My shared blood and heritage was a strong pull to do the right thing. Stronger than the man across the way whom I’d shared bodily fluids with.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d do when I finally reached him. Would I bow to justice and place his hands behind his back and put him under supernatural citizen’s arrest? Would I bend to my—pfft, not my heart—to my vagina’s memories of good times and signal him that the authorities were closing in on him and give him an out?
If I turned him over to the Greeks, he was likely going to finally lie down in the grave he’d avoided for a millennium Aside from Hades, the Olympians themselves didn’t seem overly concerned about his justice. But the Chosen friends of Socrates were out for blood. And rightly so. Baros had participated in the gruesome violation of their friend and nearly brought about Armageddon.
But so had Hera, and no one was going to do anything to her. She was likely off somewhere enjoying the carnal attentions of her brother. That was both unjust and just gross.
Baros had only been an accomplice in the crime. He’d been working toward another goal, trying to gain justice for his people. Yeah, his long dead people who would never reap the fruits of his labors. But his motives weren’t totally bad. Were they?
God, where was a moral philosopher when I needed one?
The bottom line was that I had a job to do. I was on a retrieval mission. I was neither judge nor jury. Just the cop coming to pick up the accused.
Wasn’t that rich. Me, Loren Van Alst, the po-po. Wait until Baros found out where my alliances lay.
I took him in as I came closer. His pale gaze was fixed on the fighting in the arena. He stood, leaning against a column. His dark curls were shorter than the last time I’d seen him. His tanned arms looked bigger, thicker. They were crossed over his chest and it made his muscles bulge. My steps slowed as my mouth watered.
I wasn’t the only one admiring the scenery. There was a crowd of women hanging on him. One trailed her painted nails over his left bicep. Another leaned into his right side, boobs first. But his attention wasn’t on any of them. It never was during times like this, when he was preparing to fight.
Love has no place on a battlefield; he’d drilled into my head while I made goo-goo eyes at him. Steel is the only thing that is dependable. Your blade is your most faithful lover. Oh, best believe, I made many a dirty joke about that one.
As I crossed to the other end of the arena, the smell of sweat and blood permeated the air. The wet coughs of one of the brothers fighting droned on at the corner of my eardrum. But I was laser focused on that finger running up and down Baros’s shirtsleeve.
“I’m going to die, you bastard,” said one brother. I assumed the sick one.
“So will I if I don’t pay them,” said the debtor.
The pounding of flesh and the pleading, familial voices fell away as I came up behind Baros. Damn, had his shoulders always been this big and broad? I spotted that crease at his spine between his shoulder blades. I’d laid the side of my head in that exact spot after he’d worked me over so good that I couldn’t get mad when he rolled over to fall asleep.
My gaze was so focused on that spot and the memories it stirred that my tongue was tied. Power and animal magnetism oozed from Baros’s pores. It mixed with the blood from the ring and the cries of the crowd and the excitement in the air. I’m woman enough to admit that I got a little lady erection from it all.
“That has to be the biggest sword I’ve ever seen,” said Bimbo Number One.
God, if that wasn’t the oldest line in the book. I’d heard it at every swordplay tournament. During those times, before I’d come of age, Baros had gone off with his fair share of the women remarking on his equipment, leaving me on the mat.
I’d already risked my heart for Baros. He'd broken it, time and again. And here I was. At the edge of a ring, inching my way back toward him. I shook myself, and my arousal deflated. Mostly.
“It is a big sword,” I said. “Just be aware of its sharp edges.”
It was as though a jolt of energy went through Baros’s body. He didn’t stiffen. He loosened up. He rolled his neck and flexed his fingers. I saw his grin before I saw his opaque eyes. A guttural yell tore through the air from the ring, and I heard the sound of breaking bones. I didn’t look over to see which brother was losing.
“Lolo.”
“Lenny.”
The bimbo whose fingers were wrapped around his bicep wiggled her entire forearm around his arm and then locked in with her other hand. She looked me up and down in a challenge. I reached up and grabbed her by the ear. She squealed like a pink, little piggy as I spun her around and away.
Baros chuckled as the woman teetered away in heels, followed by the other bystander. “You’re looking good, Lolo.”
“Being alive tends to do that to a girl.”
He blinked and his features sobered. A small sigh escaped his lips. “I knew you would get out of that situation back in Greece. I taught you that maneuver and the evasive tactic. If you had failed at it, I would have been very disappointed in you.”
So, that’s how he was going to play it? Proud teacher to attentive student. I was a grown woman, not a teenager. I knew he was lying. His lips were moving. Not only were they moving, they were forming words through a wolfish grin.
“Really?” I drawled.
My finger trailed to the top button of my shirt. Somehow the button slipped through the hole allowing for a peek at my boobs. Innocently.
My other hand landed on my hipbone. When that happened, I wound up putting most of my weight on one foot and touting my hip, which accentuated the curve of my ass. Precociously.
My brows rose at him. I did a subtle hair flip, to make sure he could see my brow rise. As I did that, my nostrils flared at the musky scent of him, and I licked my lips. Dubiously.
Okay, so I was flirting. Shut up. Have any of you ever seen a Spartan?
No?
Didn’t think so. So, don’t judge me. Besides, I wasn’t seriously showing interest. I was reeling him in and he was playing right into my hand.
Baros reached out and ran his fingers through my hair. My breath came out in a slight shudder as his skin impacted my brow. It’s just that it had been a minute since I’d had, well, any loving. So, I might have been just a little off my gam
e. But still, I had this under control.
“I never took you for a nark, Lolo,” Baros said.
“Whaa?” Damn it. I couldn’t even hold all my consonants together standing toe-to-toe with this man. I tried to recover by inhaling, which inflated my chest. But Baros’s gaze wasn’t on my breasts. They were focused past me.
“Smells like medieval chivalry,” said Baros.
I turned to see Geraint with his brows raised at us. Even with the singeing of Desi’s fire from earlier in the day, there was still a phantom of the pointy arch. “Looks like you’ve found our man, my lady.”
“You turning me in, Lolo?”
I turned back to Baros with my finger raised for a point of order. But Geraint got there before I did.
“You’re a wanted man, Baros. The Greek Gods have been looking for you.”
“If that were true,” said Baros, “Zeus would’ve called me back.”
“You came up on our radar in Camelot. Dame Galahad led us to you.”
“Dame Galahad?” Baros turned his attention back to me, and finally, I got a chance to speak in between this male sword measuring competition.
“Turns out I’m a descendant of Sir Galahad,” I said. “I’ve been knighted. Can you believe it?”
He smiled at me. It was part pride, part sorrow. “I can’t come with you, Lolo. Even if I wanted to. I signed a contract for this tournament. I’m bound by Gyges until I win, lose, or die.”
I looked back to the ring as Gyges raised one of the brothers’ hands. The man who was left standing was too bloody for me to figure out which one he was. The other—the loser—lay immobile on the ground.
Looking at the scene in the ring, the only thing that ran through my mind were the words Baros’ had drilled into my head since I was kid. There’s no such thing as fairytales. Damsels die. Happiness is a constant, hard-fought battle to be won.
Chapter Fourteen
