by Hall, Linsey
“Fuck,” he rasped, then gripped her ass and ground her against him, working her soft body on his thigh to coax more of those sounds from her throat.
She’d scared the hell out of him when she’d gotten so close to the boars. Fear for her had pushed him over the edge, broken his control where she was concerned.
“I want you,” he rasped. “Always have.”
More than that, he cared. He couldn’t hide from it any longer. All those years ago, she’d given him the gift—and the curse—of emotion, dragging him from the cold existence of the gods. Now, all that emotion and lust and caring that she’d dredged up in him were becoming wrapped up in her. It was stronger than anything he’d ever felt for anyone else, and it confused the hell out of him.
“I care, damn it.” The sandpaper words scraped his throat, pulled out of him by a force he couldn’t control. He never talked like this. Never thought like this. Except with her.
She stiffened in his arms, her hands in his hair going still.
“No.” She pushed him away, struggled to get out of his arms. She shook her head, eyes wide and wild. He stepped back, hands clenching to keep from reaching for her. “I don’t want this. I didn’t come here for this.”
“Ana.” He reached out to draw her back.
“No.” She slipped around him and backed away, shaking her head. “No. Our past is totally fucked up. And now we’re the only two who can serve in Otherworld. You won’t take my place, and I don’t blame you, but starting something again under these circumstances will lead to disaster for both of us. I can’t risk that.”
Something squeezed his heart until he thought it would pop. She was right. Selfish bastard that he was, she was right. His actions had gotten her stuck in Otherworld, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—take her place again. His work needed him here on earth. Millions of people needed him for the good he could do.
But that left Ana out in the cold, trapped in Otherworld.
CHAPTER TEN
He’d have thought it impossible, but Cam was even more grateful to see the wharf at Bruxa’s Eye than he had been to see Havre. Being cooped up on a boat with Ana was hell on his mind and his damn emotions. He needed to get a grip.
He kept his sights on the big dock, which swarmed with activity, and brought the Clara G. alongside. He leapt down and quickly tied off the bow line.
He made quick work of securing the stern, and as he was brushing his hands off, caught sight of Ana sitting up from the hammock to look around at the bustling port city.
Dusk would fall in another hour, but for now the low sun revealed a town that pushed out of the jungle and onto the shore. Trees had been hacked down to make space for both the wooden buildings and the Mytheans who made their homes or businesses in the largest supernatural town in the Amazon River basin. It was so well hidden by magic that mortals who passed on the river wouldn’t even notice it.
Mytheans liked it so much for its secrecy that they moved here from all over the world. He could hear at least half a dozen languages from the people on the docks, and it explained the Portuguese-English mashup of the town’s name.
“This is the town with the airport?” Ana asked.
At the sound of her voice, he squeezed his eyes shut. Damn it, he had no idea what to do about her. She roused feelings in him—fucking feelings, which had never been an issue before he met her those many years ago—and now that he’d admitted to them… Well, he was fucked.
She’d rejected him. It was smart of her. They were the only two Mytheans qualified to serve in Otherworld as war gods. If she didn’t want to be there, he was the only one who could take her place. And he didn’t want that, no matter how guilty he felt about sticking her there in the first place.
She didn’t want the man whose weakness had brought her to the attention of the gods and then who’d abandoned her to her fate in Otherworld. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve her.
Yet it didn’t stop the sting of her rejection. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t the type who felt those things. Hell, he wasn’t the type who felt much of anything.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
He turned to her, avoided looking directly at her, and said, “Gotta go check out the flights, see what’s available. Nothing ’til tomorrow, probably. And get a hotel room.”
“We’re not sleeping on the boat?”
He shook his head. “Too unprotected. It’s unlikely that anyone can trace you to it, since we killed the boars and haven’t seen anyone else, but if the gods do show up, we want a room that’s hidden.”
“Hidden?”
“Yeah. There are a couple of magically protected hotel rooms in town that are operated by the local witches’ guild. Pricey, but worth it. As long as we’re in there, any god who shows up in Bruxa’s Eye won’t be able to find us.”
“Okay. Good.”
She was silent for a moment, and he realized that they hadn’t spoken about her plans for a replacement or if she still wanted to meet Druantia.
But now they had to address it.
“So,” he said, feeling like an ass. “What do you want to do about Druantia?”
Her surprised gaze jerked up to meet his. “I still want to meet her. Of course. Maybe there’s something else that can be done.”
Cam dragged a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away any trace of the grimness he felt. There was nothing else that could be done, but he didn’t want to tell her and take away the hope. He nodded, knowing he was delaying an inevitable problem but unable to help himself.
“Right, then. Let’s head into town.”
She nodded and followed him off the boat. He prayed that there were two rooms available in town. He needed some fucking space to get his head screwed on right.
They joined the bustling crowd on the docks, Mytheans of all shapes and sizes. In mortal cities, they would all look like mortals, even though they were something a bit more.
But here in the jungle, in a city that was specifically built by Mytheans for themselves, you could find all kinds. Demons, shifters who looked more feral than human even in their human form, witches who still favored crone-chic—as his friend Harp called it—and looked like they came from the bad end of a fairy tale.
It took about five minutes to get from the bustling waterfront to the middle of town. The last of the day’s heat pounded onto the street as they walked along the wooden boardwalk that harkened back to the days of the Wild West. Better the ancient boardwalk than the mud that caked the streets of Havre.
“In here.” He nodded at a two-story wooden building that was as dilapidated as the rest in town.
The interior was nicer, though only slightly. The small room with wooden floors and a single window had a wizened old Bruxa sitting behind the counter on the far wall. Black robes and pointed hat. Broom leaning against the counter.
The corner of Cam’s lips twitched. Witches could change their appearance at will, and this one had chosen crone-chic.
He approached. “Hello. We’re looking for two rooms for tonight.”
“One room only,” answered the Bruxa, her eyes narrowed on him.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Take it or leave it.”
“Are there no others in town?” Ana asked her.
So the idea of sharing a room bothered her too? Though in her case, it was because she didn’t want him back. Which he shouldn’t care about. He raked a hand through his hair. This day was getting better and better.
“Only one in town,” Crone-chic said. A fat black cat leapt onto the desk in front of her, eyeing him out of its one good eye. It had another, but that one didn’t look up to the task of giving the stink-eye.
“I know, Kitty, he is good-looking,” Crone-chic said to the cat. But the cat just turned and stuck a leg in the air to get down to cleaning its business. At least one person in the room thought he was all right.
“We’ll take it.” He handed over a bundle of Brazilian notes. Crone-chic inspected them an
d then gave him a toothy grin that was more grin than tooth.
She handed him a key. “Upstairs, last door on the left.”
He nodded and led the way, ducking his head to climb the low, narrow staircase. It creaked and groaned under his weight, and the heat became stifling as they reached the top floor.
“No central air, I suppose?” Ana said from behind him.
He chuffed a laugh, then grunted in annoyance with himself. They reached the end of the hall and he pushed open the small door to reveal a little room with two twin beds and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A chipped enamel sink was pressed into the corner next to a door that presumably led to the toilet.
Ana pushed past him and ran through the little door. “A shower! Oh, thank everything that ever existed, a freaking shower.”
He spun toward the exit and dragged a hand over his face. Gotta get the hell out of here—before she gets naked.
“I’ve got some stuff I need to do back at the Clara G. And plane tickets. See you in a while.”
“Wait, like, a while while?” She peeked out of the bathroom.
He weighed it in his mind. A night on the Clara G. would be best for him. And for her. But he couldn’t sleep there. It was one thing to be working on the boat or out in town, awake and vigilant. Sleeping outside the protection of the hidden room… That was a bad idea.
“A while. I’ll be back before it’s time to sleep,” he said. “You should be fine in the street as long as you’re paying attention. You’d know if another god showed up, right?”
One of the few perks of being a Celtic demigod: he’d feel the change in the aether if a Celtic god popped out of it and into town. She should too.
“Yeah.”
“Good. If you feel anything strange when you’re out of the room, sneak back here and wait it out. Don’t come get me. I can get here on my own.” He didn’t assume she would. But better for her to be safe in here.
“Okay. Um. Well, see you, I guess.”
“Yeah.” He made a hasty retreat.
Shoving Ana from his mind, he swung by the small airport and found that there was a flight headed to Miami the next morning. It gave him enough time to rent dock space for the Clara G. and batten down the hatches, both literally and figuratively.
But when all the loose odds and ends were stowed and the Clara G. was prepared to ride out whatever weather might hit Bruxa’s Eye while he was away, he realized he had no idea what to do with himself. He’d pushed himself while cleaning up the boat, hoping that the effort would clear his mind of Ana and what had happened earlier today.
It had, mostly. But hard work meant that the job was finished quickly, and when it was, everything he’d been running from caught up with him. Full dark had fallen, but it was still too early to go back to the room. To Ana.
He looked down at his hands, realized they were clenched tightly on the half-wall of the pilothouse, and finally had a good idea.
A fight. That was what he needed. To turn some of this confusion and lust and fucking hurt into aggression to get it all out of himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Southeast Celtic Britain, 13 AD
Territory between the Iceni and Trinovante Kingdoms
Snowflakes hurtled through the air on a cutting wind, dragging at Andrasta’s cloak and pelting her face. The cold numbed her until she couldn’t shiver and her fingers froze around the shaft of her bow. Fear tore through her mind, harsher than the wind.
She’d left the gods nearly an hour ago and set off toward the clearing to find Camulos and commit her terrible deed. But the gods hadn’t left her.
No, they appeared at the corners of her vision, disappearing just as she turned to look. Her anxiety had become a great clawed beast that tore at her insides to escape. Marrek was bleeding in the snow even now, while Hafgan waited in the wings. Her brothers were strong, but even they couldn’t fight a god they couldn’t see.
The gods were cowards. But she was their puppet.
She pushed herself harder through snow that rose to her calves. It fell from the sky as a great cloud of white, so thick that she could barely make out the trees on the other side of the clearing. But she didn’t see Camulos within the great empty space.
Something flashed out of the corner of her eye. She swung toward it, nearly releasing the string of the bow that she’d drawn.
Nothing. Whatever it was had disappeared. She cursed, turned back to the clearing.
Camulos stood within, the icy wind whipping at his cloak, tossing his hair. Her breath caught at the sight, fear and admiration surging through her. She lowered her bow, unable to help herself.
But he raised his. The breath lodged in her throat like a great boulder, and in her mind’s eye she saw Hafgan cutting down her brothers if she didn’t accomplish her task.
Fear clinging to her back with demon claws, she swung her bow up, sighted, released. The bow twanged, a sound that she would normally find glory in now turned dark and bitter. The arrow cut through the air, dragging with it her guilt and regret and shame until it punched through his flesh.
At the sight, something pierced her heart. Something sharp and so cold that it froze the organ in place.
Oh, gods, what have I done? No, no, no.
She gasped, then ran toward Camulos’ body. The snow dragged at her legs, slowing her until she wanted to scream. Finally, her knees hit the ground in a small puddle of blood that had melted the snow beside him.
“No.” The word tore from her throat as she laid a hand on his chest, his cheek. She’d had to do it to save her brothers, but gods, this was terrible. She’d cared for him. Maybe even loved him.
But now his eyes were closed and his skin was so pale. His cheek was cold against her fingertips, somehow colder than even the snow beneath her.
“Wake!” She shook his shoulder as hot tears froze on her cheeks.
She’d had to do it. She’d had to.
But her arrow protruded obscenely from his chest, straight through his heart, because her aim was too good to be off-target. The sight made bile rise in her throat.
Done. It was done.
Grief and self-loathing crowded her mind. She’d saved her family. Made herself a god. But at what cost? Was this what the glory of being a god felt like?
She clenched her hand in Camulos’ cloak, but she couldn’t get a grip on it. His body had begun to shimmer, going clear in places. She watched, mouth agape, as he disappeared, leaving only the red snow in which she knelt. Desperate for him to return and for the horror of what she’d done to be erased, she gripped handfuls of icy snow.
“You’ve failed.” A harsh voice cut through the wind, tearing her from her stupor.
She looked up. The dark-haired goddess loomed over her.
“What?”
“You’ve killed only his mortal form. Not his godly one.” Anger crackled in the goddess’ eyes.
“But I—” Andrasta held up a handful of bloody snow. She had no idea what she wanted anymore.
“You didn’t use the arrow he gave you. He enabled you to kill him when he gave you one of his own arrows. You, the one mortal with the weapon to kill a god, did not use it. How could you be so stupid?”
“What? I thought—I thought it was my skill that you needed.”
The goddess glowered, her hair whipping in the wind. “It was. But the arrow as well.”
Hope and horror flared within her chest. She hadn’t killed him? She hadn’t killed him.
“You have to finish.”
“What?”
“Kill him, or he will kill your family. Kill you.”
No.
“Or we will kill your family. He’ll know you were sent by other gods. He must be eliminated.”
“But—”
“He must.”
Heavy gray clouds began to roil above Andrasta’s head, rare winter lightning striking trees all around her. The air grew so cold that her blood seemed to freeze in her veins, her knees to the ground. Visions
of her brothers dead flashed before her eyes. Even her heart froze in place, fear stopping the beats until she was stone within.
“How?” she whispered.
“Go to Otherworld. Kill him in the land of the gods when he’s in his godly form. You’ll destroy him permanently if you use his arrow there.”
“But only the dead can go to Otherworld. How do I?”
“How do you think?” The goddess tossed a small knife into the snow and disappeared.
Andrasta stared at it, mouth agape, as her vision swam. This was what her life had come down to? A blade in the snow?
Tears spilled from her eyes, but from behind them she saw images of Marrek bleeding into the snow. Before she could back out, she grabbed the knife and sliced it along her wrist. She gasped as the pain shot through her, and she fumbled the blade. Her hand shook as she recovered it and tried again. Eventually, enough of her blood poured into the snow that she began to drift away on pain and sorrow.
The throbbing in her wrists faded as soon as she opened her eyes. But the tears still fell, obscuring her vision of an unfamiliar oak forest. When she tried to sniff her tears into submission, she was greeted by the smell of the sea mixed with the green scent of the forest.
She scrubbed her eyes, then inspected her wrists, her stomach clutching at the sight of the long scars. It felt like so long ago that she’d knelt in the snow and dragged the little knife across her flesh. One hand gripped her bow. Of course the gods had allowed her to bring it. She’d need it for her terrible task.
She rose on unsteady feet, her soul feeling pulled to the west. In her heart, she knew that she would find her ancestors there. It took everything in her power to resist. She turned east and away from temptation, determination leading her in search of Camulos.
Andrasta wandered the forest for what felt like days. She felt no hunger, no exhaustion. Nothing but determination to finish what she’d started so that she could save her brothers. The image of Marrek’s blood soaking into the snow flashed constantly through her mind, followed shortly after by images of Camulos.
