by Sandy James
A loud roar from the back of the crowd cut off her words.
One of the teenagers popped into the air like a heated kernel of popcorn. Then another. And another. As the bodies flew, a path began to open up in front of them.
Max strained to see who accomplished such a feat.
A woman. Tall. Honey-blond hair falling to her waist in a cascade of loose curls. She was dressed in a brilliant blue medieval gown trimmed with ermine fur on the wrists, neckline and hem. She flicked her wrist and another teenager who had been in her path catapulted into the air, landing on other followers several yards away.
Finally making her way through the red-robed sheep to stand in front of the stage, the woman glared up at Chernabog with those brilliant blue eyes. She fisted her hands against her slim hips and scowled.
“Who dares summon me like a serving wench in a tavern?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Rhiannon.” Chernabog gave her a small, condescending bow. “You grace us all with your presence.”
Max almost rolled his eyes in frustration. The god should get on with capturing her and be done with it. But, no—he had to have his little show of power.
You fat fool.
“Aye,” the goddess replied as she narrowed her eyes. “You know very well who I am. Just as I know you, Chernabog. You were supposed to be exiled in the mountains of Chile, caring for the camahuetos.”
Chernabog snorted flames from his nostrils. “You bitches damned me to the company of one-horned bulls. I am a god, an Ancient, not a cow herder.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “’Twas a punishment you earned and one that seems to have taught you little. You’ve come back—yet again—to be a plague on the human world. Not a wise choice. And I see you’ve brought company.”
Her gaze roamed the stage before settling on Max. A frown formed on her beautiful face, but she didn’t act surprised to see him there. Even more perplexing was why she seemed so familiar to him.
Then her gaze settled on Freya. “You’ll be free soon, my friend.”
A slow smile spread over Freya’s face. “You have my thanks.”
Max knit his brows as he considered Rhiannon. Where would he have seen the goddess before? And why did she appear to recognize him as well, her gaze always returning to his?
Before he could ponder those questions, she shifted her eyes and gave an angry glower to Chernabog. “Why have I been summoned by the likes of you?”
Chernabog swept his arm toward the cage. “Freya has called you on my behest. After the defeat you handed me in the last century, I wished you to be here for my triumph. Aye, my victory and your fall from power. ’Tis your turn to know defeat.” He motioned to a few of the robed followers. “Seize her.”
When they hesitated, Max had to prod them with his mind to get them to obey.
The god turned back and growled at Natasha. “I need it now.”
Natasha pulled the Gleipnir rope from her skirts and tossed it to Chernabog. He, in turn, threw it to one of the taller followers in the crowd. Rhiannon would be at Chernabog’s mercy.
She was having none of it. She shoved her hands out, palms toward the people charging at her. They hurtled back as if caught in a hurricane’s winds. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the empty chairs on the stage crashing at Chernabog.
He sidestepped them before they could inflict any harm.
Her gaze settled on Freya’s cage, her eyes growing soft for a moment before she turned back to Chernabog. “Release Freya of Folkvang, and I might not destroy you.”
Chernabog laughed, spread his wings and gave them a flap. “Nay. Freya’s power will be mine before the sun rises. As will yours.”
“You’re a fool,” Rhiannon scolded. “You cannot defeat me.” Two more robed figures approached her. She whirled to face them, her skirt billowing around her. “Ah, ah, ah.” She clucked her tongue. When they ignored her warning and took another step, she sent them flying at a group of four who had also grown bolder and were drawing closer. A wave of her hand and they were all soon sprawled in the grass.
The rest of the sheep kept a wary distance.
“Hold!” Chernabog shouted at the followers as if they hadn’t already backed away from the Lady of the Lake. The god rubbed his claws over his goatee. “Mayhaps I cannot defeat you. Not alone.” He spread his wings wide as if hoping the sight of them unfurled would frighten Rhiannon.
The goddess replied to his show of power with an exaggerated yawn that she daintily covered with her slender fingers. “You’re boring me.”
“With the help of my queen, the patron goddesses will rule no more.” Chernabog turned to Sergei. “Bring her now.”
Sergei obediently scurried through the curtains.
“Your queen, whoever she is, won’t help you. I’m too strong,” Rhiannon scoffed. She nodded at the cage. “Release Freya before I’m forced to send you someplace worse than Chile. Or perhaps this time I will simply kill you. Exile seems to have done nothing to change your meddlesome disposition.”
The heated exchange fascinated Max. While he’d never assumed her capture would be as easy as Chernabog had assumed, Rhiannon in all her glory was a sight to behold. Dangerous. Powerful. Sensual. The Ancients were nearly irresistible to mortals, and they often took many human lovers to feed their vanity. This he’d known. What surprised him was how easily he was falling into that trap.
Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to him, and her blue eyes held him captivated.
He was having a difficult time shaking the attraction. He shook his head, angry at himself for not feeding before this siege. Had he increased his strength, the draw to the goddess would not have been nearly as strong.
Yet there was something about her—some quality that other Ancients didn’t possess. Max followed her gaze as it scanned the crowd of teenagers, and he realized what it was that made her so different.
She pitied these people. The sorrow was written plainly on her face, especially in her eyes.
An Ancient feeling sorry for the fate of a few misfortunate people?
Yes, she was a patron goddess who’d created the Amazons to help humanity. But Rhiannon and her three cohorts had never bothered to become personally involved with victims. Whenever there was trouble, they sent their Amazons charging in and went back to their temples as though they didn’t care. Yet Rhiannon was here, and not just because of Freya.
Sympathy? From the Lady of the Lake?
That was what was wrong.
Humanity. Rhiannon stank of humanity.
Before he could figure out exactly what that revelation meant, the curtains were dragged open.
Sergei escorted a woman dressed in the Ancient’s typical medieval garb—a long white dress trimmed in silver fur and jewels. Her beauty was evident, echoing Rhiannon’s in an odd sort of way—although Chernabog’s queen appeared much older. Same long, blond hair. Same patrician angles to her face. Same air of self-assurance.
When the queen passed Freya’s cage, the goddess gasped, then her face hardened into a scowl. She gripped the bars until her knuckles blanched.
“You traitorous bitch,” Freya whispered, barely loud enough for Max to catch.
Sergei escorted the queen to Chernabog, bowed and returned to his seat.
Chernabog’s face lit with a smirk that bared his yellow fangs. He took the woman’s arm, eased it through the crook of his own and led her to center stage. As he’d told Max time and time again, he was going to show Rhiannon the importance of the queen he’d chosen. His moment of triumph had arrived, and the god’s chest puffed in obvious pride.
Max was more interested in Rhiannon than the queen. He studied the goddess’s reaction, waiting to see the recognition dawn on her.
She barely blinked. She simply stared at Chernabog and his queen fo
r several moments before setting her hands against her slim hips and scowling at them both.
Max gaped at the goddess. Where was the recognition? The righteous anger? The outright fury? He’d expected a hell of an earthquake at the very least.
A cold smile crossed Rhiannon’s lips. “So your queen dresses as an Ancient. I’m not impressed.”
I’m not impressed.
Her words echoed in Max’s mind. Why?
And why didn’t she recognize the queen for who she was—who she’d been? The reaction should have been immediate and enormous.
“That is not Rhiannon,” Max said, not at all shocked at the humor in his own voice. He’d known the evening would hold many surprises, but he’d assumed he’d be the one dishing them out.
Things were finally getting interesting.
A chuckle slipped out. “That is most definitely not Rhiannon.”
Chernabog turned to gawk at him. “What say you?”
He inclined his head at the phony goddess as he moved toward Chernabog. “She speaks in modern tongue. She worries about those people.” He swept his hand at the crowd then to the woman standing at the god’s side. “And she clearly does not recognize your queen.”
He caught the nervous frown flickering over the imposter’s face.
“Nay,” she said, glaring at Max. “I do not trouble myself with knowing which woman Chernabog chooses to bed and call his queen. There have been far too many.” She raised her chin in defiance. “Why should I care?”
“Because I used to be your Amazon,” the queen replied in a voice as sharp as cut glass.
The pretender’s head whipped around to stare at the queen. After a few stilted moments, she narrowed her eyes. A few angry sparks flew from her fingertips. “Helen.”
“Maksim is right,” Helen replied. “She’s not Rhiannon. You’ve been deceived.”
* * *
Helen. Damn it!
Megan hadn’t recognized her. Why should she? Only Artair and Rebecca had ever seen the rogue Amazon turned goddess.
She’d barely considered Helen. None of them anticipated an evil Ancient like Chernabog—who loved to reduce forests to charred stumps—would join forces with Helen.
One thing that had nagged Megan about Popov now made perfect sense. He sang about the environment. Gina called him a tree hugger. Rebecca had told the Amazons that one of the reasons Helen wanted to rule humanity was to save the gifts of the Earth from being wasted and polluted.
A noble cause, but it lost its righteousness being championed by a psychopathic neo-Ancient. Helen had obviously been the one who picked Max’s songs.
“Shit, Megan, I’m sorry,” Rebecca’s voice buzzed in Megan’s ear. “I didn’t see Helen until a second ago. I was too busy shimmying up a damn lighting tower. Had to get someplace where I could see enough to take a good shot. You’ve got to get out of there. Now. I’ll guard your back. We’ll fall back on Plan B, but you need to retreat. They know the jig is up.”
Knowing Rebecca was watching from her perch, Megan gave her head a small shake.
Plan B, my ass.
Things had been going well until Helen had popped up. Megan would have to bluff her way through this fly in the ice cream until the rest of the Amazons and the Sentinels were all in place. If she backed down now, they’d all be left vulnerable. No, they needed to keep right on with Plan A, and it was her job to occupy the idiots on stage until everyone was ready to strike.
“Get the hell out of there, Megan,” Johann’s voice added to Rebecca’s caution. “Now.”
Megan shook her head again. His responding growl quickly followed. She wished she could turn the transmitter off so she didn’t have to listen to him scold her.
“Megan, listen to me,” Rebecca said. “My arrows might kill Popov and disable Helen, but they’ll barely cripple Chernabog. They were blessed by Ix Chel, not Rhiannon. They’re not strong enough to take out an Ancient of his power. Get the hell out of there. Now.”
“No,” Megan whispered, wishing Rebecca and Johann would both stop shouting the word now at her.
It was taking all her concentration to keep annoyed sparks from flying from her hands while simultaneously maintaining her Rhiannon masquerade—including the goddess’s ridiculous medieval clothes. To pull this off, she’d have to watch what she said more carefully. The natural speech contractions had slipped into what she’d said strictly out of habit, but she’d definitely be more careful now.
She squared her shoulders and shot an angry glare at Helen. “Helen. After your betrayal, I did not wish to recognize you. Aye, I had put you out of my mind long ago. Yet here I find you causing trouble yet again and consorting with a lesser god like Chernabog. I should have known. You will die today.”
The Amazons’ targets were lined up on the stage.
Max. Natasha. Sergei.
There was no guilt wrapped up in the thought of killing Sergei. He’d gathered the girls who’d died from the crowds that came to hear Max sing, knowing the singer would murder them. Probably in a mystical way that kept Max alive, judging from what had happened when he’d kissed Megan and the way the girls looked when they’d found their bodies.
No, Sergei was going down without any regret.
She couldn’t work up a smidgen of concern for readying herself to destroy Max. He was evil personified. Because of what he’d done to Ashley Douglass and the other victims and what he was doing to all the kids around her, he was long past due for an execution.
The faces of the girls were in her mind again, swimming and twisting, mixing themselves up with the faces of the nameless teens in the crowd. All of them were victims. Max’s victims. This was her job—to extract justice for those who deserved it.
Fire. I am Fire.
Then she looked at Natasha.
The woman had raised her. Even if there had been no affection, the respect and remnants gratitude remained. But Natasha would have to die. She’d betrayed Freya by turning the goddess over to Chernabog. Megan just didn’t want to be the one who delivered the deathblow.
It was time to end this. She tried to put a haughty smirk on her face worthy of the Lady of the Lake.
“Aye,” Megan said. “You will all be brought to justice today.”
“Damn it, Megan!” Johann’s angry shout was loud enough, she was amazed everyone on the stage didn’t hear it.
She wanted to pop the earpiece out and throw it at him. She gave her head another small shake.
“Have it your way,” he said. “Since you’re bound and determined to stick this out, we’ll follow the original plans. Those morons seem to be taking the bait. Gina? You ready?”
“In position,” Gina replied. “I’ve got the key. I’ll have Freya out as quick as I can when Megan gives the signal. Sarita? You ready?”
“I’m here,” Sarita replied. “I saw the necromancer. It’s Belial, and he’s got a shitload of revenants in some fenced pen like they’re cattle.” Her voice held a hint of a quiver. “I’ll stay here and warn you if Belial tries to turn them loose.”
Megan had to resist the urge to give some reassurance to the alarm in Sarita’s voice, but Sarita had wanted that part of the assignment—probably hoping to overcome her dread of the revenants.
Artair hadn’t checked in yet, and Rebecca had to be getting concerned as well.
“Artair will be ready,” The reassurance didn’t come as a surprised that she and Rebecca still had their strong mental connection. “He just needs a few more minutes. Get that time for him, Megan.”
“Aye,” Artair chimed in. “I forgot to tap the gadget so you could hear me. I need but a few more moments.”
Chernabog and Helen frowned. Popov, for some odd reason, was grinning.
She had to avoid locking eyes with the guy, feeling weak from resisting h
is pull. If he guessed who she was and tried to use his hypnotic spell, she might not be able to fight him. Holding Rhiannon’s shape was rapidly draining her strength. She needed to get Artair enough time to get into position behind the stage before the Amazons could launch an attack.
All hell would break loose when they did.
This mission had three priorities. Free Freya. Capture Chernabog. Kill Popov. Megan supposed nabbing Helen was now a fourth priority. And, of course, everyone wanted to keep the casualties of the teenagers to an absolute minimum.
Pretty soon we’ll need a fucking list to keep all the players straight.
Strengthening her resolve and straightening her spine, Megan glared at Chernabog. “I grow tired of playing these games with you and your queen. Release Freya or pay the price.”
Chernabog’s laugh sent shivers up her spine. “Nay, Lady of the Lake. Today, you shall pay the price, and your powers shall be mine.”
Popov took a few steps closer. “That woman is not Rhiannon.”
“Fool!” Chernabog shot back. “Can you not see her with your own eyes?”
Helen withdrew her arm from the god and took a step forward.
Megan stared at Helen just as hard as Helen was gawking at her.
“If you are Rhiannon,” Helen said, “send an earthquake. Show me your power.”
“A quake?” Megan replied. “You think you can demand I perform like some trained animal? So be it. You want a quake? I shall give you a quake.”
“Please, Rebs. Please hear me. We could sure use a six on the Richter scale right about now.”
A moment later the ground began to shake.
The followers cried out in fear, and the earthquake Rebecca had brought was strong enough it sent some of the lights hanging over the stage falling with loud crashes. After a few long moments, the ground stilled.
Helen arched an eyebrow at her, but she looked as if she was becoming convinced of the ruse. “Are you who you say you are?”
“Aye,” Megan replied, trying to remember the litany of things Rhiannon always said when she was being her arrogant self. “I am the Lady of the Lake. I am the Goddess of the Isle. I am the guardian of Excalibur.” She glared at Helen. “And I am the one who will kill you.”
