Warrior Avenged

by Addison Fox

  Badly.

  Feigning nonchalance, she met him glare for glare. The urge to squirm was nearly impossible to resist, Quinn’s glare filling her vision and the screaming scientists filling her head in long, low moans punctuated by bouts of high-pitched screaming. But resist she did. “Look. I’m not sure why you dragged me here or what you really want to discuss, but I’d like to get back to Kane.”

  “He’s being taken care of.”

  Any sense of bravado fled at the idea of someone else tending to Kane. “By whom? What are you doing to him?”

  “Callie thinks she can draw the poison out. She’s creating a poultice now.”

  Ilsa recalled the woman’s name mentioned when they’d arrived at the mansion. An unholy knot of jealousy gripped her chest—just below her heart—at the idea another woman tended Kane.

  Touched him.

  “Who’s Callie?”

  “Our housekeeper.” Quinn’s mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “Of sorts.”

  Was this another nuance of modern society she didn’t understand? Or was he mocking her and her anger that another woman comforted Kane?

  Whatever it was, the tone of his voice when he mentioned Callie suggested the woman demanded respect from the Warriors.

  Clearly, she was a healer as well.

  “I’d like to go see him.”

  She expected some angry retort, full of belittlement and the stubborn, willful ire the Taurus seemed to exhibit at every turn.

  What she got was a simple question.

  “Why?”

  She knew she wouldn’t be able to explain it to him. Explain how she’d come to life the day she met him. Hades might have made her corporeal all those years ago, but Kane had made her whole.

  “Quinn! Come on!”

  Drake shouted from the hallway, startling her and Quinn and drawing their attention.

  Ilsa rushed for the door. “Is it Kane? Is he worse? Better? Callie’s poultice? Is it working?”

  Drake smiled at her—the first genuine reaction she’d gotten from any of them save Kane—and took her hand. “Come on. I think you need to see this for yourself.”

  Ilsa followed the Pisces back through the winding hallways, his gentle voice a constant companion as they walked. “He asked for you.”

  “Me?” A warm, dreamy sensation flooded through Ilsa, drowning out the voices of the dead scientists and muting the voice of her conscience as it replayed her agreement with Emmett.

  Hope—bright waves of it—lapped at her ankles. Maybe there was a way out of this.

  Maybe they’d find a way.

  Drake led her back to the living room and as they stepped through the doorway, Ilsa saw that a small woman sat on the couch, her back to them, ministering to Kane.

  This must be Callie.

  She tamped down on any sense of jealousy—refused to give such a negative emotion room to grow inside herself. Instead, Ilsa moved forward boldly, savoring the fact that Kane had asked for her.

  Quinn’s heavy treads fell behind her as they walked farther into the large, cavernous room. Grey stood sentinel at the head of the couch and Drake walked over to stand next to him.

  Those gorgeous dark eyes of Kane’s caught hers from across the room. Although still filled with pain, there was a clarity—an alertness—that went a long way toward helping her believe he would be fine. His voice was husky when he said, “Ilsa?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes in sharp little darts and her throat closed on a hard knot. Even if the power of the poison had been stemmed by Callie’s medicine, Kane still suffered.

  Still lived with the pain of the poison that had him in its clutches.

  The woman sitting next to Kane lifted his hand to place it against the poultice that rode high on his chest, keeping the wound covered. Turning, she stood to introduce herself, a large smile across her pixielike face.

  With swift, vicious justice, Ilsa felt her past sweep out and kick her in the stomach with unrestrained merriment.

  The small woman named Callie—Callisto, as Ilsa well knew—dropped the hand she’d extended in greeting. The smile on her face died with equal swiftness.

  As Callie’s mouth hardened into a straight line, she uttered words Ilsa had never expected to hear again.

  “Hello, Sister.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sister?”

  Kane knew he’d just woken up from a nightmarish reaction to the Destroyer fight, but there was no doubt in his mind he’d heard Callie correctly.

  She and Ilsa were sisters?

  In what universe was that possible?

  One glance at Ilsa’s face and the tightening of her shoulders and he recognized the truth with startling clarity.

  Before he could say anything, noise erupted throughout the room. What had been deathly still and quiet was suddenly full of a barrage of questions, shouts and a whole lot of confusion.

  Quinn, of course, was loudest, his words directed at both women. “Your sister? Why? How? And, Callie, why in the hell did you keep this from us? That your sister is some sort of avenging goddess with a bad attitude and a vendetta against the scorp.”

  Callie’s small form huddled before all of them, her arms crossed in a protective gesture while her eyes swam with tears. Kane wanted to feel more for her. This was their Callie, after all. The woman who tended them, ordered them about and took care of them. Their Callie.

  But all he could see—all he could focus on—was Ilsa. Pain etched across her beautiful features in haunting script. Her lips pressed together until they were a small slash on her pale face. Her slight shoulders quivered under the strain of discovery. Her legs—still encased in the four-inch thigh-high boots—trembled.

  In the end, it was her eyes that got him. That pale blue color, such a contrast under the dark eyebrows that matched her hair. Eyes that filled with tears and the frightened look of the hunted.

  It was clear, Ilsa had no more expected to see Callie than the other way around.

  As usual, Grey’s calm voice broke the melee, his stubborn refusal to back down in the face of Quinn’s heavy-handed attitude what it took to get the discussion back on track. “Callie. You first. How can this woman be your sister?”

  “She is a nymph, like me. Her given name is Adrasteia, though she obviously no longer uses that name, if Kane’s constant muttering of the name Ilsa is any indication.”

  The urge to protest welled up in his throat, but Kane held his tongue. He needed to hear the truth from both of them.

  Callie continued her story, as the room fell utterly quiet. Even Ilsa’s tears were silent, her upset evident only by the steady stream that rolled down her face.

  “I haven’t seen her in nearly sixteen thousand years. When she left us all,” Callie told them.

  Ilsa moved forward then, wiping at the tears with the sleeve of her sweater. “I didn’t leave you. I was sent away.”

  “Your choice.”

  Callie’s dismissal was quick, but it was Ilsa who surprised them all. “It wasn’t my choice! I was forced to help Rhea.”

  “You cared for the mighty Zeus. Of course you chose that over your family.”

  Ilsa moved forward, but stopped at Callie’s withering glare. “No, no, no. Rhea didn’t allow for any arguments. She simply ordered me to take the baby—to take her son—and go. I struggled for years to understand why she picked me and, still, I don’t know. All I know is that there was no choice in the matter. I wasn’t allowed to deny her. Couldn’t say no to the mother of the Titans.”

  “Then why didn’t you come back once Zeus defeated Cronus? Once he was returned to his place as rightful leader, why didn’t you return to us?”

  Kane watched as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward Ilsa. Callie’s question hung over Ilsa like an executioner’s blade.

  Ilsa’s hands fisted at her sides, but she said nothing further. Stamped on her face, evident i
n her regal bearing, was the same answer she’d given from the start.

  Rhea had given her no choice.

  Kane saw it. Felt it. Understood, finally, that there was something in this woman’s past that gripped her and wouldn’t let go. Something that, all these millennia later, still drove her.

  Still haunted her.

  Finding out what that was would be his task. And he would find out.

  Her voice a mere whisper, Ilsa uttered her defense once again. “I had no choice.”

  And then, without warning, Ilsa’s pale visage went stark white as her legs buckled, forcing her to the ground.

  Enyo sat in a recliner in the far corner of the safe house’s living room and waited. The large case of uranium sat across the room, seeming so innocuous as it sat there.

  She knew better. Knew what raw terror existed inside that box for those who had the key to unlock its power.

  It tempted her.

  Called to her.

  Teased her with its possibilities.

  She was the goddess of war, after all.

  Despite her absorbed fascination with the uranium, she left it where it stood. Its lure was strong, but her desire for a fair fight was stronger.

  She’d take down humans, but she wanted control over the process. And a handful of crazies with a bomb didn’t suit her methods.

  Or her plans.

  Oh no, she wanted power before she got rid of everyone. Wanted them to know they were controlled. Wanted them to know they were doomed.

  It was the great, glorious dream of hers. To take Themis’s precious humans—these abject, pathetic creatures the goddess of justice loved above all others—and torture them with their pitiful humanity.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to resist the uranium for long. A far sweeter diversion walked in the front door.

  Emmett the Dark.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “One would think you’d have more respect for a woman who can fuck you over faster than you can blink.” With lightning-quick reflexes, Enyo shot a flame of energy at Emmett’s windpipe, his eyes going wide at the contact and his body doubling over in immediate agony.

  She knew it was petty, this delicious fascination with pain, but gods help her, she wasn’t likely to stop anytime soon.

  Pain and vulnerability.

  Oh how she loved to revel in another’s defenselessness.

  With brisk movements, she took the few steps to stand over him. “Come now, there’s no more electric current. You can stand up, you know. Breathe like a good boy.”

  Dark, hooded eyes glared at her as the man regained his feet.

  “Now, Emmett. Come in. Sit down. Let’s chat.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Edward St. Giles.” The man straightened to his full height, his broad shoulders and trim waist an appealing package.

  Enyo doubted, however, the body standing before her was the physical package Emmett the Dark had been born with.

  “Tsk, tsk. Nice try, but you can’t fool the gods, Emmett.” She flung a hand at him, the motion tracing his form from top to bottom. “No matter who you have on.”

  The man had the nerve to swagger forward and Enyo couldn’t help but notice, yet again, the fine physical form he’d chosen this time around. His voice was raspy from her earlier attack, but bold as he questioned her. “Funny how you seem to know my name yet I’m not fortunate enough to know yours.”

  “Ah, and here comes the bravado. Oh yes, as I live and breathe, it is Emmett the Dark.”

  “Again, my lady, you have me at a disadvantage.”

  And disadvantaged was just where he’d stay. Of course, she didn’t see any need to mention that little tidbit. Men got so surly and upset when you pointed out the fact they didn’t have the upper hand.

  “Surely you have some idea who I am, you with your extensive knowledge of the Pantheon.”

  His brows dropped into a slash at that news. “And what knowledge would that be?”

  Enyo stood up and closed the remaining distance between them. Her smile might look all peaches and cream, but her voice was pure ice. “Cut the crap, Emmett. You’ve made it your business to collect a number of specimens, as it were, over the years. Various members of the Pantheon that you seduced into your clutches so you could learn all there was to learn about the power of the immortals.”

  He held his hands up, his eyes going wide. “I have no immortals in my possession. I’m merely a lifelong SIS agent, assigned to protect queen and country.”

  “You’re a dark wizard, born of an incubus, brother to Merlin. You were born in Italy in 1628. You practice all sorts of dark magics, but you have a particular affinity to the Strega, that dark magic passed down through your mother’s family.”

  “As I said, you have me at a disadvantage. Clearly you know all about me.”

  “That I do.”

  Enyo saw the quirk of his lips. Acknowledged the dark look that passed through his bold stare.

  But even she was surprised by his next words.

  “Then tell me, Enyo, goddess of war. What would you like to discuss?”

  The screams echoed through her body yet again, a wicked cold feeling seeping into every fiber of her being.

  The scientists.

  The parasitic souls clamored and fought, shooting waves of pain through her body. What had been contained to her soul slowly spread outward, affecting her body like a disease. The shivers had started a half hour ago and didn’t seem to want to stop, no matter how hard she held her arms wrapped around her body.

  Had they found a way out of their containment? Had she done something wrong this time? Or was it something more?

  Even she had to admit, while she’d spent a lifetime ferrying rotten souls to Hades for punishment, she’d never held one this long. Perhaps there was some sort of expiration date.

  As a wave of nausea filled her stomach, her newfound conviction grew stronger.

  She had to get to Hades. Had to deliver Robert’s and Alex’s souls before they ruined her.

  “Ilsa.”

  She heard her name coming from far away and tried to focus around the screaming that filled her head.

  “Ilsa.”

  Thoughts jumbled fast and furious through her mind as she sought something—anything—to grasp on to. Anything that would overpower the screams.

  Was that Kane’s voice? He spoke. Could speak. Was he all right?

  Yes. Yes, he was all right. He was fine. He had woken up on the couch, the poultice Callie administered effectively able to pull the poison from his knife wound.

  Callie. Callie? Callie! Oh gods, her sister was here. Worked for Kane, or was part of the Warriors, or something.

  Her sister was here.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Large hands held her shoulders and that dark, husky voice spoke her name again.

  “Ilsa!”

  With fierce determination, Ilsa focused on Kane’s voice. Like a lifeline, she listened to him speak, allowing his voice to lead her from the darkness that threatened to consume her.

  To devour all that she was.

  “Come on, Ilsa. I need you to wake up. I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

  Focusing on her body, Ilsa thought about her eyes. Her lips. Her voice. Ignoring the screams as best she could and concentrating on that warm, husky voice, she thought about using her eyes.

  Open.

  Light flooded her eyes as she took in the room around her. It was a bedroom, she could tell that much. Could feel the softness of the mattress under her back and the pillow under her head. Although the lighting was dimmed, bright, warm sunshine flowed through a crack in the heavy drapes across the room.

  Daylight.

  The warmth of the sun.

  Kane’s dark gaze, his eyes the color of the richest, darkest chocolates, stared down at her.

  “Welcome back, Ilsa.” His smile was broad as he added, “Or should I call you Adrasteia?”


  With a slight shake of her head, she offered up a small protest. “Il-Ilsa’s fi-fine. Preferred.”

  His voice was gentle as small crinkles edged those deep pools of brown. “Good. I don’t think I could call you something else, anyway.”

  The shrieking in her head threatened to take her under again, and it combined with the horrific guilt that consumed her. If he only knew. The name Adrasteia was the least of her problems. No one had called her that for sixteen thousand years. Until Callie had mentioned it, she’d not even thought of herself in those terms in more than five thousand years.

  But she had thought of herself as Nemesis. Did think of herself in that way. Present tense. Immediate. Real.

  No matter how hard she tried to pretend otherwise—no matter how often she thought of herself as Ilsa—she had chosen a life at Hades’s calling.

  And she was Nemesis.

  The goddess of divine retribution. The punisher of man’s selfish folly. The one from whom there is no escape.

  Excessive pride would always be punished by the gods as the greatest offense of all sins, the worst of all wrongs.

  And she was the great righter of those wrongs.

  “What’s the matter, Ilsa? I know seeing Callie was a shock, but that’s not why you fainted. What is it?”

  Her throat was on fire, but she squeaked out, “The souls. Of the scientists.”

  Knowledge covered Kane’s face and the warm gaze shifted to something else. Something harder. Something implacable.

  Before her eyes, she watched as Themis’s Scorpio Warrior came to life.

  “Tell me how to take them from you.”

  She shook her head, the slight movement enough to send waves of pain darting through her skull. “You can’t. It’s not yours to do.”

  “Come on, Kane,” Grey muttered from the doorway. “There’s no way you could do that even if she would let you. You’re lucky to even be standing right now.”

  Kane never looked back, never turned his head toward his brothers. “She needs those souls removed.”

  “Then she’s going to have to do it herself,” Quinn added. “You can’t take this on. Even if you wanted to, you heard her. This is her task.”