by Marie Harte
Suffer.
Ares had bargained with Hades to bring Aeros back from Asphodel Meadows. He owed Ares his life. And had served the god of war for what felt like an eternity. Aeros hadn’t thought of his service as a punishment. But now? Thousands of years later, he felt more a prisoner—a servant—than the brave, fierce warrior he knew he’d once been.
More and more, he found himself angry for little to no reason. Hot. Frustrated. Uncomfortable in his own skin. Suffering.
“Aeros? Are you listening to me? What ails you?”
Ailed him? Life. Life ailed him. Weariness beat at him. He ached from the duties this god demanded of him.
For the first time since he had entered the steaming hot hall, Aeros met Ares’ eyes full on. The god sprawled on a pile of cushions, resplendent in his golden, silk robes and covered with three beautiful human women.
Human women. Why he bothered with mortal women when he had his choice of anyone, mortal or immortal, Aeros had no idea. But his master had a taste for women, and human women were his latest fare.
Ares curled a hand around one blonde female, and she rubbed all over him, giggling her way down his silken robes. The other two, not to be outdone, climbed over pillows, dislodging a few to the floor in their rush to brush kisses along Ares’ neck and shoulders. Ares appeared as perfect as he had when Aeros had first fought by his side, unaware at the time that he held the line next to the god of war. With his golden muscles, shoulder-length, straight, black hair and a dark goatee, he looked like a human playboy.
The three women only added to the image. Where had the god of war, the warrior he’d sworn allegiance to so many centuries before, gone? The lazy, laid-back Ares before him now didn’t shine nearly as bright as he had centuries before.
At the thought, a memory of Ares in his war gear flooded him. The memory winged across his mind as clearly as if Ares stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the ridge overlooking the sea. They had just returned from their latest battle against the Athenians. Back then, battles were worth fighting—worth the pain, the scars, the loss of men. The protection of Sparta stood paramount in every single warrior’s mind. Battling to protect those you loved meant something. Serving under his commander and friend, Leonidas, his king, had meant everything to the young and naïve Aeros.
A rush of bloodlust raced along his form, tightening rock-hard muscles to the point of pain. Something he’d not felt in centuries fluttered along his soul. He blinked and the sensation escaped him before he could identify it.
He’d not felt in centuries. The world around him had dimmed, greyed, become a walking nightmare he couldn’t wake from. He could remember all of his past, to the point that sometimes he woke still believing he would rise to fight in another campaign. Battle. Always the battle. Even as a child his life had been full of battle.
“Come now, it’s not exactly as bad as your expression seems to say.”
Aeros’ frown deepened at his thoughts. More and more he found himself losing track of where he was, what he was doing, while his mind wandered, lost in the past.
Ares regarded him with a half-smirk. Ares didn’t seem to realise Aeros had neared the point of simply walking away, giving up this life, and returning to the Fields.
“Aeros, come now, you need not look so grim.”
“Why? Is it not as bad as it seems?” Aeros demanded.
In response, Ares simply smiled over the rim of his golden wine cup. If his god knew how tired he’d become of these games, how close he was to simply walking away, he gave no sign of it. He sipped slowly before languidly handing it to the woman curled up on his lap.
“Aeros.”
Aeros ignored how Ares spoke his name with a disappointed sigh. Ares loved his games—now proved no different. Perhaps this relic wasn’t as important as Ares claimed?
Aeros broadened his stance, crossed his arms at his chest, and waited for Ares to get to the point.
Seemingly unaffected, Ares petted the redhead to his left. Dark eyes met his for a silent battle until, grudgingly, Ares grumbled, “Aeros, I believe you need a woman. I can feel tension radiating off you. Why do you not bed one of these lovely morsels? You could slake your lust on their tender beautiful bodies.”
Two of the women gave him a searching glance. The redhead pouted when he didn’t respond. The second blonde bit her lip and watched him with an open invitation on her soft face.
Aeros ignored both of them and merely waited… The god had too much time on his hands. Boredom and unlimited power made a toxic brew.
Ares finally sighed as if speaking cost him a great deal. “All right, oh mighty captain, the godhead has a curse on it. If any, save myself, touch it and especially if they take it from this hall, they become lost, confused and unable to find their way. Those who possess it now are stuck somewhere deep in the Amazon. They will be unable to find their way out of the trap they’ve fallen into and you need to go, fetch the thing and bring it back here.”
Well, that boded well—the first good news this night, in fact. Two of his men had suffered harm in a small conflict with a score of Death Stalkers when a band of the brethren had surprised them outside a popular nightclub. The Death Stalkers had grown in number over the past few decades, at a rate that did not bode well for those creatures, human, immortal and magical, that lived in this realm. Some rumoured the evil had spread into other planes, creating sects of Death Stalkers in worlds where they’d never dared whisper their vile curses.
More gossip had invaded the Immortal Council, worse in his opinion because many of them proved true. The Death Stalkers, long a dark sect with rigid rules and unbreakable oaths of servitude, were corrupting honourable immortal races, infiltrating the witch covens and even reaching into the human gene pool for servants. This past skirmish had been vicious—and victorious—this time.
He pushed aside his unease at the increase of clashes with the Death Stalkers and focused on the problem facing him now. He still had enough men to go and find this godhead, if he could believe Ares—and if he could find the thing.
“So we have simply to go after this chalice and bring it back to you, here?”
Ares frowned and didn’t answer. The redhead started circling her palm lower down Ares’ abdomen, seemingly unaware that anyone else was in the room. Ares suddenly grasped the woman’s fingers, his gaze never wavering from Aeros. The woman pouted, but Ares paid her no mind. Instead, his gaze sharpened and his face darkened.
Gods were tricky. Battles fed Ares’ ego, perhaps even his power. The strength of his warriors fed him, as much as, if not more so than the nourishment he received from his godly meals. Aeros, and the other Spartans in his legion, were as essential to Ares as Ares was to them.
In an irritated tone, Ares said, “It won’t be quite so simple. You need to find it. And to find it? You need to be able to read the signs. The godhead protects itself.”
“Why can’t you simply go and retrieve it?”
Ares shifted on his silk cushions, looking uncomfortable for once. With a grimace, he signalled to the women to leave him. They left, but not without many sad sighs.
“Aeros, my clear-headed captain. It is not so simple. The godhead is mine, true, but I cannot go into the human realm but once every decade. I might have made a few side trips, not exactly a full entry, but because of these side trips I am unable to venture forth from my hall for another three mortal years.”
If he could have growled at Ares, he would have. The god had been ‘venturing forth’ for women. Nothing essential. Nothing that might end this world. Obviously, the wrong hands had sneaked in, right under his godly nose, and taken something that could very well kill them all.
If Ares were to be believed.
And therein lay the rub. Could Ares be trusted?
“You will have to find it, retrieve it, and bring it back here.”
Aeros took a moment to assess Ares but he could find no lie in the god’s chiselled features—only concern and, more than that, a need he cou
ldn’t hide. A need for the godhead? Or for something more?
“Fine. We will begin after my men are—”
Flames flickered in the depths of Ares’ eyes, and he cut Aeros off with a slash of his hand. “No, actually, you need to begin now. There’s no time. Did I not mention that?”
No, he had not mentioned that, but Aeros kept quiet, seeing Ares’ legendary temper rising.
Cautiously, Aeros shifted his feet and dropped his aggressive posture. Something more was going on here. He needed Ares calm if he hoped to discover what. His instincts flared. Ares skirted the truth. Oh, his god needed this chalice, but not for the reasons he’d spouted so far.
“Ares, I have two hurt men. Three more are on downtime.”
Ares rose from his cushions gracefully and strode to the side of the room where the godhead had once rested. The empty altar held one white rose. The colour shone brilliantly, almost too bright for Aeros’ eyes. A shiver of cold threaded down his back. All around him, his world was muted, black and grey, yet the rose was crisp, clear to Aeros’ sight.
Back still turned, Ares said, “They left this. The little witches. I can’t sense who they were, they are hidden from my eyes, but they were crafty, the two ladies. They sought the godhead for another, thus were cautious with it. But those they gave the godhead to?” A deep chuckle sounded and echoed off the domed marble ceiling and vibrated through the splendour of the empty hall. “Those poor immortals are not so well off. Find the witches, hire them, and they will lead you to the godhead.”
“What? Hire the thieves?”
The grin on Ares’ face when he turned wasn’t reassuring. Aeros noticed his hand lay on the empty altar, exactly where the chalice had stood for so long. Lightly brushing his fingers over the black velvet, Ares watched him intently.
“Be cautious, Aeros. Find the witches, but beware, you just might find more than you bargained for.” Ares scowled and held up a hand to forestall any questions. “Above all else, the chalice must be back in its rightful place before the moon makes one full pass. If in one cycle of the moon, you do not do as I say? The consequences will be disastrous. Do not forget, my captain, that our lives are linked.”
Eyes suddenly glowing bright, the god grew in size and stature, his robes melted away and, once again, Ares stood in his bloody leather and golden armour. Ares, the god of war, stood before him, anger and something else, something close to madness, in his godly eyes.
“Do not let your own desires cloud your mission, Aeros. Find the witches. Find the godhead. Return it. Or we may all be doomed.”
Aeros felt his god’s words echo down his spine.
‘Do not let your own desires cloud your mission.’
Why did Aeros suddenly feel the brush of fate’s soft caress settle around him with her silken embrace?
“Your own desires,” Ares said.
The word ‘desires’ resonated with power, awakening dreams Aeros had long since forgotten.
Ares watched him closely, then turned and strode from the room without another word.
Aeros’ mission was clear. Find the witches, find the godhead, return it or else face some impending doom. Truth or lie? What was Ares hiding? Was it Ares who would be doomed if the relic were lost? Did it matter? If Ares were doomed, Aeros would not be far behind.
Logically, his existence being linked to Ares’ continued good health made sense. After all, Ares had called him back to life.
Life? Aeros took in the empty hall, his eyes falling on the brightness of that single rose lying on the black velvet. A blossom of something, excitement perhaps, sprang to life inside his chest.
The mission hadn’t even begun, but he felt for the first time in centuries. Perhaps he’d find much more on this mission than he’d ever anticipated. And that, more than Ares’ dire predictions, had him bursting with impatience to get the mission underway.
Chapter Three
Usher singing ‘Oh My God’ woke Tabithia up with a rush. Immediately, she fisted her hand on the leather handle of her knife, while she fumbled around her blankets for the offending musician. By sheer luck, she located the slim plastic and managed to flip her phone open while she took a fortifying breath to deal with her aunt’s next big adventure.
“Oi, Tabbie-cat, what’s up? Got time to go meet a hunky Spartan or six?”
Sleep still clouded Tabithia’s eyes. She blinked a few times, trying to get her brain wrapped around the question. Spartans were a rare breed, loyal to Ares—Ares, the Greek god of war. Who also happened to be the god they had just relieved of a little chalice two nights before.
Yeah, so meeting up with his guys hit the bottom of the charts for fun things to do on a Tuesday night. Actually, not much was on her list of things to do on this particular Tuesday night.
“Uh, well…” Tabithia rolled over, hitched her bare feet up on the closet wall, and wiggled until she was more comfortable. She was completely stalling, but this phone call could get tricky. “I’m thinking no. But knock yourself out. As the elder and more knowledgeable badass witch, I think you should hit the pow-wow with the Sparkies.”
Laughter tickled her ear through the phone.
“Good one. Sparkies. I like it. See? You’re a natural.”
Tabithia was so not a natural. She had to fight to sound as fun and hip as Trouble.
“They have no idea we stole the itty-bitty trophy, this is merely a job. They simply want us to find a little beaten-up chalice their god lost owing to his lack of security.” The laughter in Trouble’s voice was disturbing on several levels.
“Are you drinking a potion for decreasing brain function?”
“Hey, hey, be nice. I quit that stuff a while back. Now, come on, catch up with my speed, will ya?”
Catch up with her speed? The witch was insane. They’d stolen from a god. That god now wanted them to go fetch what they’d taken. Uh, warning, warning. This was so not good news.
“Don’t you think he kind of knows, you know, being a god and all—”
“Please. Of, like, war.”
Tabithia was so not going there. Instead, she continued on, “—that we took the blasted thing in the first place?”
“Uh, duh, no? He’s the god of war, Tabbie-cat, not intelligent thought.”
Tabithia barely stopped herself from choking on a laugh. Trouble made that sound so lame—like he was the god of dish soap or something.
“And that doesn’t include knowing who is responsible for petty theft?”
Another laugh. “Damn, we’re good enough to hit The Late Late Show, you know?”
“Trouble—”
“Come on, the guy has no clue. He’s willing to pay out the ass. But they want a face-to-face.”
Uh-oh, that sounded like trouble. “And you don’t think they want to, , I don’t know…kick our ass for taking the blasted godhead!”
More laughter.
Unbelievable.
“You’re too much, you know that? Someday our karma’s going to come back and kick us in the ass,” Tabithia said.
Trouble snorted. “Highly doubtful. You know as well as I do that what we fetch can’t be carried if it rightly belongs to—”
“Yeah, yeah. Technicality.” True, though. If what they were hired to take didn’t belong to the person who currently possessed it, the item was fair game. If it did belong to the one’s holding on to it, there wasn’t a chance they could snatch it. No one knew that little detail, though, so they had to carefully scope out new jobs.
“Hey, don’t dish the technicalities. Loopholes rule,” Trouble said.
Okay. Not rising to the bait. “So they want us to find the godhead and the guys we handed it over to don’t own it either, huh?” Tabithia asked.
“Bingo! You win the balloon with the secret message tucked inside.”
Huh? “You really are too strange.”
“Moi? You have no idea,” Trouble murmured.
The problem was Tabithia did have an idea. Her aunt might be fun-loving and p
ull it off most of the time, but Tabithia knew darkness lurked close to the surface of that façade. Dark recognised dark, perhaps. Or pain. The more flippant she got, the more troubled her fun-loving aunt was.
Still, Tabithia didn’t want to go talk to the Spartans. That was Trouble’s gig. It wasn’t like her aunt would open up and talk to her. Trouble had her own secret life. Tabithia didn’t pry and wanted the same respect shown to her.
“Uh, not really feeling an urge to go pow-wow. That’s your MO, remember?”
Her aunt exhaled heavily into the phone. “Didn’t you just whine about not being in on the deets? This, Tabbie-cat, is the deets.”
Whine? “Listen, I see the traps. Tag along for the ride, I don’t want to—”
“Well, too bad,” Trouble snapped. Voice softening, she said, “I’m kind of tied up at the moment, Tabbie-cat. I need you to go scope out the luscious Aeros, hottie captain of the Spartans.”
“Tied up? What does that mean?” She wasn’t touching any hottie captain comments. Eyes on her nail polish, Tabithia waited for Trouble to respond and considered the black colour she’d chosen. She turned it bright red for fun. Naw, black suited her. Short nails bled back to black except for the tips, creating a bloody-looking effect. “Waiting patiently for your answer.”
“Nothing, it means nothing.” Trouble didn’t even bother to make up a lie—not a good sign. “But, look, just have some fun, and cut the guys some sympathy. They did actually die very bravely. It wasn’t like they had a choice coming back to work for that loser Ares.”
“Loser Ares? Is this personal?”
A snort, then her aunt said, in an exasperated tone, “Please, I waste my time on men who can make a woman scream in delight, not over-greedy gods wanting theirs first. Please.”
Yep, personal. Sometimes Tabithia thought her aunt might have gone through more immortals than Hugh Hefner went through blondes. Something didn’t ring true, though. Trouble hid from the world in ways Tabithia could sympathise with. Heck, she excelled at hiding. Hiding was a tricky technique, but Tabithia felt she’d mastered it pretty well. Right up there with her spells.
