by fox, angie
Okay. Well. For once it was working in our favor. I leaned against the edge of her desk and cracked open the file. It was thick, as it should be for a man who had been at war for nearly five centuries.
Clipped to the top was his original intake picture, from when he was a new recruit. Only this happened to be a photo of a very large, very detailed full-body oil painting, and he was completely naked.
He was larger, sexier, and more cut that I'd ever imagined, and believe me, I could imagine quite a bit.
I slammed the file shut as a shivery warmth shot through me. No doubt, Galen would be happy to strip for me in person, but I felt kind of funny lusting after his picture with Shirley sitting right there.
"What?" Shirley asked.
I went a little breathless. "There's a naked picture. Right on top."
"Like you haven't already seen Galen's goods," she snorted.
"Why does everybody think that?" I asked, resisting the urge to crack open the file again. "You didn't look, did you?"
"I'm not a doctor."
"Right." I said, leaning away from her and opening it once again. The medical files I was used to seeing had drawings or photos of old injuries, when they were relevant. I'd never seen a healthy, full-on nude shot.
Naturally, they'd posed him like the Greek demi-god he was—his wide shoulders squared, a well-defined arm holding aloft a sword.
It was completely unnecessary. Not to mention mouth-watering delicious.
He had deeply tanned skin over hard lean muscle. His smooth chest tapered down to a narrow stretch of hair that began just below his belly button and—my, my, my.
He could make a girl forget her good sense.
I was never going to be able to get Galen's naked body out of my mind—not that I wanted to.
"You are cracking me up." Shirley sat tapping the phone receiver against her shoulder. "It's just an identification photo."
"That's right." In person, he would be even better. The gods certainly had no qualms when it came to nakedness. "I can't imagine posing for such a bare intake picture."
She grinned. "You never would have survived the old regulations. We used to have to wrestle a boar to prove our worth."
"Pass."
"No kidding. Those things stink."
"I'm glad they made a few changes before I was recruited," I said in the understatement of the year.
Shirley jumped as the phone rang. "MASH 3063rd. Sergeant Macdha here."
I opened the file again, more tingly under the collar than I should have been. While Shirley talked, I folded the photo in half and slipped it into my pocket.
The man was built to command and conquer, on the battlefield and in the bedroom.
Seven hells. I had to stop thinking about sex.
It might be easier if I'd actually had any in the last ten years. Or if Galen and I could manage to finish what we'd started.
I moved on to the main folder. Inside, handwritten reports on thick parchment paper detailed the rise of a decorated—and damaged—war hero. He'd been wounded 112 times before the day he'd died on my table. Galen had received the Soldier's Medal twice for conspicuous gallantry by risking his immortal life in situations that went beyond the call of duty. It was the new army equivalent of the Medal of Honor. I was both amazed and humbled at Galen's courage.
And as I made my way to the more modern, typed accounts, I couldn't help but wonder how he'd survived this long.
He'd been terribly wounded. I'd seen the scars streaking across his chest. There had to be others as well. But he still believed in peace. He had hope. I didn't understand it.
"Did you see his lineage?" Shirley asked.
"No," I said, shuffling through the pages. All I saw were military reports.
"It's the page right under the naked picture," she said, still on the phone.
No wonder I'd missed it.
And Shirley said she hadn't looked.
"Hello?" She asked the person on the other line. "Yes, I'm still here."
I shuffled faster. A demi-god's lineage was the key to his divinity. Well, if you considered them divine. I didn't. They were a different form of supernatural creature, really.
They had powers, like Marius or Rodger or even me. Only they were stronger, and the pure gods had a definite complex.
I flipped to the front and found a yellowed parchment page. It was a hand-drawn family tree. Nothing fancy. It was obviously done by a medieval intake officer.
Galen of Delphi had been born in 1473 to Aletheia, the Greek goddess of truth.
No kidding. I lowered the file. It made sense. He could see people. I'd bet anything that was his special power. He had a heightened sense of what people were feeling and what they needed.
He'd certainly gotten to me.
But what about Galen himself? If he could read people so well, why had I seen such overwhelming loneliness inside him?
I wondered if he still felt that way now, surrounded by my friends. Or if he was alone in a crowd, like me.
His father was listed only as Santo, a mortal lieutenant in the Ottoman–Venetian War. I wondered how much attention young Galen of Delphi had received from Aletheia. Goddesses weren't known for their mothering skills, and his father had been fighting against the Greeks.
I flipped to the report on his latest injury. He'd been with a special operations unit doing reconnaissance right on top of a huge hell vent, about ten miles from our camp. No notations about bronze weapons, or who had stabbed him. I couldn't imagine what our army would be doing near any entrances to Hades.
Galen was no match for a demon—none of us was. That's why the old and new gods were so powerful—they were willing to step in and use their supernatural gifts to hold back the forces of the underworld. And if that meant they interfered in the lives of the rest of us, it was a price we were willing to pay.
"I wish I knew what this meant, Shirl," I said, closing the file and hugging it to my chest. And how the knife fit in.
She didn't hear me, of course. She was still busy on the phone, this time with the supply depot. I was glad to see she had her ledger sheets out and was filing her own orders.
The door banged open as Horace rushed in. "Hurry," he said, bobbing up and down, sprinkling the floor with glitter. "They're going to announce the second oracle!"
"Are you sure?" I asked, pushing off the desk, excited and nervous as well. Six days seemed fast. Maybe they wanted to take more time with this.
Shirley hung up on supply. "Let's go," she said, grabbing her purse from under her desk.
"Wow." This was really it. My nerves tangled and my knees went weak. They'd better not start talking about a doctor who drinks orange soda is supposed to slay a dragon or something.
Or that I was destined to lust after a smoking-hot demi-god for the rest of my life.
Come to think of it, that last one might not be half bad.
Shirley and I jogged for the mess tent while Horace zigzagged across camp, banging on doors and alerting clerks and mechanics, maintenance staffers and technicians. He skipped the post-op tent, which was good because I could hear Kosta out back, cussing.
As if he had problems.
The mess tent was packed with bodies. Everyone was talking at once. Shirley broke away from me and headed for the serving area. The food was gone. Now rows of people sat on long steel counters. The room was at least ten degrees warmer than Shirley's office and I felt the sweat against the back of my neck as I jostled toward the tables where Galen and I had sat before.
After a few false starts, I spotted his wide shoulders and strong profile. He held a hand up. My insides fluttered. He looked the same as he did in that file photo, and for the first time I could clearly imagine his hard body under those special forces blacks.
Shake it off. Yeah, right. I could practically feel the heat radiating from that man.
He caught my eye, and a wave of desire sluiced through me.
He sat back down, his body spread wide. As soon as I re
ached him, he closed his legs and eased over so that I'd have a seat.
"It should be anytime now," he said, assessing me as an unspoken question hung between us. He knew something had changed. Damn it. I was an open book. Or maybe he was just a little too good at sensing the truth.
"Are you nervous?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, quickly.
It's not that I want to strip you down right here, right now, for an up-close and personal look at what is under that uniform.
I scooted back as far as I could on the table, trying to sandwich myself into the crowd, so close to touching him it was killing me.
We hovered close, yet apart, the briefest touch separating us. I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the table.
The Paranormal News Network was just coming back from commercial. The same perky blond reporter from before smiled down from the television. She'd changed into a furry blue sleeveless sweater, which was entirely inappropriate for the occasion.
"I'm BeeBee Connor, reporting live from the Oracle of the Gods, where just one day ago we saw the oracles come out of their intense soothsaying session in order to wail and tear at their hair.
"Now we hear that the oracles may have the second prophecy." She paused for effect, her green eyes twinkling. It was just as well, because the peanut gallery around me began to cheer and throw popcorn at the TV.
BeeBee smiled as the kernels bounced off her forehead. "Right now, as we speak, the oracles may indeed be using their blood to transcribe the oracle onto the living rock of the cave behind me. Let's go back to the studio."
"Right, BeeBee," said Stone McKay from the newsroom. "We're going to show you an illustration of what may be happening as we speak."
"Or what may not be happening," I murmured. Was this news or conjecture?
The video cut to a green screen of a rock wall. Stone McKay strolled over in front of it like a PNN weatherman. "Now what should happen is that each oracle will take a sacrificial ivory dagger and slash her wrist about half an inch below her palm."
The camera got a close-up of Stone's over-tanned wrist, as if any of us had a doubt as to what the underside of a wrist looked like. "They will use a slashing motion," he said, as if this were news, "then they will take turns writing the second prophecy on the wall, like this." He drew his imaginary wound over the green screen.
I swear these newscasters thought we had the brains of gnats.
Yes. I needed to focus on that and not the fact that the next phase of my life was about to be written in blood, and it was looking more and more like I was powerless to stop it.
"Wait," Stone held his hand up to his ear. "We have breaking news from the field."
Galen and I traded a glance as the camera cut to BeeBee Connor. "I'm standing here live as the oracles have come out of the cave. Li-Hua has tossed the bone she was holding into the molten lava below me, which we can only take to mean that she doesn't need it any longer. I'd venture to say a decision has been reached."
I let out a shuddering breath.
The camera caught a close-up of Li-Hua as she crouched outside the cave, way nearer to the cliff edge than I ever would have ventured. Her straight black hair whipped in the wind.
She spoke—at least her lips moved—and I felt my throat go dry.
BeeBee Conner zipped up to her in an instant, microphone out. "Could you repeat that, please?" she asked, voice quaking.
Galen's warm hand closed over mine.
Li-Hua stared into the camera with haunted almond eyes. "With the dagger, she will save lives," she said, her voice low and grainy.
He gave my hand a small squeeze.
Okay, that didn't seem so bad. I saved lives as often as I could. In fact, I'd like to save more lives. Hope flared in my chest.
Dang, my heart was beating like crazy.
The oracle looked dazed. Her eyes were bloodshot. "And..."
Her labored breathing was amplified by the PNN microphone shoved under her nose. "And"—the oracle's lip curled into a hiss—"she will arrest the forces of the damned."
The mess tent erupted in cheers.
"Oh hell no." I choked. No way was I going anywhere near any forces of the damned.
"Petra." Galen slid off his seat and stood in front of me. At least he looked worried as snot.
"Did you see that?" I demanded. "I'm not doing that." I wasn't going to start running around, arresting hell spawn. "I don't even know what the damned look like." And I didn't want to find out.
People were rushing past like we weren't even there, trying to get closer to the television to see the replays. The rest had started a party.
Galen stayed by me, like my own personal port in the storm. "It's okay. I've got you," he said, as if I had any idea what that meant. "We can do this."
"Lovely. So we're going to leave camp and you're going to fight off giant killer scorpions while I go around poking the damned on the shoulder and making citizens' arrests?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he growled.
I leaned back against the table and tried to think. This was so much worse than I imagined.
He wore his determination like a second skin. "We're going to approach it systematically, with military precision."
My head swam.
But he didn't let up. "Let me help you," he said.
"Help me do what?" I barked out a laugh. Expose myself? "Get killed?"
"We'll go out together. I'll bait the damned. I'll weaken them and then you finish them off."
"No," I snapped, voice eight octaves higher than usual.
That was the worst plan I'd ever heard, second only to the oracle's plan from about two minutes ago.
We were not forcing fate or running around chasing damned creatures.
I met his focused glare with wild eyes. "Me and my knife are staying right here."
I was doing fine in our MASH unit. Sure, it was a dump and infested with Rodger's swamp creatures and the water in the women's shower was always cold, but this was my home. Besides, there were assassins after me the minute I stepped outside of camp.
He stood, resolute. "There are forces at work here that go beyond you or me." He stopped, as if he were afraid to tell me more. He seemed to make a decision. "I believe I was sent here to guide you and to guard you through this."
Unbelievable. "You don't care what happens on Earth, do you?"
He sighed, exasperated. "I care, but I'm looking at the big picture. There are forces at work, things you don't understand."
Oh please. I planted my hands on my hips. "Is this a god thing?"
He seemed surprised at that. "Yes, this is a god thing. Sometimes the gods have to make tough choices that lead to bad things. And sometimes we—they—get cursed for it. People blame the gods all the time, and nobody knows what we have to deal with. Bad things happen for a reason."
"Now I've heard everything," I grumbled.
But he wouldn't let up. "In a way, mortals are lucky. You don't have to make these kinds of decisions."
"Oh sure. I'm feeling really lucky right now." Merely dealing with a suicide mission. "Look. I appreciate what you did out in the minefield with the scorpions," I began. A young sergeant glanced at me on the way past and I lowered my voice. "This is totally different."
"You're going to do this. This is war," he said, jaw clenched, as if he didn't want to say it. "We have to be willing to sacrifice one for the good of all."
"Fuck you." I slid off the table and stepped sideways, away from him.
"Where is the dagger?" he asked.
"In my pocket." It was always in my pocket. No matter what I did.
Horace zipped above the crowd and hovered over us, his wings hitting us with a nice breeze. "Kosta wants to see you, Petra."
I lifted my head. "Now?"
Horace shrugged. "He's pissed you didn't find him first."
Could this day get any worse?
I'd tried. "Did you tell him I was outside his office before?"
"No," he said, his nose wr
inkling. "I'm not your messenger boy."
That's right. He was Galen's pet.
"I'll go with you," Galen said, leading the way. The crowd parted for him. "If the fates work fast, we may not even have to go hunting."
"You think this is our sign?" I didn't want to imagine. "Kosta doesn't control anything outside our unit." And he sure as heck wasn't going to allow any damned inside camp. That's what the guard sphinxes were for.
Camp was deserted outside the mess tent. It seemed like everyone really was inside watching. Galen waited outside Kosta's office as I made my way in. What if Kosta asked about my power? Should I lie? Would he turn me in?
The colonel sat with his back rod-straight behind his large desk, but I didn't miss the dark circles under his eyes or the hint of fatigue in his voice.
"Sit down, Robichaud." He rubbed at his forehead.
"Oh no. Do you want to talk about the prophecy?"
He reared back in surprise. "Prophecy? What prophecy? I've been trying to make sure people don't die. In the last month, we've seen the biggest increase in wounded that we've had in four hundred years." He shook his head, resigned. "Now we've got something else." He eyed me. "A special assignment."
Chapter Sixteen
I stared at Kosta, from his bald head to his wide hands, palms down on the large metal desk. Bronze battle shields lined the wall behind him, like soldiers at the ready. He was a man used to getting his way, and unfortunately I had a pretty good clue what he wanted.
"I'm not special," I said, just in case he was getting any ideas.
His eyes narrowed. "Not you, slick. The assignment. This one is coming straight from the wilds of limbo." He seemed amused at that, or more likely, energized by the challenge.
The drawer at the front of his desk rumbled as he opened it to pulled out a cigar. "We got a call in from an enemy MASH unit. They've got some of our soldiers—four critical casualties." He flicked his eyes up. "They can't treat them."
Wait. "They have to help our people. It's in the Waset Convention."
The gods didn't always obey it, just like armies didn't always stick to the Geneva Convention back home, but I'd never expected this.
