Kerrigan's Race (The Syreni Book 1)

by C. M. Michaels

  After being changed like a baby for wetting myself—talcum powder, Vaseline, diaper and all—I’d been dressed in pink, footed pajamas and forced to climb into the adult-sized crib she’d conjured up for me along with my over-sized baby attire. The little pink bonnet she’d tied around my chin had accessorized my pink onesie perfectly, I’m sure. Deannie kept watch to ensure I cuddled with my blankie, sucked on the pacifier she’d placed in my mouth and made baby sounds the entire night. I was quick to do whatever she asked without complaint.

  She’d changed me again in the morning—after commanding me to pee into the diaper, something that’s much harder to do for an adult than it might sound—and had me sit in a high-chair at the kitchen table in my baby getup, in full view of everyone. I continued to suck on my passie and make goo-goo noises as she’d instructed. After placing a bib around my neck, she fed me three Gerber jars of baby food—which tasted suspiciously like a freshly-made fruit smoothie—then had Priestess Ghertrude wipe my hands and as much of my face as she could reach beneath my veil with a wash cloth. Some Cheerios were placed on the tray for me to munch on along with a baby rattle for me to play with while they ate their omelets, hash-browns, sausage, cheese danishes and fruit. Figuring there was no rule against having some fun, I threw it on the ground about twenty times then mock cried until one of them retrieved it for me. Even High Priestess Deannie seemed to get a kick out of me manipulating the situation to torment them.

  It wasn’t until after breakfast that I’d realized she’d fed me as part of a punishment in order to get around the ban on me eating during my week of servitude. I’d had headaches for almost two solid days from the lack of nutrition. My painfully empty stomach thanked her, even if I’d never get her to admit it in a million years.

  There were other minor, far less embarrassing reprimands, like having my mouth taped shut on three separate occasions for participating in conversations going on around me without having been granted the right to speak, and walking around for two days with Priestess Harriette’s name written in block letters across my chest after I’d addressed her simply as Priestess during her bath rather than by her full title, but the brutal whipping I’d endured the first night was the only time I’d suffered any sort of corporal punishment.

  I’d come to enjoy the priestesses’ makeover sessions. There was just something about having your hair styled or getting your nails done that universally made women spew out their life history like they were in a church confessional. By the end of the second day, they were all treating me more like a friend than their slave. Knowing the repercussions I’d face if I chose the wrong braids or grabbed turquoise eye-shadow instead of electric eel by mistake made things a little stressful—I had no desire whatsoever to be whipped again—but with the exception of Priestess Zoey—who really was twenty-one, and had just come of age before I arrived—they’d all been servicing the gods for decades. They were used to preparing themselves for each of their regular partners, and weren’t about to risk the skin on their backs that I’d be the only one to get punished if I messed up. I appreciated the safety net.

  The worst part about the massages and baths was just the time it consumed. Well, that and the torturous strain it placed on my notably underdeveloped arm muscles. It seems Poseidon thought the toned body I’d sported as an Olympic athlete wasn’t up to his feminine standards. That—or far more likely—he’d made me weak to help teach me my place. With seven Priestesses to care for, it took me two hours to get them bathed and oiled each morning, assuming the ones who weren’t worn out from servicing the gods the night before were relatively well-behaved. Which meant it usually took three. By the time afternoon rolled around it seemed almost everyone was in the mood. The “full-body massages” I administered didn’t utilize any of the techniques I’d learned while practicing the Swedish, deep tissue, shiatsu and Thai forms. They would’ve been banned from the sleaziest of Asian health spas. Sometimes three or four of the Priestesses joined me at once, which I appreciated for the time savings, if nothing else.

  I hadn’t always been so flippant about getting intimate with them. When Ghertrude closed the small gap between us during her bath the first morning to claim my lips in an open-mouthed embrace, I almost leapt out of the water and bolted from the room. Everything she did that morning felt wrong: placing her hands on my breasts, taking my nipple in her mouth, shaving me, making love to me with her tongue. The only way I’d gotten through it was by letting my mind drift to the point where I barely felt her touching me at all.

  But as their chambermaid it was my job to pleasure them; a responsibility given to me by the gods. The humbled servant that emerged from my bedroom the morning after I’d been whipped no longer questioned their will. I started to enjoy the feel of their skilled hands exploring the most intimate parts of my body rather than just complying with their instructions out of obedience. My legs spread willingly for them, pressing down on the back of their heads to guide their gorgeous faces between my thighs. An act I was all too happy to repay in kind. I made it my job to discover their darkest, most secret desires then find a way to fulfill them, allowing them to do things to me they’d only dreamed of doing with the gods.

  All of the Priestesses were amazing lovers, far more skilled than Austin or any man I’d been with before him. They taught me countless techniques and dozens of positions I’d never heard of before, let alone practiced. It was like undergoing a one-week crash course in mind-blowing sex, earning a diploma Aristos would reap the rewards of.

  *******

  “It’s been quite the week, hasn’t it?” Deannie whispered in my ear, snapping me out of my reverie. I’d wondered if she could read my mind ever since our walk across the courtyard. She wasn’t trying to conceal it anymore.

  “I’ve learned what it means to be a servant to our gods, High Priestess Deannie. Thank you for helping me find my path.”

  She kissed me on the temple before picking up a brush and starting to work it through my wet hair. Once she’d gotten out the worst of the snarls she helped me from her spacious claw foot tub and had me lay back on her padded massage table. Her hands felt magical as she worked the kinks and pains out of all of my overused muscles from the souls of my feet all the way to my fingers, coating me in warm almond oil. By the time she finished, I wasn’t sure I still had the skeletal structure required to stand. Somehow I managed, bracing myself against the table while she retrieved my floor length gown and helped me into it. The material was almost as translucent as what I’d been wearing, but the decorative burgundy leaf insets concealed my breasts and bikini area. Gorgeous burgundy cage sandals with four-inch heels were slipped onto my feet before I was guided across the plush crème carpet to take a seat in a low-back black leather vanity chair with lifelike swans carved into the wooden legs.

  I absently ran my fingertips over one of the tiny figurines—which appeared to be flying right out of the wood—while she set to work drying and curling my hair. I noticed there were swans inset into the black trim around the mirror as well. And in the dark mahogany frame of her four poster bed. I wanted to ask what the birds meant to her, since there weren’t any animals in Mt. Olympus, as far as I knew, but she hadn’t asked me a direct question, and I hadn’t been granted the right to speak.

  She released the hot iron from the small section of hair she’d been working, leaving a strand of corkscrew-curled ringlets that hung against my cheek. “You may speak freely, child. I’ve removed the necklace that marked you as a chambermaid. You are a queen, once again, even if your soul will remain bound to me for a while longer. As for the swans, they are one of my mother Enyo’s symbols, along with the sword.”

  I’d studied all seven of the deities who lived in the portion of Mt. Olympus I’d seen during my walk across the courtyard. Neptune and Salacia, his wife, maintained separate palaces next to each other, as did Poseidon and his wife, Amphitrite. Neptune and Salacia’s daughter, Minerva, lived on the opposite side of the courtyard from them, for which I’
m sure she was grateful, assuming the desire for at least some degree of independence wasn’t unique to humans. Poseidon and Amphitrite’s daughter, Athena—who’s eyes I viewed the world through in my Syreni body—and their son, Tritan, had no such luxury, as they lived on either side of their parents. In addition to the Syreni deities, I’d learned the hair and makeup preferences for the rest of the Greek Olympians—Zeus, Hera, Demeter, Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Aphrodite, Hephaestus, Hermes, Hestia and Dionysus—along with the Roman deities who shared sovereignty over the same attributes—Jupiter, Juno, Ceres, Diana, Mars, Venus, Vulcan, Mercury, Vesta and Bacchus. They had all requested at least one of our Priestesses in the past week. But there were countless gods and goddesses in the two pantheons I hadn’t needed to study, including her mother. “I noticed she wasn’t in the list of deities for me to study. Are there other temples that service the rest of the gods?”

  She released another perfectly curled ringlet before twisting a section of my bangs with her fingers and wrapping it around the roller. “There are a total of twelve temples across Mt. Olympus, housing both male and female consorts. Ours serves only a small portion of the deities who reside here, and some of those are served by other temples as well. As for my mother, she lives with Ares in the section of Mt. Olympus dedicated to the gods and goddesses of war. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen her. Being the child of the human slave she regularly called upon—at least until Ares discovered her illicit affair and beheaded the poor man shortly before I was born—I’m not welcome to visit. Ares won’t even acknowledge I exist. She does her best to stop by when she can.”

  She was doing her best to suppress her emotions, but it was clear she was on the edge of tears. I couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to be banned from visiting your own mother. Especially a mother who loved you. “I’m sorry she can’t visit you more often. She must have been blessed by Nyx herself to have such an amazing daughter. You risked your own life to save a slave in your care. I’d love you for that alone, even if you hadn’t skirted the rules to feed me when you saw I was suffering, or nurtured me like I was your own child rather than your servant. I would happily serve as one of your Priestesses for the rest of my life if the gods willed it.”

  Deannie quickly set the curling iron aside and pulled me into a tight hug, nestling her face against the crook of my neck. I could tell from her quivering breaths that she’d failed in her attempt to keep the tears at bay. “Thank you, Camithia. I was so worried you’d resent me for what you’ve been forced to endure. I wish it was your destiny to join us, but I will have to settle for long visits whenever you return to Mt. Olympus. Now let’s finish getting you ready so you still have time to check in on your family before you’re summoned to take your vows.”

  My eyes widened. “High Priestess, I wasn’t trying to—”

  She cut me off by placing a finger over my lips. “I know you weren’t just buttering me up. You haven’t even thought about asking me if you could still see your family. Which is all the more reason you deserve your reward. You’ve learned everything I could have hoped to teach you, Camithia. May my small gift further bolster our friendship.”

  It was my turn to have my emotional forecast call for a chance of showers. I’d been resigned to having lost the opportunity to see them ever since I’d been whipped. Part of me feared I’d wake up at any moment and discover this was just a dream, but the beautiful, autumn-haired woman holding me firmly in her arms felt very much real. “Thank you, High Priestess. You’re going to see so much of me when I’m up here you’ll probably file a restraining order.”

  She let out a soft laugh as she picked up the curling iron and twisted another section of my layered bangs between her fingers. “It’s a deal.”

  By the time she finished, it looked like I’d gotten a spiral perm. The bouncy curls gave my hair way more volume than I was used to and looked gorgeous on me. After thinning and shaping my brows to give them more of an arch she expertly applied my makeup, sticking to burgundy shades that reflected my fish-aspect coloring in my Syreni form. My fingernails and toenails were soon painted to match, only with diamond glitter in the polish to make them sparkle. Oval-cut ruby rings were placed on each of my fingers and my toes. The three chain diamond necklace she placed around my throat had a floral pattern in the center, with six small rubies surrounding a much larger stone in the center. Additional rubies were fastened every inch or so up the entire length of the center chain, adding a splash of color to the rows of heart-shaped diamonds that surrounded them.

  Deannie fastened a diamond tiara into my hair that was designed to look like ocean waves crashing together with large rubies in the center of each wave. The inch-long earring she chose featured pear-shaped rubies framed by brilliant diamonds that went all the way up and over my lobe. Seven ruby and diamond bracelets adorned each of my arms, representing each of the Syreni deities I served. The overall effect of the outfit was stunning. I’d never seen myself dressed as a queen in my human form before.

  Deannie adjusted my crown to make it sit straight then stepped back to admire her work. “You look lovely, Queen Camithia. You are a vision worthy of the gods.”

  After giving me a chance to say goodbye to each of the Priestesses, Deannie led me up a winding marble staircase into one of the golden turrets I’d seen from the courtyard. The room was small, with only a single, dark red upholstered accent chair positioned in front of a floating four-foot oval of glass. Curious about the physics-defying object, I circled around behind it, looking for wires or cables, anything that could offer me an explanation other than magic. David Copperfield would’ve been impressed.

  Deannie couldn’t resist pointing out the absurdity of my investigation. “You’ve been sucked through a portal into another world, been reborn as a mermaid, visited Mt. Olympus and spoken directly with the gods, and yet your mind refuses to believe that a simple piece of glass could stay suspended in air without being held up by something.”

  I gave her a what-can-you-do shrug of my shoulders which made her laugh. I’d grown up in a science-based world. The concept of magic would always seem foreign to me. Once I took a seat, Deannie whispered an incantation of some kind in a language I’d never heard before. The mirror activated, showing an image of earth like something that would be captured from the international space station.

  “Just think about the person or place you wish to see, and the image will hone in on the objects location. Try to be precise. Thinking things such as ‘I want to see my family’ if your mom, dad and sister are not in the same room, will cause the glass to wait for a more specific directive. The looking glass utilizes powerful magic that takes time to recharge. All of my Priestesses—who have human relatives of their own they are desperate to see—forfeited their entire monthly allotment to grant you fourteen minutes. You must have made quite the impression on them, Camithia. I’ve seen them trade vacation days for only a few seconds. There won’t be any sound, as I’ve only enabled images to be shared. Listening in would consume an even greater amount of power, which even their generous contributions wouldn’t cover. I will meet you outside once you finish.”

  I nodded in lieu of a verbal response, not wanting to waste any of the precious time I’d been granted. The ambient light streaming in through the small skylights above my head dimmed the moment she closed the door. Show me where my father is, Steven Everett.

  Without any delay the mirror honed in on southern California like I’d issued the command in a Google Earth browser session, and then narrowed in even tighter on our hometown of Palm Springs. I caught just a glimpse of our house from above—which I recognized from the Olympic-sized pool that took up most of our backyard—before the image shifted to inside his office. My dad was standing in front of the cork board that covered the entire back wall. A picture of me and my mom taken just before I’d entered the Olympic facility in Omaha was pinned in the center. Surrounding it were images of Gentry, Tara, Vanessa, Lissy and Nicole, each of our pictures lin
king to dozens of others, only a few of which I recognized. He had the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up past his elbows, and was busy circling any of the connections that overlapped. If the dark bags beneath his eyes and scruffy beard were any indication, he hadn’t showered or slept for days. I caught just a glimpse of the whiteboard behind him before he went back to the peg board. The over-developed picture of a pool intrigued me. Show me what’s on the whiteboard behind my father.

  Instantly the focus shifted, revealing the four-foot board in a slow, left to right pan. I spotted articles on everything from sinkholes to city sewer diagrams and ancient riverbeds before the picture I’d noticed came back into view. Zoom in on the picture of the pool.

  What had looked like a badly overexposed photo was actually a clear digital image of the critical moment from our race, taken just after the portal had opened. A perfectly round, eighty-foot-wide cross-section of turbulent sea resided where the pool wall should have been. Gentry was captured tumbling violently downward into the black depths of Teresolee’s Northern Ocean, with Vanessa and Tara close behind her. Lissy and Nicole—the next closest finishers—had managed to spin around, and were paddling for their lives as they tried to break free from the powerful undertow. Everything below their arms had already been sucked into the ocean. Now it made sense why their pictures were pinned next to ours on the cork board. We hadn’t been the only casualties. Next to the picture of the opened portal were articles devoted to worm holes, space-time continuum, string theory, black holes and inter-dimensional travel. Several names prefaced with a list of credentials and degrees as long as my arm were taped to the board, with lines connecting them to the various theories in the articles. He was on the right track, although his efforts couldn’t be more futile. Even if he figured out I’d been taken to another world—which the well-timed picture certainly suggested—and could convince the scientists he was investigating to believe him, they’d need to somehow obtain hundreds of trillions of dollars in funding to back research that would take decades just to develop plausible theories. They’d never build a functioning portal in a hundred of my lifetimes, let alone have any idea where to travel to if they did. He was going to waste his entire life searching for me. I wished I could just tell him to let me go.