by Linsey Hall
So it looked like they’d be taking the slow route.
“How long have you had this”—Andrasta peered around with a dubious expression—“vessel?”
“A while.” He liked the old girl, and though he wanted to defend the Clara G.’s honor, he didn’t want to give Andrasta any encouragement to keep talking. He’d always liked her voice, full of the joyous way she viewed the world. If he wanted to keep his wits about him, he couldn’t be distracted by mooning over her as he’d done so many years ago.
Cam set about untying the lines to free the boat from the dock, the action as much muscle memory as it was conscious act. He didn’t let the dark slow his progress. Andrasta had taken the aether to get here. If the gods were looking for her, this was where they’d show up, since it was the last place her energy led. Getting out of here soon was at the top of his list.
“You can have the bunk.” He nodded to the little cabin built onto the aft end of the boat, which housed a bed and his clothes. The rest of the boat was open air.
With a flick of his wrist, he untied the last line at the bow, then bounded up the small ladder to the raised pilothouse situated in the forward end of the boat. The Clara G. was primarily flat deck space, with just the little cabin at the stern and pilothouse at the bow.
He flipped on the big lights that would help illuminate the river. It was wide here, the water moving sluggishly downstream. He threw on the engine and pulled smoothly away from the dock. He’d let Andrasta explore while he got them far enough away from the Caipora’s Den that he could breathe freely again.
“What kind of boat is this?” Her head popped up on the ladder leading to the pilothouse.
He sighed. So much for exploring the main deck. Not that there was much to see down there. But he didn’t want her squeezing into the tiny pilothouse; she’d be too close.
“Get on the roof.” He jerked his head backward to indicate that she should climb on top of the flat roof, which was supported by piping. It didn’t enclose any space on the main deck, but it did provide shelter from the rain.
He could hear her climb onto the steel roof and walk around the flat space he used as a deck whenever he wanted to relax or needed a bit of extra cargo space.
“What kind of boat is this?” she asked again. Her voice came from too close behind him.
He glanced back to see her standing with her arms folded over the half wall of the pilothouse, staring at him. He turned to face the river, but the back of his neck prickled under her gaze. Normally he liked that the breeze flowed through the pilothouse, which was essentially just a chest-high box with a roof several feet overhead. Now, he wished for windows. Thick ones.
“Steamboat originally. But now it’s powered by diesel,” he said.
“An old one?”
Always so curious. He felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth, but he stifled it. “You could say that. It’s one of the mini riverboats from the Klondike gold rush back at the end of the nineteenth century. Found it rotting away in a barn up in the Yukon Territories about fifty years ago. Couldn’t save the wooden paddle wheel, and the engines and boiler had been stripped, but the rest of the steel hull was sound. Brought it down here, gave it a couple outboard engines and some modernizing, and it’s been faithful ever since.”
“Really?” Excitement laced her voice. “How do you think the diesel engines compare with the original steam propulsion?”
“You like engines?”
“I like technology, and steam was the biggest thing to hit humanity since the wheel.”
She was clever. “Diesel is less exciting and less dangerous, but more reliable and easier to maintain. But I do miss steam sometimes.”
“That’s what I figured. There’s just something so romantic about steam. How’d you get it all the way down here?”
Steam was more romantic? She was clever and weird. He’d almost forgotten how much so. He grinned as he said, “I shipped it overland, like that movie. The one where they carried the steamboat over the mountains into South America.”
She made an impressed noise in the back of her throat. Or did he just choose to interpret it that way? He scowled.
“Fitzcarraldo? Wouldn’t it have been easier to put it on a cargo ship?”
“Sure, but I’ve got nothing but time and wanted the challenge. You like movies?” Fitzcarraldo was an unusual one. He had no idea they had movies in Otherworld—but then again, he hadn’t been there in two thousand years.
“Yes. I need something to pass the time up there, don’t I? My friend Esha gave me a laptop that’s loaded with movies and television shows. It’s how I keep in touch. With earth.”
The tinge of sadness to her voice tugged something within him that he quickly ignored.
“How big is this steamship?”
“Boat. It’s a steamboat. Steamships go on oceans, steamboats go on rivers.”
“Oookay then. I guess you like boats.”
He shrugged. But yeah, he did. About as much as she liked technology. There hadn’t been any significant bodies of water in Otherworld. Nothing other than small rivers and a few ponds. When he’d ended up on earth permanently, oceans had fascinated him, along with the lakes that were as big as seas and rivers so wide you’d have sworn you were at the beach. A passion for boats had followed shortly behind.
“So, how big?”
He sighed. “Don’t you have something else you want to be doing? Instead of bothering me?”
“Nope. Too dark to see much. I’d rather hear about the boat. How big is it?”
He sighed. “Fifty feet. Small open-air galley below the roof you’re standing on, bunkhouse with a bed behind that if you’re feeling tired.” Which he wished she was. She could have his bed, as long as it kept her away from him. He’d take the hammock tied in the open air of the bow, but odds on him sleeping, with the gods possibly on their tail, were slim.
“I’m not tired. Too keyed up being on earth,” she said.
“Speaking of, how long ’til the gods start looking for you?” And me.
“A day. I’ve never come to earth for longer than twenty-four hours. That always seemed to be a safe amount of time. I figure they’ll start to notice I’m gone once I miss a meeting. There’s one tomorrow.”
“They still have those?” He’d hated the damn things when he’d been there.
“Yeah. They’re no longer for accounting for worshipers, since we don’t have any alive anymore. Though the recent interest in Druids has given us a bit of power. Now the meetings are mostly for managing the mortals who came to Otherworld when they died and to keep track of the gods. So we don’t leave.” The last sentence was delivered with a scowl he could hear.
“The council is still obsessed with keeping the gods in Otherworld, then?” It had been the most important law when he’d still been a god.
“Yeah, I don’t get it. Greek and Roman and Norse gods get to go to earth whenever they want. But not us Celtic gods. No, Otherworld is weakened without our presence.” Her voice had lowered, and he huffed out a small laugh at her impression of Hafgan, one of Otherworld’s eldest gods.
Even at more than two thousand years old, Andrasta was the youngest Celtic god. He wasn’t surprised that she hated Otherworld. He’d been born there. Never known anything different, and therefore never felt a need to leave. Not until a young mortal’s skill with a bow had caught his attention. Then he’d gone to earth, met Andrasta, and fucked everything up.
“Anyway, on to happier topics. I’m going to have fun while I’m here on earth, damn it. You said that we’re two days out from the airport? Where’s our next stop?”
Fun? No. They’d be heading hard and fast toward Scotland and the potion that would get her out of his life. There’d be no time for fun. “Little town called Havre. Got some business I have to tie up if I’m going to be away a while. Not much going on there. We’ll be in and out.”
“What kind of business?”
Fates, she had a lot of questions. He
’d never met anyone so chatty. But on her, he kind of liked it. He scowled. “Wouldn’t you rather take a nap?”
“Jeez, you’re grumpy. I don’t remember you being this grumpy.”
“My business is in pharmaceuticals.” Talking about the present was better than thinking about the past.
She laughed, a disbelieving sound swallowed by the shrieks of the howler monkeys. “Really?”
“Yeah. Good money.”
“Don’t those companies charge a fortune for sick people to get well?”
He shrugged. “Like I said. Good money.”
“But you just work for them, right? You’re not the boss or anything.”
He could tell from her voice that she didn’t want him to be the evil mastermind behind the operation. He couldn’t give her the answer she wanted, so he just shrugged.
She didn’t say anything for a minute, but the waves of censure coming off of her were unmistakable. It didn’t bother him. Not at all.
“Go down below, Andrasta. There’s a rough patch of river coming up and I need to concentrate.”
She sighed. “Fine. You’re no fun anyway.”
He watched out of the corner of his eye as her pale form disappeared down the ladder, taking with her the forest scent that complemented the earthiness of the jungle. She’d probably notice that there was no rough patch of river, but by then she’d be pissed enough to stay away. It’d be for the best. He couldn’t allow himself to get used to her presence. Or worse, start to like it.
~~~
“Do you have anything to drink?” Ana hollered at Cam once she reached the main deck.
She walked the few feet to the bow so that she could look up at him in the pilothouse. It stood on sturdy wooden legs about six feet above the deck and gave him an exceptional view of the river. A view that he kept his steely gaze nailed to instead of looking down at her. She propped her butt on a huge metal piece of machinery sticking up off the bow.
“Ass off the windlass,” he yelled down at her.
“Fine.” She took her weight off the machinery.
“Got some beer and bottled water in the cooler in the galley. Don’t get wasted in case the gods figure out you’ve left and manage to find us.”
I wish. She didn’t want to get hammered, but a good buzz would be just about perfect right now. Most of her nerves had faded once he’d agreed to bring her along, and she was almost giddy with the fact that she was finally on her way out of Otherworld. The whole reason she was coming to earth was to feel something other than loneliness unalleviated by boredom and duty.
She walked beneath the pilothouse legs and into the space beneath the metal roof that she’d been standing on earlier. It took her a second to realize that the spartan space was the galley. A small stove, a table, a rusty old sink, and a cooler. Height of luxury. About ten feet away was a door that lead into the only enclosed space on the vessel—the bunkhouse, he’d said.
With a sigh, she popped open the top of the cooler and snagged a bottle of beer. It started sweating as soon as it hit the sultry air of the jungle. The bottle was deliciously cool against her fingertips. Damn, the jungle was hot. She closed her eyes and envisioned the tank top and shorts she’d seen Phoebe wear on an episode of Friends. She sighed when her heavy leather breastplate and pants were replaced by airy fabric.
“Much better,” she said as she headed back to the hammock she’d seen stretched across the port side of the bow. She flicked off the cap of her beer, then plopped into the hammock and leaned back. The water rushed beneath the boat, gentle waves lulling her into a daze as she sipped her beer. She glanced up at Cam in the pilothouse.
He looked competent and manly up there, the way his big hands loosely gripped the wheel and his eyes traced over the water. In his element. But he’d changed so much from the man who’d set her life on this path. And who’d grudgingly agreed to help her now.
She held up a fist in front of her face. He liked boats. She stuck up her thumb.
He ran a company that sold expensive medicine to sick people. She stuck up her forefinger.
He was prickly and bad tempered. Middle finger up. Straight up at him.
A bruiser who fought for fun. She stuck her ring finger up.
But that last one was the strange one. He fought for fun. Joy, or whatever it was he felt from the fights, was an emotion. He’d been a god, so shouldn’t he not have those?
But he’d been angry back in the bar. Pretty angry since then too, despite her trying to lighten the atmosphere. All sizzling under the surface, hot enough that she’d burn herself if she touched him. So that was a fifth thing she knew, the fact that he was a god who felt emotion. It was the most dangerous and enlightening of them all. It meant that he really had cared for her back then—it wasn’t just a figment of her imagination.
Five things. And that probably wasn’t even the start of how he’d changed. She sipped again, musing over all the things she wanted to do now that she was on earth. Sex, drugs, rock ’n roll.
Okay, mostly sex. She shifted uncomfortably in the hammock, struck for the second time that evening by the heat and tingling between her thighs. This always happened when she came to earth. Arousal that she never felt in Otherworld—that she couldn’t feel there, she was pretty sure, since there was no sex—would hit her like waves on the beach a few hours after arriving on earth. Here one moment, gone the next, gaining strength like the waves of a storm at sea. Sometimes she acted on it, sometimes not. She blamed it on all the energy and emotion that was present on earth but not in Otherworld.
She sighed and stared up at Cam. Cam, who was alive. Alive when she thought he’d been dead for thousands of years. Cam, whom she’d so briefly been infatuated with. Cam, who’d changed her entire life and was still so damn handsome. Scary handsome. Not so handsome that it was scary. No. Handsome in a scary way.
If she felt fear. Which she didn’t. Rugged features that contrasted with ginger hair, enough muscles that he looked like he could snap someone in two.
She didn’t like being the weaker one in any situation. Even though she was a god and he was a mystery Mythean of undetermined species, she wouldn’t be surprised if he were stronger. He certainly looked it. She scowled, then turned her gaze to the stars.
She might need his help, but nothing else. She’d scratch this itch elsewhere. Getting involved with him had only led to trouble last time, and it would do so again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Southeast Celtic Britain, 13 AD
Territory between the Iceni and Trinovante Kingdoms
“Why are you watching me?” The woman didn’t turn as she spoke.
Though Camulos knew her face to be fair and fine boned, the blond curls tumbling down her back and the brown woolen skirt concealing her legs were all he could see from the shadows. Great trees loomed overhead, casting the shade he hid within. It terminated at the edge of a clearing that was blanketed with snow.
How had she sensed him? He’d made a point to stay concealed, to keep to the dark of the forest as she’d practiced her archery in the clearing. Then again, he visited earth so rarely that he was no expert at remaining unseen.
Or perhaps he’d wanted her to see him this time.
“Well?” She spun, gripping her bow loosely at her side. Ire sparked in her green eyes.
She was lovely, though that wasn’t what drew him. There were plenty of beautiful gods in Otherworld. No, it was the damnable fact that she made his chest feel strange. Like he knew her, though he was sure he’d never met her.
His foot moved forward. His mind stopped it. Revealing himself to a mortal, especially this mortal… No good could come of it. If he was to kill her, as he should, then it would be better if she didn’t see him.
But from the relaxed way she held her bow, she wasn’t afraid of him. Or she was confident enough in her speed to think that she could pluck an arrow from her quiver, sight it, and kill him with a shot.
Little did she know.
“You’v
e been watching me for days. I want to know why,” she demanded. Her grip on the bow tightened. Nerves?
“Maybe because I want to know how a girl like you can shoot a bow like that.” The words were out of his mouth before his mind could stop them.
Her bow was up, arrow sighted, drawn, and fired a mere second before a thudding sound to his left made him glance down. Her arrow vibrated where it pinned the bottom of his cloak to the tree. He raised a brow and nodded.
“You’re as skilled as they said.” Though they hadn’t mentioned how beautiful she was. Or that she had the ability to make a god’s chest feel odd.
“Of course I am, but who are they that you speak of?”
“The gods,” he said, yanking his cloak from the tree and stepping forward. Perhaps it was best that she fear him. The cockiness of her tone made his chest feel even stranger. Was this what emotion felt like?
“The gods.” She laughed disbelievingly, but when sunlight hit his face as he walked out of the shadow, she stepped backward, her knuckles whitening around the bow. “Who are you?”
“Camulos.” He should make her fear him. It would make it easier to kill her. He’d see the light of panic in her eyes, and she’d be just another mortal.
Her brow creased. “The god of war? Here? In my woods?”
He nodded.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.” His head drew back. She didn’t believe him?
“You can’t play me for a fool. The gods don’t come to earth. They haven’t in centuries. If they ever did at all.”
She was right. They’d stopped visiting earth before he was born. There was too much emotion here. The place seethed with it. He seethed with it. Because of her? He rubbed his chest.
“You’ve been watching me for days. But I’ve never been able to see you, and you’ve never come close. Why?”
He felt a frown drag at his mouth. He couldn’t tell her that he’d come to kill her, but had been stayed by the sight of her practicing with her bow until her fingers bled. Or that the sight of her so diligently training had made his chest tighten.
