Red Mortal

by Deidre Knight

  Bracing his hands along the marble edge of the sink, he leaned forward and looked himself square in the eyes again. The same dark, almost black irises stared back, but they appeared different because of the fine lines at the edge of his eyes, the slight shadowing underneath. Or perhaps it was his beard, now shot through with silver, that caused his eyes to seem so much darker. Almost the color of midnight.

  Old Man. How true the warriors’ nickname for him had turned out to be. He wasn’t that much older, not yet, but he no longer appeared his perpetual thirty-five. No wonder Ajax had stared at him so strangely; no wonder Daphne had fled him.

  He tilted his chin upward, and braced his shoulders back. Perhaps she would come to think of his new look as distinguished. Wasn’t that how women often described men with gray in their hair and lines on their faces? Of course, those men weren’t scarred and less than handsome to begin with.

  He studied the silver at his temples. Thankfully, his hair remained mostly dark brown, the tight curls only streaked with occasional gray. And at least he still had hair! That was more than might be said for many men in their forties. If he was in his forties—how could you actually mark your age progression when you were nearing twenty-six hundred years? If he had to guess, he appeared some five or six years older than he had at the day’s outset, before Ares had touched him with his vile cloak.

  Old. He’d been old for so long. Ares had merely worked his dark power to reveal that plain fact. With a last look in the mirror, he wondered what he would see the next time he gazed in its reflective surface. The thought made his hands tremble as he reached for the doorknob.

  Daphne stood on the edge of Eros’s eternal pool, watching red rose petals drift lazily toward a waterfall on the far side of the water. Eros leaned against the smooth rocks that lined the pool’s edge, shoulder deep in the magical waters. His long blond ponytail floated behind him, and his face glowed with the pool’s mystical power.

  She’d not known where to go at first, after leaving Leonidas. So she’d come to Mount Olympus and wandered the rocky trails, thinking. Knowing there had to be a way to help Leonidas, she could only return to him, really, with some solution. He’d been furiously hurt with her—even as he’d then apologized, begging her to stay. But she understood his wrath and sense of betrayal. She should have told him months ago, but a part of her had been ashamed that her own flesh and blood could be so monstrous, and equally afraid that if she told Leonidas, then Ares would strike him down immediately.

  All those decisions had been mistakes, but she could rectify things now by offering solutions. That was why she’d come to Olympus, knowing that if an answer to Leo’s plight existed, it would be here.

  Among the pantheon of gods there were only two whose assistance she might realistically hope to obtain. The first was Eros. He was the god of love, after all, and as Ares’s son, he naturally worked at cross-purposes to his father’s warring nature. And Eros doted on her because she’d always been kind to him, defending him to Ares who held his son in disdain.

  The second god who might help them was far more of a mystery to her, even though he was the one she’d always served as a Delphic Oracle. Apollo was remote, usually unreachable at the high peak of Olympus, his palace invisible, his moods inscrutable. She knew, as had all the Oracles throughout the ages, that Apollo safeguarded his own, that no one dared touch or harm the Daughters of Delphi without fearing his punishment. But what she did not know was how to gain an audience with him, especially being only a demigoddess and half human, so much less than the mighty Apollo. Truthfully, she’d always been enamored of his mystique and indomitable supremacy, but also too intimidated by him to engage in more than the simplest syllables when in his presence.

  So Eros had been her most logical choice. He’d helped them all recently, when Ari’s beloved Juliana had been bound to a demon—and he’d given Juliana immortal life by allowing her to swim in this powerful reflecting pool.

  She came here now hoping that Eros would offer the same healing salve to Leonidas. He smiled up at her lazily, seeming—if she honestly admitted it—almost half-drunk off the pool’s magic. His eyes were a bit dazed, his smile a bit too languid.

  “Aunt Daphne,” he purred, sliding deeper into the water. “What a pleasure! But why are you here, and not with your beloved?” His grin broadened, his eyes drifting shut. “That love you share with the king is divine. A true thing of beauty. If I were you, I’d never leave his side.”

  A sob built in her throat. Even the God of Love himself acknowledged that what she shared with Leo was rare and special. Rushing to the side of the pool, she dropped to her knees. “Oh, Eros! You’re the only one I could think of, the only one who might be able to help.”

  He sat up on the rocks, the dreamy expression on his face replaced by alertness and concern. “Aunt Daphne, please explain.” His tawny eyes, so much like his father’s, gazed back at her sharply.

  She bowed her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “You know how he hates Leonidas.”

  “Ares,” he pronounced in a chilled voice.

  “He’s made Leo mortal. Aging him . . . quickly. That’s what he said.” She buried her face in both hands. “Oh, why is he so cruel? Why must he hate me so much?”

  “He despises us both, Daphne.”

  She felt his damp hand brush against her cheek, but kept her face averted, not wanting him to see her painful tears.

  “Leonidas is the only true happiness I’ve ever known. And so Ares takes pleasure in killing him . . . destroying me.”

  “It’s because family—those of us he should love—accuse him of being what he truly is. A hateful, warring monster. Incapable of love. Incapable of care. We are the worst in him . . . that’s what he believes.”

  She let her hands fall away from her face. “You can help Leonidas. That’s why I’ve come. He could bathe in your pool, like Juliana did . . . and become immortal again.”

  Eros shook his head. “I wish it were so, Daphne. But in this, I am powerless to help.”

  She gaped in disbelief, but he only climbed out of the pool, concealing his nude body behind a large rosy-colored towel, and turned away from her.

  He was refusing her request?

  “But . . . but you helped Juliana,” she stammered. “I don’t understand.”

  Eros turned to face her, standing tall and wrapped in the towel. His golden eyes were filled with profound sadness, a palpable grief. “I would do anything to save him for you . . . to preserve your love. But, Daphne, I am powerless against my father’s dark arts.”

  “You warred against him mere months ago! When he was trying to destroy my Spartans by setting that female Djinn against them!”

  “But that attack was not from the direct use of his power or magic. He specifically enlisted my help, and in the end, I specifically chose not to aid him—and to help all of you instead.”

  “Then choose to help us now. Specifically go against him again.”

  “I cannot. In the case of your Leonidas, I am impotent, unable to reverse this curse. The king was made immortal by my father—and now he will return to dust by his hand, as well. His fate is sealed.”

  Daphne seized hold of the god’s hands, squeezing them imploringly. “Leo is not dust. He’s alive and vital. I know that you could help him and restore his youth. His immortality could be made permanent again. I know it, Eros.”

  Eros stared past her, toward the peak of Olympus where Ares’s own palace gleamed beneath perpetual sunlight. “My father’s curse will work quickly. He never waits long when he’s this jealous and angry.” Slowly Eros’s gaze drifted back to her. “I’m sorry, Daphne, but your Leonidas is as good as dead already. Go to him now, for you don’t have long.”

  Chapter 6

  Leonidas paced the hardwood floor of his study. By now, his captain, Ajax, had most likely informed their warriors about the changes he’d observed; the Spartans and perhaps even the humans were probably gathered and waiting in the great room. Still
, Leo needed time to think. Ajax would understand and anticipate that, as well.

  This had always been Leo’s leadership style: to quietly contemplate strategy and battle plans, then bring those ideas to his captains for discussion. The only problem was that he didn’t fully understand what Ares had done to him. The god claimed to have stripped away his immortality: the evidence of that was written plainly enough in Leo’s features and body. Already his right knee had begun throbbing much more painfully than it had in the past months, which was saying quite a lot.

  So the question wasn’t whether Ares had sped up the aging process that he’d clearly begun months ago. It was another—how did Leo, now a mortal, go about reacquiring immortality? There had to be some way of stopping Ares’s plan. They’d managed to thwart the war god repeatedly in the past year. This situation, too, could surely be reversed . . . They needed only to find a way.

  But could Leo retract the harsh, unkind words he’d spoken to Daphne? He groaned, burying his face in both hands. What a bastard he’d been! His predicament was no excuse for how cruelly he’d treated her; not even his frustration with her for staying gone all those months was reason enough for the way he’d behaved.

  He raked a hand over his hair, growling in frustration. “Daphne! Why do you leave when you know I cannot follow? Cannot come to you and apologize or change things?”

  From nowhere, his sense of powerlessness bubbled up into fury. He wanted to hurl a spear, charge an army of enemies, rout a legion. He searched for a weapon, anything to use for venting the explosive emotions that warred inside of him. A pottery vase was the first thing he clapped his gaze on. Grabbing the damn thing, he hurled it against the fireplace with an agonized roar. The smashing sound was surprisingly loud, and shards flew back at him. He averted his face, closing his eyes.

  When he opened them again, preparing to inspect the damage, he found Daphne standing in his strike zone. He was afraid to move, lest he discover that he’d only imagined her.

  But she looked real as always, staring at him with an expression of flushed shock. And then she smiled, forgiveness in her gaze. “My lord, such an outburst isn’t at all like you.” She glanced down at the shattered pieces of the vase. “And that was a lovely piece of pottery.”

  “It was because of you.” He gestured helplessly. “I was such a damned fool to accuse you of those things. And you left, knowing that I couldn’t follow you and apologize.”

  “You need only have summoned me.” She moved much closer, smiling tenderly at him. “You said you were sorry. I knew that you were.”

  That wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to fall to his knees before her, longed to shower her with penances. And then make everything right between them, not with words or excuses—but with his body. “All I could think about was what a bastard I’d been to you.” He inclined his head as if she were his queen. “My lady, please forgive my horrid conduct. It was entirely unworthy of you.”

  “Look at me, Leo,” she urged softly, moving much closer. But he was too ashamed—of how he’d treated her, or for her to get a decent look at his changing features. All of it kept his head bowed, but she clasped his face in both her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. Their eyes locked and she searched his features for one long moment. He glimpsed unmistakable grief in those lovely water blue eyes.

  “Daphne, I understand why you didn’t tell me.”

  “My brother is a cruel god. I couldn’t run the risk that he’d harm you any further . . . or faster.”

  Leo gave her a regretful glance. “I’m already older. Since the field . . . it is happening fast. But that’s not your doing.”

  Wordlessly, she kept his face cupped in her palms, drawing it to her own, and began rubbing her cheek back and forth against his silvering beard. “I’ve always loved the feel of your face against mine,” she whispered. “How rough, how masculine . . . and yet your silky beard tickles my cheek.” She stilled as if savoring the moment. Was she thinking how much she’d grieve when he died? Or perhaps memorizing the feel of him, the scent, so that in future days she’d always have this moment?

  “You’ve never been a bastard to me,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. “I was upset. . . . I needed to regain my equilibrium. And I had an errand to run.”

  He quirked a smile. “Right then, of all times?”

  “I had an idea.” She shrugged, stepping out of his embrace, and he saw sadness in her eyes. “It was just a thought . . . besides you needed time to cool down. We both did.”

  He clasped her by the shoulders. “Daphne, I don’t want to argue or waste valuable time. I just want to be with you, hold you. I want . . .” He shook his head, grasping for the right words. “Time is precious now, and we shouldn’t be foolish or argue. I want to take you as my lover, once and for all.”

  She flushed deeply at his admission. “Okay, the word lover, from your lips like that? So very, very sexy.”

  “Lovers . . . you and me,” he murmured, bending lower so he could kiss her throat. He kept his mouth against that hot, fluttering pulse. She tasted sweet, perfect. Oh, by the gods, he did plan to claim her as lover. Tonight, not later. “In every way, together. Lovers, Daphne . . . yes.”

  She never so much as shifted in his arms—yet instantly her outfit changed to something much sexier, a black dress that dipped low in front, outlining the swelling shape of her breasts and her very feminine figure. It flowed with all the sensuality of an ancient Greek gown, but the fabric and color were far more tempestuous. Daring. Seductive.

  She gave him a demure smile. “I said you needed to cool down. But Leo? There are some ways in which I prefer you very worked up and in a fever.”

  She leaned back against the bookshelf, studying him. After a moment, she cocked her head sideways, her smile widening. “Those combat pants look most handsome on you, but do you know what I’ve always loved? The idea of you nude, wrapped in your crimson cloak.” She released a slow, dreamy sigh. “And then very slowly, I take my hands, and peel that fabric away.” Her fair cheeks suddenly grew rosy as she demonstrated with her hands. “Fold by fold, I expose your godlike body to my virginal eyes, unfold you like a mighty, masculine flower. Yes, that is what I’ve dreamed of . . . for many lonely nights.”

  “By Olympus, Daphne,” he barked, his pants tenting sharply. “Careful what you wish for.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s my damned cloak when I need it?”

  Again, she snapped her fingers, and the folded garment appeared right in her hand. They’d lain on it in the meadow earlier, and she’d obviously forgotten to bring it when she teleported them into the study.

  “Looking for this?” Her pale blue eyes sparkled with lust and mischief. And then just as suddenly, she appeared shy, holding the cloak against her chest. “I suppose it’s very forward of me, my lord, to describe wanting you thusly . . . to be so bold about my desires.”

  Leo advanced on her, his mind rapidly calculating how fast he could undress himself and fulfill her intimate fantasy. Where would he lie and cover himself for her? On the sofa? No, too bland. Perhaps he would pose on the edge of his desk, as if awaiting an artist’s sensual rendering. He wanted her . . . to want him. He was still somewhat young—for now—and he yearned for her to appreciate his honed, warrior’s physique while she could. There was one physical trait he had epic amounts of confidence in: the strength and shape of his nude body.

  Wordlessly, he reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head. Tossing the garment aside, he faced Daphne wearing only his combat pants and boots. She sagged against the bookshelf, still clutching his cloak to her breasts. Very slowly, she raked her gaze down his chest, lingering for a moment on his abdomen, at the tightly defined muscles that rippled there.

  “You approve,” he said, his voice as husky as it ever got.

  She replied by allowing the crimson cloak to unfurl in her grasp. He, in turn, began unfastening his belt, lingering on the gesture to make it as tantalizing as possible. Her gaze nev
er left his hand as it worked.

  Then he addressed his pants, eyeing her sensually as he lowered the zipper over his prominent erection. Her own eyes grew wide, fiery lust infusing her face with a crimson that rivaled that of his cloak. Swallowing hard, she stepped forward, wrapping the garment about his shoulders.

  “Like this, Adonis,” she murmured, spreading the crimson material about him. “I want to see you this way, adorned for me.”

  He finished the work of unfastening his pants, then toed his way out of both boots. The pants slid to his ankles, pooling there until he kicked them away. Never one for underwear, he now stood before her in his full glory of nature.

  She didn’t dare glance down, not this time, her gaze riveted on his face.

  He held his head high. “I’m supplying every component of your fantasy, my lady. So tell me—where would you have me stand? Or lie?”

  She swallowed, her pink lips parting softly on a light groaning exhale. Then she took his cloak from about his shoulders, draping it about his full body—including his protruding erection. Her hand lingered there for a moment, as she slid the material about his cock and began to rub it with exquisitely slow pressure. Back and forth, the rough fabric created an aching pleasure from the base of his arousal to the blunted tip.

  “My lady, this is your fantasy?” He groaned, pressing his eyes shut.

  Suddenly her lips were at his ear. “I’m good at improvising.”

  He caught her face in one palm, dragging her mouth to his. “And like every good military commander, so am I.” He slid his other hand behind her upper thigh, hiking the dress up as he did so. He brought it above her hips, only to discover that like him, she wore no form of underwear. There was only sweet Daphne, mere inches away from his jutting shaft.