Poisoned Kisses

by Stephanie Draven

  And that’s when Marco finally let her go. The sudden break of contact was like a gust of frigid winter air between them and she could see now that he’d only been toying with her. She yanked on the handcuffs again, to no avail. “You…you tricked me,” Kyra rasped, blinking her eyes as if she could hardly believe a mortal had dared. “With a kiss!”

  “Sure I did,” Marco said, leaning against the sliding door as if he needed to steady himself. She watched as the temperature of the glass under his hand seemed to replace all his heated raw sexual power with something colder and angrier. “I tricked you into the handcuffs. I manipulated you, Kyra. And if it makes you feel even a fraction as violated as I feel because of what you did last night, then maybe you’ve learned something.”

  “But I wasn’t trying to manipulate you last night!”

  “No? What would you call impersonating another woman so as to seduce me?” Marco shrugged out of his dress shirt and replaced it with a short-sleeved linen button-down that some helpful servant had left for him on the couch. She could plainly see that he was still aroused, but he continued to dress as if it were of no consequence. As if he’d mastered his sexuality in a way that she couldn’t.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Kyra argued. “After you told me what happened in Rwanda. I just wanted to reach out to you and make it better, to make it hurt less.”

  “Well, you did for a little while,” Marco muttered, grabbing his coat and starting for the elevator. “But now as much as I’d like to stay and teach you all the other lessons you so richly deserve, I have a plane to catch.”

  Why wouldn’t he even try to understand? Furious, Kyra yanked on the door handle until the handcuff bit into the skin of her wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “Where I’m needed. One of my men will free you after I’m gone. But don’t bother trying to rough him up for information. Only Benji knows where I’m going, and he’s coming with me.”

  “But, Marco,” Kyra protested. “Ares is looking for you. And if he finds you—”

  “Kyra, I’ve heard you out. Thanks for the warning. But nobody is going to use me. I’ve made a commitment, and I’ve got to keep it. So don’t look for me. Don’t follow me. Just stay away.”

  And with that, he left her standing there chained to the door.

  Chapter 13

  The snow-laced streets of Sarajevo were disgracefully peaceful. How was Ares supposed to enjoy his coffee without even the occasional snap of a sniper’s rifle to start his day? Worse, his vulture had returned with nothing but excuses. The sharp-faced redhead whined, “Kyra refused to submit to her punishment even after I told her it was at your command! And she says she’s destroyed all the information you gathered on the hydra so that we can’t even find him.”

  Ares put the coffee down and took her chin between his thumb and fingers, turning her head slightly to the side as her eyes fluttered down in submission. There was a gorgeous bruise on her face, livid and dark. “Kyra did this to you?”

  “Yes,” the vulture said. “Just before I shot her.”

  Ares admired the injury, delighting in the swelling, sighing with satisfaction at the broken blood vessels and damaged skin. This little bit of violent art, painted in bold strokes of deep purple was a much more satisfactory start to his day.

  “And this?” Ares asked, letting his hand trail up the vulture’s neck to the bandage at the back of her head. “Kyra did this, too?”

  “No,” the vulture said, her eyes still on his feet. “I was surprised from behind by the man with her.”

  “A man?” Ares asked. “A mortal man?”

  “Her latest lover,” the vulture replied with a nod. “I could smell the attraction between them. Kyra was all but naked when she answered the door. And she had that sad look of a nymph who is falling in love.”

  The god sat bolt upright. Kyra in love? The possibility was so awful that Ares actually groaned. If his daughter had taken up with a satyr, a local river god or even some foreign deity he wouldn’t have had as much cause to complain. But nymphs never chose sensible lovers. How had this come to pass? He knew Kyra was struggling to find her role in a changed world, but he’d been sure that, one day, she’d take her rightful place beside him in his war chariot. That would never happen if she let herself fall for some feckless mortal man.

  She was a nymph; love would change her like it did all her kind. Love changed pretty Galatea, who turned into a fountain of tears when her mortal lover died. Pitys’s heartbreak transformed her into a tree that weeps whenever the wind blows. And who could forget Salmacis? She was so desperate with love for Hermaphroditos that she melded her body with his and became a new creature, half woman, half man!

  These were the fates of nymphs in love, and Ares was not about to let it happen to Kyra. She was his progeny. His blood flowed through her veins. How would it reflect upon him if his daughter were to meet such an end? “Who is this man she’s taken up with?”

  “I tried to find out,” the vulture said, eager to please. “But he uses false names wherever he goes. He’s a mystery. No one knows.”

  Ares let go of the vulture with grim determination. “Oh, I think Hecate knows.”

  Chapter 14

  It’d been only a day or so since Marco’s men had released her from the handcuffs, and having failed at her mission again, Kyra had nowhere else to go but home. She called upon her old mistress, but like the priceless wall hangings and ancient artifacts that littered the room, Kyra now felt as out of place in Hecate’s crumbling shop as she felt everywhere else. Outside, tourists strolled past. People laughed, shopped and ate at the bistro across the street. The little Italian city was alive with color and life, but Kyra watched with a puzzling detachment. This was the bustle of the world, as it had been for centuries and it would be for centuries still. She was trapped in its endless cycle of passing time without purpose. She hadn’t conquered the hydra as her destiny foretold—and feeling about Marco the way she did, she no longer wanted to.

  “You look no better than last time,” Hecate said by way of greeting. “So what’s wrong with you now?”

  “I don’t know,” Kyra said, afraid she might burst into a maudlin display of nymph’s tears. Was it the poison still at work in her system, or was it just Marco Kaisaris that had gotten under her skin? “I lost the hydra.”

  She hadn’t meant to speak of it, but she couldn’t think of any other excuse for her behavior and now Hecate was eyeing her shrewdly. “You’re thin,” the goddess said.

  “Food doesn’t interest me.” It was quite possible that the last meal she’d eaten was that half-burned boxed dinner with Marco. “Is this what it was like for you? Did you just wake up one day and find that you weren’t as strong as you used to be? That your powers weren’t as potent? That whatever made you a goddess—whatever gave you purpose—was suddenly with you in only half measure?”

  “No,” Hecate replied. “For me it happened very slowly. And I haven’t lost all my powers, you know. I can see that you’re hurting.”

  Yes, that was a good way to put it. Kyra was hurting, inside and out. “I don’t heal as fast as I used to. I get tired. I think I’m damaged in some way.”

  Hecate’s mouth tightened. “I was afraid of that. Achilles was half-mortal. Hercules was half-mortal, too. Both men died because the hydra blood ate away at what let them live forever. I fear it’s the same with you, that this Marco Kaisaris—this monster—has taken away your immortality.”

  “He isn’t a monster,” Kyra protested. “He’s just fashioned himself into one to fight a battle everyone else has forgotten.”

  Hecate settled into her rocking chair. “Well, you told him the way of the world. He should know better now.”

  Yes, Marco really should know better than to keep flooding Africa with cheap guns and ammo. More importantly, he should understand that Ares could hunt him down and use him for more nefarious things than that. But Marco was angry and bitter over having been tricked, and she had no one to blame f
or that but herself. “Hecate, he’s so close to seeing things the way they really are. I was starting to open his eyes. If only he’d listen to me—”

  “That’s the trouble with mortals. We try to guide them at the crossroads, but sometimes they still choose the wrong path. Now I think you must stay away from the hydra and make amends with your father. Ares will give you ambrosia—and then you’ll be as good as new.”

  “But I can’t stay away from Marco. You have to help me find him again.”

  “Oh, Kyra, listen to yourself. You sound like a besotted nymph!”

  Hecate was right, but if what she felt for Marco was even a fraction of how other nymphs felt, she could understand how all their sad stories came to pass. She understood Marco, understood the part of him that kept fighting when everyone else had given up or turned away. And if she let herself, she could love him. Really love him. How was it that she’d never known how strong and immortal a force love could be, in its own right?

  “Marco needs me. He’s struggling so hard and he’s never had anyone in his life strong enough to struggle for him.”

  Hecate sighed. “I fear that when it comes to the hydra, you’ve already done all that you can do.”

  “No, I haven’t. I can’t have. You said I was fated to conquer a hydra. You said it was my destiny.”

  “But I don’t think you want to conquer him anymore, Kyra. I think you want him to conquer you.”

  Marco knew it was still snowing in Niagara Falls, but the Congo was hot as a furnace. Everything was burning. Children burned with fever, villages were put to the torch, and Marco had passed a funeral pyre on his way in, piled with corpses so mangled and crisped they were barely recognizable as human.

  Inside the general’s hut, Marco’s old friend peered into the crate. “What is this?”

  “Kevlar vests,” Marco answered in the face of the general’s furious glare. “Consider them a gift.” After all, Marco had made enough money in this business. He’d be very rich even if he never made another dime.

  The general twitched his baton at his side and Marco wondered when he had acquired it. When the general was a schoolteacher in Rwanda, hadn’t it just been a ruler he wielded in the classroom? Perhaps the war had changed them both beyond recognition. “Where are the guns?” the general demanded. “Where are the grenades?”

  Marco didn’t flinch. “Where is the peace treaty you were supposed to sign with the government?”

  It’d obviously been a long time since the general had been questioned by anyone. He kicked a chair at Marco, who ducked out of the way. The chair crashed into some cook pots and sent a rooster skittering. Then the general exploded. “Do you know what the Hutu militias do? They take the women, rape them and cut off their ears. When they kill my people, they eat—they actually eat—their hearts and livers. And you want me to make peace with the weak government that allows it?”

  Marco worked his jaw. “Maybe if you made peace with the government, it’d be strong enough to stop these things, but I think you’ve grown too fond of killing.”

  The general took off his beret, his mask of rage falling away. He shook his head as if profoundly hurt by Marco’s accusations. Then his old chameleon charisma came to the fore. “How can you listen to these lies about me?”

  “Are they lies?” Marco asked. “My men keep an eye on things. They talk to the local authorities. Just last night, your soldiers shot a teacher in the face with one of my bullets because they thought he might be an enemy sympathizer. A schoolteacher. Just like you used to be.”

  The general stared at Marco with hard, obsidian eyes. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” Marco said, taking a small flask from his shirt pocket. Water wasn’t strong enough for this conversation. It was going to have to be Scotch. Marco unscrewed the cap, took a swallow and let it burn all the way down. Then he searched his pocket for another stick of gum, and found he was all out. All the while, the general watched him like he was a thing of curiosity.

  Then, suddenly, the general gave a great booming laugh. “Ha! It is a woman, isn’t it? Ahh, I know the signs, my friend. It was like this before, with your Ashlynn.”

  No, it hadn’t been like this before. He’d been a kid when Ashlynn broke things off. What he felt now, since meeting the nymph, was different. Being with Kyra had been the first peace he’d known in his adult life. But it had all been a lie. Even so, he couldn’t shake the memory of her. She’d been no wide-eyed innocent to the horrors of the world. Whatever he’d seen, she’d seen worse. Whatever he told her, she could handle it. Whatever he needed, she could give. She was strong, capable and no depthless ingenue, either. He could still remember the way she smelled, the way she sounded when she rode him in the darkness. Somehow, she’d gotten into his blood like a new kind of poison altogether.

  “Whatever is bothering you, you must snap out of it,” the general said, reaching for the flask that Marco gladly relinquished. “I’ll give you two weeks to bring me the grenades and guns.”

  It was the practical thing to do. It was their arrangement. And yet, none of it made sense anymore. Sure, when they’d started all this, the killings here in the Congo were ethnically motivated. But just as often now, the fighting had to do with mining. It was about who was going to be rich. And whoever won the conflict was going to win using all these child soldiers—just like the ones guarding the general’s hut. Little boys who, through fear, hunger and desperation could be molded into murdering, raping thugs.

  “I don’t think I can get you your guns.” Marco hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud, but once he had, they felt right. “I’m done with this. With all of this.” And with a sidelong glance, Marco admitted, “I think we’ve turned into the monsters we once tried to slay.”

  The general’s eyes smoldered like coals now. Benji had called him the devil, and Marco was starting to believe it. “Marco, only one of us is a monster. You are war-forged, but I am war-born.”

  War-forged. It was the same term that Kyra had used. Marco’s expression must have betrayed his alarm, because the general grabbed his wrist before he could reach for his gun. The man’s grip was like iron. “Come now, Marco. Did you really think I was a simple schoolteacher all those years ago? I’m older than you know—ancient in this land. The people here still call for me.”

  The hairs on the back of Marco’s neck bristled. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gaze of the man who held his wrist in a bone-crushing vice. Was this Ares? Could it be? “I’m Ogun,” the general whispered, flashing those bright white teeth. “And I have waited a very long time for a creature with your powers to come along.”

  Marco knew only enough African mythology to know that Ogun was a war god. So here it was. Just as Kyra warned. “My powers?”

  “You are a hydra, my friend. I have seen you burn your bandages. How you shy away from anyone touching you when you have an open wound. Do you think that here in Africa we don’t know how people behave when they know their blood is tainted? We fear even the ones we love. And we know the signs.”

  Marco swallowed. The sweat was now rolling down his cheeks and he was shaking from the pain as the general continued to crush the bones of his wrist.

  “Besides,” the general continued, “the Hutu who shot you—I knew that man, Marco. I know how he died. And yet, his face lives on. They tell ghost stories about him now in Rwanda, because it seems everyone has seen him. But that is only because he shot you, and now you can wear his face, no?”

  Marco didn’t answer.

  “What a wonderful gift you have, and it has been useful to me. You can smuggle to me any weapon in the world and no one would catch you.”

  Marco’s nostrils flared, anger cutting through the pain. So he was being used. Perhaps he’d been used all along. For once, Kyra had told him the truth, and he hadn’t wanted to listen. But he was listening now, and he was horrified.

  “Do not look at me that way,” the god said. “It was not I who made a monster of you
. Mortal men make wars. We immortals are simply at hand to feed off the misery you create.”

  Marco’s joints creaked beneath Ogun’s fingers. He feared the bones might snap at any moment. “But you’re leading rebels—”

  “They called, so I serve. And so will you, as my minion.”

  “I’m nobody’s minion,” Marco said through clenched teeth.

  “You will be mine, or I will cut your hand off,” the god said, and Marco could see now that his baton was a machete. Perhaps it had always been a machete. Perhaps everything Marco had done in Africa from the start had been a lie. A mirage. All for nothing. He’d failed the people in Rwanda and now he was failing the Congolese. Why should he meet a different fate than the people here?

  “So cut off my hand,” Marco growled. “But you’ll get my poisoned blood all over your rebel fortress. It might not kill you, but I have it on good authority that it burns like hell.”

  His bluff called, the god threw the machete aside. “I don’t need to cut you, Marco Kaisaris. I can crush you to dust. I have seen you fight mortal men. You are strong, but no match for me. Which is why you will bring me the guns. Which is why you will bring me the grenades. Which is why you will forget about Kevlar, because nothing can kill me.”

  At last, Marco yanked his hand free of Ogun’s grasp. The blood vessels were all broken and his wrist throbbed angrily. But it was still attached to his arm, so that counted for something. So why were the war god’s eyes twinkling with surprise? As if Marco should be saying or doing something other than trying to get his bearings? “Ahh, Marco. You are not as shocked by all these revelations as you ought to be! I reveal myself as a war god, and not even a hint of doubt rises in your eyes. Someone has been telling tales. Perhaps the woman you pine for. Who is she?”