Red Demon

by Deidre Knight

  Juliana slid her own palm over his. “Aristos, I felt that . . . earlier. You are magnificent everywhere, aren’t you?” she whispered, trying to pry his fingers away. She bent sideways, apparently wanting a closer look.

  “Jules!” he hissed, right as Sophie and Emma bounced into the room.

  She sat up and gave a gracious, innocent smile to the women. As if she’d not been attempting an eye- level inspection of his family jewels, nor just made her eagerness to become lovers more than abundantly clear.

  As Emma came up behind the sofa, looping her arms about his neck, he squared a pillow in the center of his lap. Em gave him a bear hug, squeezing her cheek against his. With a quick whisper in his ear she said, “I think it’s a little late to hide that from Juliana, don’t you?”

  “Maybe if your timing were better, Lowery, you’d have caught a real glimpse of the goods,” he said, prying her away from his shoulder. “You could’ve given River some dimensional pointers and all that.”

  “I think you’re well aware that my husband’s not lacking a thing.” She swatted the top of his head.

  “Did I miss seeing something?” Juliana asked, glancing between them innocently.

  “Oh, Ari’s just planning to take you on a tour of all his favorite sites around town, some definite special spots.”

  Emma smiled beatifically, and he wanted to leap over the back of that sofa and chase her around the house as if she were his kid sister or something. Maybe he would’ve except . . . she looked so radiant this morning, with a real glow to her skin, and he could tell a big part of that was because she was so damned happy for him.

  For once, he thought smiling back at her, that restless, churning energy was quiet in his blood. Maybe Juliana’s arrival had finally silenced it.

  He almost believed, almost accepted the peaceful moment. Until he remembered that he had no idea how Juliana had brought herself back from beyond the grave, and a sudden chill chased over his skin at the thought.

  Chapter 18

  It was a sun-dappled, golden morning; Eros felt equally light and buoyant as he disrobed, gazing into his Pool of Romantic Enchantment. The water shimmered in slow, of Romantic Enchantment. The water shimmered in slow, crimson-hued waves, and as always, the thought of submerging himself in the arousing water caused his whole body to flex and tense in anticipation.

  Entering the pool, he brushed aside floating rose petals. They blanketed the water’s surface, the perpetual flora a gift from his mother, Aphrodite—an appreciative offering for the romance and beauty he brought the world.

  At least she loved him.

  Ares will soon appreciate my talents, he reminded himself, feeling the pool’s liquid energy seep into his body. Long ago—so many years past that he couldn’t calculate the time elapsed—he’d created this pool as a repository for his special abilities. His Olympic powers were always renewed in these waters, as was his passionate desire to create love among mortals.

  He dove beneath the flowery surface, feeling the eroticism of the water’s energy wrap about his nude body. When he emerged again, raking wet hair away from his face, he smiled at the deep, sated feeling that overcame him. His groin reacted, too, tightening and then almost instantly releasing in pure pleasure. His own seed purified and enhanced the pool’s enchantment, renewing him supernaturally every time he submerged in these magical depths.

  He reached a hand between his legs, sighing in contentment. And was answered by harsh, barking laughter. He didn’t have to look to the source; he instantly realized that his father had watched him orgasm.

  “How long did that take?” Ares taunted, looming over the water’s edge. “All of twenty seconds for you to reach full ejaculation? And this from the famed god of love, no less.” Ares covered his mouth, tittering. “Seems your own arrow is weak, the shaft wilting as soon as it strikes from the bow.”

  Eros bent his knees so that only his shoulders were above the water line. “I am gifted with bringing love and satisfaction to others. There is no need to prolong my own release. That is not the purpose of my body or its seed . . . or the focus of my desires. It is creating love between others that consumes me, always.”

  “Such a voyeur.” Ares gave him a bemused look. “Surely you long for a female of your own to pleasure you? Or would that be a male? No matter; either way, Aphrodite informs me that you’re incapable of coupling with anyone, mortal or otherwise.”

  “She did not,” he denied, flushing. Could his mother have betrayed his most private secret?

  Ares smiled. “You know that your mother must barter with me on occasion. I find that my son’s private thoughts are a most profitable currency for such trade.”

  Eros stood upright, exposing his muscular, bare torso. The air about the palace had grown chilly upon his father’s arrival, and he shivered. “I seek my pleasure . . . in pleasuring others,” he explained, resenting his own words. “Love spelling is my Olympic gift, as is joining destined soul mates . . . choosing those who complement each other, who thrive together and love most deeply. That is my calling, whether you approve or not.”

  His father only shook his head in obvious disgust. “The flow of crimson,” he said, staring at the ruby waters and floating rose petals, “should be a river of spilled fighting blood. Not used to represent egregious lovers’ cards or cutout hearts . . . or for this insipid pool of yours.”

  Eros rose to his father’s bitter challenge. “Do not forget, Ares, that you’ve found recent need of my abilities.”

  His father arranged his face into a bored, bland expression. “And how goes your work with the Spartans?”

  “I’ve secured my operative’s position within their camp,” Eros replied in a strong voice. “A veritable Trojan horse, no less. Even you would be impressed . . . were I inclined to reveal my soldier’s identity.”

  A visible tremor coursed down his father’s spine. “You have done this? You, my son?”

  My son. How like Ares to offer such a paltry crumb of affection. If the war god needed something, all his cruelty burned away, an early frost beneath the rays of his sudden sunlight.

  After too many years of experience, Eros had become immune. “You came to me with this alliance,” he said. “You must have believed me capable.”

  Ares inclined his head demurely. “But of course. Now tell me of this ‘operative.’ ”

  “I don’t think I shall reveal my full strategy or the name of my associate,” Eros said, floating onto his back. “But know this, father: I have infiltrated the Spartan’s inner sanctum, vaulted past Leonidas’s wards—and placed one inside who possesses a vicious agenda of her own. It only remains for me to activate her, and that time is almost at hand.”

  Ares knelt beside the water’s edge, greedy and desperate. “You said she was inside their camp.”

  Eros spread his hands at his side, relaxed, calm. “Patience, god. Time and my own amorous skill shall win your battle.”

  “I do not have the luxury of time!” Ares thundered, forming a fist against his chest. “That warrior Aristos carries my own power within his body. I demand its return now.”

  “Is nine more days too long to bear? After several millennia of toying with those valiant fighters, surely a few more hours are tolerable?”

  A slow, wicked smile spread across his father’s face. “I believe I can wait. And at the end of that span?”

  “Their unity will be shattered. The mortals and Spartans at war with one another . . . and Aristos Petrakos a dead man. Or powerless, to say the very least.”

  Ares stood tall, beaming his approval. “You have done well, my son. Continue in this plan of yours.”

  Eros dove into the water, wishing that he shared in his father’s joy at what he had unleashed.

  “You want me to ride in this metallic carriage?” Juliana eyed the vehicle warily. They’d called it a Jeep, explaining that it belonged to Shay.

  Women in this era truly carried more authority, which pleased Juliana immensely, even if th
e mode of transport intimidated her somewhat.

  She stroked the machine’s doors appreciatively. “How fast are you able to urge this conveyance?”

  Shay cast her a wary glance. “I’ll go slow. Promise.”

  Slow? If Juliana took this vehicular risk at all, she preferred the idea of going very, very fast, the wind from the open top rushing through her hair. She reached up and unfastened the clips that held her locks in place, smiling devilishly.

  “No need for caution, ladies,” she announced, summoning her confidence. “I love new experiences. In fact, I’m quite modern that way.”

  After some discussion, with the group trying to seat her in the back of the carriage, Juliana settled beside Shay, in the front. She couldn’t help being amazed that a woman could drive herself—much less her friends—and in such a newfangled form of transportation.

  “Buckle up,” Shay advised, reaching to fasten the harness about Juliana’s torso.

  “Is the Jeep truly so swift that I must be confined?”

  Emma leaned forward from the backseat, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “Maybe you should close your eyes.”

  Juliana faced forward. “Eyes open, ladies,” she disagreed. “I am unafraid.”

  Those words were barely out of her mouth before she instantly regretted them. And began to panic, feeling for the door handle, hoping to escape the blasted thing. Shay swerved to a jerking stop; Juliana snapped forward against the buckled belt, hating the constraint.

  Shay turned to her sharply. “You cannot ever, ever open the door while I’m driving,” she warned, blue eyes blazing. “It’s totally dangerous.”

  Juliana began shaking, and hated—absolutely despised—the fact that her eyes welled with tears. In fact, she didn’t understand the reaction. She’d always been the first in her whole family to embrace anything new. Her sister, Ruth, had always been concerned with propriety and social standing—worried that anything she did might reflect poorly on their family. Their younger brother, Edward, had been even more reserved, in large part due to his deafness, therefore living in his own world most of the time.

  Perhaps the cautious nature of her siblings was the reason Juliana felt so compelled to forge ahead, living boldly, loving freely. Hardly the opinions of a social conservative in the 1890s and certainly not appropriate for a woman.

  Juliana had never cared about, or given heed to, the town gossips and the way they tittered, ridiculing her behavior and opinions. Her own path had been that of independence, whether in owning her town house at the age of twenty-two, or refusing to marry when many young suitors had been thrust in her path. And of course, she’d supported women’s voting rights, even when several of her social peers had ostracized her for it. But her father had always doted on her, preventing her mother from reining in Juliana’s freedoms. An immigrant from Greece, he’d made his own fortune in America and didn’t believe in following social traditions like Mama had.

  “Juliana, are you cool? Or do you need to sit here another minute?” Shay asked, drumming her fingers on the wheel, a musical sound. It was also an impatient gesture that no woman would ever have been “allowed” to display in Juliana’s own time, not without seeming appallingly rude.

  “Are women now able to vote?” she asked suddenly, curious about this newfound power the female gender seemed to wield. “Just as they can apparently drive themselves in ‘Jeeps’ like yours?”

  Shay smiled. “Sweetie, we vote, we work . . .”

  Sophie leaned forward from the backseat. “Girl, we can rule the US of A if we win enough support—and we can have hot, sultry sex without anybody stopping us.”

  Juliana felt her face flush. “I suppose . . . he would have to be willing. The man, I mean.”

  Sophie looped a thin arm about Juliana’s shoulder. “We can also do whatever it takes to get a man willing, by, let’s just say, inspiring him.” Sophie waggled her eyebrows. “Know what I mean? With how we dress, what we say . . . And nobody’s going to criticize us for that, for being strong and sexy. Or force us into ten pounds of clothing just to hide the truth of what we are.”

  Juliana faced forward, drawing in a breath. “Since all of that is true, then I should certainly be able to ride in this modern carriage,” she announced, lifting her chin resolutely. But then she had a much more calming thought. “However, might Aristos accompany us on this excursion as well?”

  Shay glanced sideways at her. “Would that make it less scary for you?”

  Juliana gaped back, aghast. “I am not frightened!”

  “Of course you’re not, Auntie.” Shay giggled. It was a ridiculous title, even if true. Juliana was fairly certain that, despite the years between them, her renewed body was at least several years physically younger than Shay’s.

  “I’ll call Ari,” Emma said, flipping open a sleek apparatus. Juliana remembered Aristos shoving something much like it into her hand the night before, when Emma had still been channeling her spirit.

  Emma lifted the device to her ear and then apparently began talking with Ari. “Okay, back in a sec,” she said, then folded the unit in half.

  “Is that like a telegraph? You can actually speak to him from here?”

  Shay began driving—much more slowly—back up the long drive to the main house. Juliana did her level best to relax, grateful when she saw Ari. She smiled, realizing he’d been standing there watching ever since their departure. He’d never even gone back into the house, obviously waiting until her vehicle vanished from his sight.

  Emma noticed, too. “Look, he’s still on the steps.” She sighed dreamily. “He really loves you, Juliana.”

  Juliana sank back against the seat, sighing, too. “He loves me.”

  Despite everything, how I hurt him, he is still able to love me.

  “He still loves me,” she repeated.

  Emma leaned closer, looking her directly in the eye. “Sweetie, he never stopped loving you. Never.”

  Juliana studied Ari’s broad-shouldered form, and tears suddenly prickled her eyes at an unexpected thought. With the overcast gloom, and the storm subsiding, she thought of what it must have been like for him the day after she died. How it must have been a morning much like this one.

  “I will do anything in my power to take his pain away,” she murmured. “I broke him, and I know it. But now . . . I’m going to put all those pieces back together again. I’m going to mend his heart by making him understand how much I love him.”

  Except, she fretted, some things never could be perfectly restored. Like when she’d torn her mother’s strand of water pearls. Their jeweler spent many careful hours re-stringing them, but the necklace never fell quite the same way along her bodice again.

  She prayed only that Ari’s heart would prove more resilient.

  Chapter 19

  Sable followed Sophie from a distance as she darted out of Starbucks. No way would he get careless when other Daughters of Delphi might be roaming downtown Savannah. He concealed himself as thoroughly as possible, although even that would be no match for Sophie’s spiritual sight if she focused it on him.

  He followed her down Broughton Street, watching her swing her arms and whistle. Why did the freakish girl always seem so . . . happy? It was downright unnatural. He trotted lightly in her wake and then frowned when he noticed that Spartan Aristos coming out of the coffee shop. The warrior had his hand linked with that of a female, and not just any woman, either. He was with that obnoxious little society spirit, the one that he always saw lurking around Sophie’s home. Interestingly enough, he noted, that female was completely material and corporeal now.

  He halted, smiling at his cousin’s fine handiwork. “So you did it, Layla,” he muttered to himself admiringly. “You managed to fulfill your promise to that polite wench. Well done.”

  The triumph of evil was always worth cheering about—and watching its effect had always been his sporting pastime. So he should’ve been gloating in victory at his Djinn cousin’s success; instead, a dis
concerting twinge of concern shot through his chest. For if Layla had infiltrated the Spartans’ midst, she might wish to harm Sophie or those she cared about.

  No! he raged at himself. Sophie deserves whatever suffering Layla can inflict. She’s a mortal, born to suffer, bred to die, birthed for torture . . . by my kind.

  He stomped a back hoof furiously, switching his tail, but still couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that overcame him about Sophie’s potential endangerment.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He spun a turn, cursing himself a fool for having let Sophie out of his sights for even a moment.

  “Sneaky little bitch, aren’t you?” he growled back at her, working his face into a brutal, cruel mask.

  She rolled her eyes, waving him off with a light, brazen laugh. “Oh, puh-lease, just stop with that stuff.”

  He palmed one of his horns, cocking his head. She confounded him, always. “You should be afraid of me,” he cautioned.

  “Yeah? Well just keep telling yourself that, Sable.” She walked much closer, grazing a hand near several of the horned protrusions that still littered his side. “If you’d stop barking at me all the time, I could probably get rid of the rest of these suckers.” She placed a fingertip on one of the sharp ends and said gently, “I know how bad they hurt, so just stay still.”

  He sidestepped out of her reach. “Don’t do that,” he snarled.

  With every spike that she’d healed before, she’d literally absorbed his suffering into her own empath’s body. Ever since that night, he’d been unable to forget that image—of her crying as she touched his hot, tortured form, literally feeling his pain.

  She stood now, one hand still extended, as if half surprised that he’d stepped out of her reach. He trotted closer. “Just . . . don’t touch the horns, Sophie,” he said simply.