by C M Thorne
She hurried back into the kitchen and made eye contact with him as she stepped around him. “You don’t have to worry about him, you know?” Ilsa spoke softly as she put the apple pies into the free oven.
“Pardon?” Oskar looked away from his son.
“I know about his,” she paused as she righted herself and closed the oven, “fling, or whatever he’s considering it, with Sonia. They have been discreet, but I see a lot more than people think I do.”
“Indeed,” Oskar nodded.
Ilsa glanced up at him. “He wouldn’t jeopardize this family,” she answered curtly. “He has lost a lot over the years and he wouldn’t risk losing more.”
“Tell me if you ever have any worries, cousin.” Oskar lightly patted her shoulder and turned back towards the others. “We all need to work together, as I suspect we are entering troubling times.”
CHAPTER 4: REKINDLING THE FIRES OF OLD
CARMEN GUERRERO HATED being summoned by the others. She avoided them at all costs. As the times had changed, they had grown soft and useless. Most of her family had faded away, forsaking the very parts of themselves that granted them power and life. Those that were left were no better. They were all close to death. Carmen longed to give it to some of them, but that would not help her. There was protection in having members of her family left, even if they could no longer remember how to use their power for anything beyond serving their insignificant needs. At least they still met in their old war encampment for such meetings.
The large chamber in the Santa Maria volcano was hotter than any mortal could withstand, but it was nothing to gods, especially one such as Carmen. This was her home. She held authority over the monstrous earthen homes of both destruction and new life. Her blood seemed to sing as she took a moment to close her eyes and enjoy the pulsating power of the volcano as the lava churned below. “Carmen?” a voice interrupted her moment of quiet introspection.
She opened her eyes and leveled her gaze on Thiago, her cousin. He was wearing dark slacks with a white button-up, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His skin was paler than he usually appeared, and his full dark hair and trimmed beard were peppered with white and silver streaks. Carmen wondered why he was appearing so aged and pale. Was this just his current face for the mortals, or was he really weakening that badly? “Is everyone here?” Carmen asked finally.
“We are just waiting on you,” Thiago answered flatly and motioned towards the opening in the cavern wall, which led to a smaller, darker cave. They had made a great stone table for the room with ornate stone thrones hundreds of years ago. The others were all sitting in their respective seats, lounging against overly fluffed pillows that had been added to make the thrones more comfortable. Carmen’s black heels echoed over the walls as she strolled over to her throne, caramel brown eyes looking over the members of her family and the families of the south that had joined them nearly two hundred years ago. She picked up the crimson pillow place on her seat and tossed it to the ground, before lifting up the skirt of her shimmering black and red dress, perching on the edge of the cold stone seat.
The twins, Carlos and Javier, sat on opposite ends of the long table from each other. They had decided to share power over the family when their father had died, not that Carlos really allowed his brother’s darker ways to come through. Carmen remembered the days when she and her cousin would wreak havoc on the others and on humanity, but she had always been the one to be punished, not him. No, Javier was royalty. He was always forgiven. Carmen had stopped trying to spend any time with her family, much less getting into trouble with them. She kept her predilections to herself nowadays, operating in the shadows and cleaning up after herself.
Carlos held up his hand and everyone looked to him. “Word has spread that the Greeks have lost their monarch and their sun god. Their family believes they were murdered. Many of the others are seeing this as an act of war and rumors are now flying that lines are being drawn.” He looked around at the three families as he spoke, dark eyes watching their reactions. “I want us to consider keeping away from whatever is brewing, rather than engaging and throwing our once great families into a potentially devastating war.”
Ignacio Montero, the southern family’s true patriarch, cleared his throat as he adjusted his coppery tie. “Is that wise?” his voice was deep and gravelly, slowly releasing each word with careful precision. “Who is to say war will not come to us?”
“As it often has,” Alejandro Prieto added. He was sitting next to Carmen and she was surprised by the input from the quiet man. He was typically soft spoken and willing to put up with just about anything. She looked at the heavier set man, marveling at the honey golden color of his eyes before the conservation moved on.
“Does that mean we should rush off to war instead?” Carlos asked, frustration obvious in his voice.
“Perhaps,” Javier’s booming deep voice interrupted whoever had started to speak, “we should consider new allies with another pantheon. If we want to survive, I mean.” He nodded his head and looked back to his brother with his warm brown eyes. Carmen watched the man as he pushed back his tangle of black curls away from his face, stomach tightening as she longed for the old days with the powerful god.
“What allies would you have us consider, brother?” Carlos sat back against his throne, as his eyes narrowed and his jaw set.
“Our brethren to the north are perhaps a touch too peaceful, but they have power and warriors that should not be overlooked,” Javier offered, no emotion betraying his face or his tone. Carmen had to look away from him. She felt a fire within her awaken for the god of death as his voice washed over her. She had not been with one she could not break in so long. Humans were fragile and fun, but it did not compare.
“There are the Egyptians to consider,” Santino Prieto chimed in. Carmen looked to the god, whose own darkness and ruggedness rivaled Javier’s. She was not sure what was coming over her as she looked to the dark golden skinned man. He was wearing a tight, long-sleeved black shirt, which highlighted just how fit he kept all of his forms. The fire and hunger within her grew and she found herself clutching the edge of her throne.
Carmen looked down to her hands, which had begun to glow and press into the thick stone. The dark stone was turning red, softening beneath her hands. She needed a release of power or something more. She flipped her warm, dark brown hair over her shoulder and looked to Carlos, who always had a way of quenching the fire within her. He opened his mouth to talk about something else, but she could not hear his words. The pounding hum of the lava beneath her filled her ears and she got up from her seat and walked back out into the larger cavern.
She walked over to the edge and felt the heat rise inside her, making her skin and her eyes glow with golden red heat. She reached out with her power and spurned the lava into action, causing the molten rock to churn, dance, and splash around, getting closer to the edge. Someone had come up behind her, but she paid no attention, trying to release some of the pent-up energy and power that radiated off of her.
“Carmen!” A deep voice yelled out behind her. “What do you think you are doing?”
She ignored whoever it war, causing a large arch of lava to jet upwards, flashing before her eyes before splashing back down into the churning, fiery energy down below. “Chantico!” the voice behind her bellowed, using her ancient name. Her true name. Her concentration was broken and she turned towards the source of the voice. Carlos was several feet away from her, face flushed and angry.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She heaved a breath and looked away from him. “Isn’t it better that I do this, instead of fighting with you in front of the others?”
“Carmen!” Carlos’ voice rose once more. “Fall in line! It’s time for us to figure out what we are going to do about the state of t-”
Carmen turned on her heels, darting forward and lifting the god up, allowing her power to surge through her body. In less than the time it took to exhale, she tossed Carlos
towards the lava, as she made a wave rise to meet him. He sunk into the fiery rock with pained screams and she felt the fire within her ease off, quenching it with a bit of aggression. Javier stepped out of the shadows on the tunnel to the other room and shook his head at her.
“What?” She shrugged, walking back towards him and the other room. “He will be fine.”
CHAPTER 5: WANDERER OF THE SEA
MARC HALLORAN DID not come home often. His sea-foam blue eyes scanned the harbor just as the ferry pulled into Dublin. It had been years since he had set foot on Irish soil, and his stomach clenched and knotted in anticipation. He ran a hand through his dusty cinnamon hair and sighed, breath billowing out white around him. Marc pulled his navy blue coat around him and tried to settle his nerves. His children were expecting him. He could not turn and leave. He had stayed away for as long as he could. Now the family was potentially threatened and they would not let him hide away.
He reached out with his mind and felt the grouping power of the far-flung branches of their family coming together in the ancient city. His true family had lived on the bay long before any humans had settled there in a time that he could barely remember. Most of his family was dead now. To gather their power, they had reached out to their relations in Scotland, Whales, and Brittany. Even in striking that alliance, there wasn’t even twenty of them now. They were weak. If the bloody times of the Old Wars were upon them again, Marc wasn’t sure what his family would do.
He had received a fire message from his daughter, Ailís. He had been on a lobster boat off the northeast coast of America when small flame flashed in front of his face, burning the book he had been reading. A singed piece of parchment paper floated down a scrawled message telling him that the Greeks had lost their king and their sun god. The message told, rather than asked him to come home.
The choppy, cold waters of the Irish Sea comforted him as the ferry pulled into the docks. He knew they would have hunted him down if he had not answered, so he told his daughter that he would return. He had used the sea to find the ferry headed to Dublin, materializing on the deck just as the city came into view. Marc had not wanted to appear directly in the city. He needed to collect his thoughts before facing everyone, and no place was better to do that than the sea.
He had to admit that he had missed Ireland. He had missed his family, but the sea always called him away. Marc could not stay on land for long. As the city came closer, he scratched his trimmed beard, which he had allowed to grey to reflect his apparent age. He was meant to be fifty-three, or was it fifty-four? He had honestly forgotten. He often had mortals telling him he looked closer to forty, so he had willed his beard to gray. It took conscious thought to allow the fine, weathered lines to appear at the corners of his eyes, around his mouth and across his forehead.
The ferry docked and he sighed deeply again, facing the music and disappearing from his spot on the railing. He materialized on the front lawn of the brick manor house his family kept outside of the city. He crunched up the gravel driveway and the large black door of the manor swung open before he could reach it. His petite second daughter, who currently used the name Neasa, pranced down the front steps and hurried over to him, long golden hair streaming out behind her. Despite being nearly a foot and a half taller than her, his daughter jumped up and encompassed him in strong hug, causing him to stumble back.
“Da,” Neasa breathed out against his chest. “It’s been donkey’s years, da. You can’t stay away. How are you?” she slipped back down, holding his arms in her small hands and looked up at him with her sky blue eyes.
“Grand.” Marc smiled with closed lips. “And you, a stór?” He used an old Gaelic name, calling her his treasure, as he had done for hundreds of years.
She grinned and took his left hand, practically pulling him into the house. “Tings have been alright,” she answered happily, voice more accented than his now. He had been away longer than he realized. “Shipping company and the property holdings are all faring just fine. Some of the farms were in need of love so we came about broke even. Not bad all in all.”
He smirked as she pulled him up the steps to the door, which was still open. “Not what I meant, a stór. How are you?”
She swung the door closed behind them as they stepped into the lavish foyer. She grinned at him and answered, “Well, I am better with you home, da.” She pulled him down the hall between the two sweeping staircases that led upstairs and down past other rooms to the renovated great room, which was open to the large chef’s kitchen. Many were already gathered there, including his other two daughters who were standing near the kitchen island sipping at dark glasses of wine. His youngest, currently named Kiera, set down her wine and came over, enveloping him in a lighter hug than Neasa’s.
“Long time, da,” she smiled up at him, her stone grey eyes trailing over his face. She was not but an inch taller than Neasa and with paler golden hair. Kiera was undeniably the greater beauty, though any mortal would find all three of them among the most gorgeous creatures ever beheld.
“Aye, tis that, mo mhuirnín,” he kissed her forehead, after calling her his sweetheart. “Too long,” he added, looking to his eldest as Kiera stepped away from him.
Ailís had her pale fiery hair braided back away from her face and she was busying herself arranging food on the counter. Her bright green eyes kept flicking over to look at him, but she made no move to hug or greet him directly. He stepped closer to her and held out his arms at his sides. “A leanbh,” he spoke softly. “Forgive me for being gone too long. I won’t do it again.”
She looked to him again, holding her gaze and uncrossing her arms. “Athair,” she held out her arms and let him walk up to hug her properly. He knelt a little, bringing his massive frame closer to her petite one, despite being the tallest of his daughters.
“Hey, da,” he heard his son’s voice and turned to see him. He wasn’t his natural born son, but he looked it. Liam was nearly as tall as Marc, with short fiery gold hair and bright blue eyes. He came forward quickly and wrapped his arms around Marc before he could move..
“Good to see you, mac,” he called the man son, embracing him back.
Liam let him go and went back over to the petite woman he had been standing next to. Marc did not recognize the shorter lass with a tangle of big curly fiery red hair. He stepped forward, opening him mouth to address her, when she beat him to it. “Marc! Long time, hun!” She gave him a quick hug, barely giving him time to react. He was caught off caught by the Southern American accent that the goddess was sporting. “How are you, darlin’? We must catch up!”
“Um,” he looked to his son, who just looked amused. He recognized her energy, but her form was unfamiliar.
“Oh dear!” She laughed looking between the two gods, realization dawning on her face. “I go by Ellen Howell now, hun. Been over in the states for about a century and a half. Texas has been my home for a long time as well. Couldn’t help but adapt.” She shrugged and smiled at him.
It dawned on him that little Ellen was Rhiannon, the Welsh goddess of horses and enchantment. He could feel her power then, emanating off of her in an old, but most familiar way. “You’ve changed with the times, lass. Good on you.” He smiled at her with closed lips, feeling awkward for not having recognized her.
“You have too, in your own way,” she nodded to him. “We all must if we are to survive.”
“Indeed,” a man sitting on one of the plush couches in the great room responded, raising a glass of wine in salute. His accent was noticeably French and Marc turned to see Alan Le Pen, from what he considered to be more distant cousins watching the interaction with deep, mossy green eyes.
“Alan,” Marc nodded to him.
He sat up more, bowing his head slightly. “Pleasure to see you, as always.” Alan flipped his chestnut brown hair as he sat back against the couch and lightly hit the chest of the man sitting next to him. Marc did not recognize the man’s current form, but knew him as Alan’s brother, Veteris.
The strong man had his long dark brown hair pulled back simply against the nape of neck and his impossibly dark green eyes scanned the room cautiously in between glancing at Marc. “Veteris,” Marc acknowledged him.
“C’est Neven maintenant,” he spoke in his Breton accented French, bowing his head.
“Neven, then,” Marc’s lips twitched into a half smile, casting a glance as Neasa. His daughter suppressed a laugh, glancing away and taking a long gulp of her wine. “Where are your parents and your sister?” Marc addressed Alan, more than Neven as every word Neven spoke seemed to pain him and he did not want to watch the poor man suffer through an answer.
“Should be along any minute,” Alan answered with a flippant wave of his free hand.
Marc nodded and looked around. Ellen’s other immediate family were sitting in armchairs across the room. Gareth, a big, strong tree of man, sat perched on the edge of the chair, as if he was afraid his full weight would crush the furniture. His thick, brassy curls hung wild around his shoulders, a contrast to his well-trimmed and oiled beard. Marc knew Gareth did not spend much time around mortals, but he was surprised to see his startling golden eyes stare down at the chair with caution. He caught his attention and nodded to him.
In the chair next to him was Catrin. He had seen her most recently. Not ten years had passed since he had seen her in Nova Scotia. Catrin Howell was a business woman, running Howell Industries for her family. She had smooth, thick fiery gold hair and gem green eyes. She was currently wearing a silky, azure blue blouse and a smart white pantsuit. She looked at Marc with a look that he could only describe as hungry. She was one of the only reasons he came to port in the past hundred years or so. Their affair was all passion and lust, rarely doing much more than being physically intimate. He winked at her and turned as he felt three others pop into the house near the door. He noticed Alan’s parents and sister walk down the hall, laughing amongst themselves about whatever had transpired between them.
