Devlin’s gaze flashed to Anna, who was apparently descended from the personification of the rainbow, a magical creature who also served as the messenger of the gods. Which explained both the color and the visions.
Turning his gaze back to Anna—and to the stream of gold light emanating from her brush—Aeolus said, “Indeed.”
“Wait. Aren’t the Harpies Iris’s sisters?” Chrys asked, eyeing Anna as if he were seeing her for the first time. It made Devlin want to step between them, even as he realized where Chrys’s question was coming from—the Harpies had attacked the Anemoi less than a week ago at the Rock of Gibraltar, badly injuring Boreas and Chrys.
Zeph nodded. “Yeah, but there’s no lost love there. Never has been. Which—son of a bitch—might be very good news for us.”
“How do you figure?” Owen asked, crossing his arms. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Because Iris can control the Harpies. And if she’s willing to intercede with them on our behalf, we might be able to cost Eurus an important ally.” Zeph’s smile was the first he’d seen from the god. Maybe ever.
“When we’re done here, Zephyros, tell her about Anna and make the request,” Aeolus said. “This is damn good news. About time.”
“I will. There’s another energy here, though. And I don’t recognize it.” General murmurs of agreement followed Zeph’s words.
Devlin agreed. Someone else was responsible for her control over light and dark, but who? “Perhaps Iris can tell us that, too,” he said.
Zeph’s gaze narrowed, but then he nodded. “Could be.” A loud crack of thunder, still some distance from them, punctuated the silence. “With all of us together, this weather’s going to escalate. How long will this take?”
In the Realm of the Gods it was a different story, but here on Earth, the longer multiple Cardinal Anemoi congregated in one place, the more the elements from their respective realms competed and collided. While he’d heard that was true, Devlin had never seen the results of such a thing firsthand before, since he and his father never spent any time with the other Anemoi. On Earth or in the heavens. “The one I saw her do earlier today took maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Storm will be damn close to catastrophic if we stay together much longer than that,” Chrys said, looking at Aeolus. “You might need to rein it in.”
Aeolus nodded.
“Devlin?” came Anna’s voice, almost breathy now.
He returned to her side. “Yes? Hell, Anna, are you okay?”
Face bright red from exertion, sweat-dampened hair matted to the sides of her face, she looked like she’d been doing manual labor all day. “There’s another one. After this. There’s more.”
Protectiveness surged through him, and he leaned around her to try to make eye contact. “There’s another image you have to paint tonight?”
“Yes,” she whispered. A tear spilled from her eye.
“How can I help?” he asked, catching the drop on his finger. Her shoulders lifted in the barest of shrugs. His gaze ran over her face as concern filled his gut. At this pace, she was going to run herself right into the ground, especially if the second image was as demanding as this. And, damnit, it had been hours since she’d eaten.
Gods, Devlin hated little more than the feeling of helplessness. There had to be something he could do.
A memory flashed into his mind’s eye from the first night he’d seen her, the night she’d painted the awful supercell thunderstorm and then the amazingly vivid portrait of the autumn trees. She’d worn her hair up in a knot secured with two paintbrushes.
Devlin glanced at her long hair, flowing down her back and sticking to her face and neck. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to do what she’d done to it. But his hair was just long enough to tug into a short knot on the back of his head when he couldn’t stand it in his face anymore, so at the very least he could get it up off her neck.
But with what?
Surveying her worktable, he found two loose rubber bands lying near a pile of brushes. He grabbed one and stepped behind her.
Not caring in the slightest that the other men were staring at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head, he gathered her hair into his hands. Her breath caught as if the touch surprised her. “Just trying to make you more comfortable,” he said. As he collected the long strands into a ponytail, he realized how soaked the hair underneath was. In fact, the back of her shirt was damp with her sweat. What the hell were these visions doing to her?
Devlin pressed the back of his hand to her bare neck, and her skin was hot, almost feverish. With a few last movements of his hand, he finished collecting her soft, silky hair and secured the band to hold it up. Then he slipped the length of her hair over her shoulder, leaned in, and blew a cool stream of the East Wind against the long, elegant column of her neck.
The moan of pleasure she unleashed reached inside Devlin’s body and grabbed his heart. “Thank you,” she said, and then she leaned back enough to press her face to his. The touch jolted him from the inside out, heating his blood and arousing his body. And then she was gone, pulled back to serve the magic.
An ecstatic rush of gratitude and satisfaction flooded through him. He’d been able to help and relieve her, even if only a little. The little reward of affection was maybe the sweetest thing anyone had ever done to him, or for him. And he couldn’t believe he’d resisted her earlier efforts to share herself with him. What a fucking idiot you are.
“Devlin, do you know where that is?” Aeolus asked, interrupting his thoughts and pointing at the painting.
Anna had finished most of the background now, and it appeared to be a massive, ancient bookshelf filled to the brim with boxes and chests of all different colors and materials. Plain wood, molded silver, cast iron. Something about it beckoned a memory from deep, deep in his past. “It’s familiar, but I can’t place it,” Devlin said.
The closer she got to finishing the painting, the more rapt her work held everyone’s attention. And most of all Devlin’s—after all, the painting was of his future.
Finally, she had everything done but the very center, the thing his painted alter ego was holding or reaching for. Before all of their eyes, it came to life. An ornate golden skeleton key.
Collective gasps echoed around the room, and realization slammed into Devlin’s brain. “Eurus’s study. That’s his—”
“—lantern key,” Aeolus said.
“Sonofabitch. If we could get our hands on that, it would be game over,” Chrys said. Every one of the twenty-four total Anemoi—Cardinal, Ordinal, and Inter-Ordinal alike—was represented in a massive compass rose inlaid in the floor of the Hall of the Winds in Aeolus’s compound. At each directional point around the compass, a locked lantern containing a glowing ball of the god’s divine energy sat installed in the floor. Each of the gods placed his energy there upon ascending to his wind, and upon death, his light automatically extinguished. And each god possessed the single key that could unlock his lantern, because if anyone accessed and consumed the energy within, they would automatically become the new master of that wind, essentially stealing the divine energy from the existing god.
Anna’s painting depicted Eurus’s key.
The key to the East Wind. A hard gust whipped against the sides of the barn as another, closer clap of thunder rang out.
“The key’s hidden in one of the boxes on that shelf,” Devlin said, the threads of a childhood memory weaving together. “Of course, pick the wrong box and unleash a variety of booby traps, curses, or unluckiness. I’m meant to retrieve it, then.” Which made the trip he’d already planned to the Eastern Realm about a hundred times more important and twice as risky. Because last he knew, the dungeon where Alastor was likely imprisoned was nowhere near Eurus’s chambers.
When no one spoke, he glanced over his shoulder. And found a series of grim expressions. Rain poured in a steady drumbeat against the metal roof.
Devlin frowned. “This is good news, isn’t it?”
/>
“The general location of the key? Yes,” Aeolus said. “That you—or any of us—must go there? Absolutely not.”
“It’s a fucking death sentence,” Chrys said.
“For you, probably. Not for me.” At least he hoped. Not that Devlin thought it’d be a cakewalk, either. Eurus now knew he’d been working with Aeolus, so no doubt there were all kinds of special presents waiting for Devlin should he try to go home. But he’d spent an eternity learning some of his own tricks in dealing with his father’s incantations, so he had a fighting chance.
Besides, who else could go if not him?
Chapter Eleven
As Owen watched Anna put the finishing touches on her painting, she dropped her brush to the floor and swayed. Owen dashed toward her, but Devlin was right there and caught her in his arms.
“Whoa, dizzy,” she said against a backdrop of rolling thunder and a pounding gust of wind.
“I’ve got you,” Devlin said, holding her against his chest and leaning down to peer in her eyes. And that was the moment Owen knew for sure that Devlin Eston was nothing like his evil father. The god’s expression, body language, and careful hold of Anna radiated concern, affection, attraction, protectiveness, and possessiveness. As far as Owen had ever seen, Eurus was only capable of the last of those emotions, and Devlin had been on the receiving end of it, if those scars and tattooed bands on his wrists meant what Owen suspected they meant.
Though some gods bore marks as part of their divinity, tattoos of the human variety were rare because the body would heal the wound created by the needles and thus expel the ink. There was only one exception to this rule—if the tattoo was done by a superior god. Which meant someone more powerful than Devlin had put those black bands around his wrists, not something many superior gods would deign to do without a very special reason—or wanting to make a very particular point.
And hell if those bands didn’t look a whole lot like handcuffs.
Given that Eurus was likely already responsible for the death of one son and rumored to torture the other one, it wouldn’t surprise Owen at all to learn that Devlin had also been on the receiving end of Eurus’s belief that he owned him, and therefore could do whatever in Hades he wanted.
“Just a little hungry,” she said, pushing against Devlin’s chest.
He held her tighter and stroked her hair. “Just rest a minute,” he said, then his gaze scanned the other gods. “She needs food and water. Would, um, one of you—”
“I’ll go. Might help calm down the weather, too. You in?” Owen asked, looking at Chrys. While things in their world were so volatile, they’d agreed not to go anywhere solo.
“Always,” Chrys said, and they disappeared.
In the elements, they shot several miles down the road they’d soared in over earlier toward a grouping of stores Owen had seen.
Devlin’s not like his father, Owen said.
I’m getting the same vibe, man. Not with the way he cares about Anna. Pause. You okay? Chrys asked.
Yeah, Owen said, Anna’s painting flashing into his mind’s eye. Gods be damned but seeing that moment from the outside had been like living through it all over again. Part of the reason Owen had only been too happy to bug out of there for a little while—trying to hold everything in felt as if he’d swallowed crushed glass. But losing his shit wouldn’t help anyone either.
A few moments later, they materialized outside a store. “Dude, I could eat, too,” Chrys said.
“Well, then,” Owen said, opening the door. “Welcome to the human junk food mecca known as the convenience store.”
“Ooh, my favorite.” Chrys grabbed a handheld basket and waggled his eyebrows when Owen arched a brow at it. “What? I don’t know what she likes, so we need to get a bunch of stuff.”
“Uh-huh.”
Five minutes later, chips, pretzels, granola bars, a package of chocolate cupcakes, and several types of soda filled the basket. “Yo, look,” Chrys said, pointing at a freezer case full of ice cream.
“I’m good, thanks.” Owen couldn’t eat right now if he had to.
Chrys’s gaze narrowed. “I have never known you to turn down ice cream. Seriously.” When Owen didn’t respond, Chrys opened the door, sucking in a breath as the cold air blasted him, and grabbed several containers.
“Jesus, Chrys,” Owen said, pulling the tubs from his hands and knocking him out of the way. Owen hip-checked the door shut and dumped them in the basket.
“Fuck,” Chrys said, blowing on his palms, bright red from how the icy cold had effectively burned him. “How do you eat that shit?”
Owen shook his head. “Same way you eat anything hot. Go stand by the heat lamp, you idiot.” He nodded toward where a metal hood emanated golden light onto a tray of plump hot dogs.
“Hey, good idea.” Chrys shoved the basket into Owen’s hands, crossed the store, and stuck his hands into the light. A minute later, he returned healed and carrying four long aluminum foil bags. “Hot dogs,” he said with a grin. “You paying?”
“Naturally,” Owen said, drily. Since Owen lived in the human realm, he was probably the only one of them who carried cash.
They returned to Anna’s studio, which was really just a big old barn, mere moments later to find her kneeling on the floor painting. This new painting wasn’t very far along yet.
“Food’s here,” Chrys said.
“Where the hell did you go? China?” Zeph said, yanking the plastic bags from Chrys’s hand.
“Hey, chill. Us being gone calmed the weather down. And one of those hot dogs is mine.”
Zephyros passed the bags to Devlin. “See if you can get her to take a break,” he said, tone serious.
Owen frowned and glanced from the dark expression of concern on Devlin’s face to Anna. Why was she painting on the floor instead of at her easel as she had before?
“Oh,” she said, cupping her hand beneath her face. Droplets of blood spattered her palm, and several had fallen onto a clean part of the canvas on which she painted. Dark red circles bloomed against the white. Anna glanced up, revealing the blood dripping from her nose, the color stark against her fair skin and pale eyes.
Devlin moved instantly, ripping a couple paper towels off a roll on a worktable and kneeling beside her. “Here,” he said.
She pressed the towel to her face. “I’ve never had a nosebleed before.”
Aeolus stepped closer. “You’re wielding a lot of divine energy for a human, Anna. Do you usually tire when you paint?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I, uh, also have a condition that leaves me fatigued.” She slanted a glance at Devlin, whose expression darkened in concern.
“Well, that could be it. Or it could also be that, in our world, special power often comes at a cost. There must be sacrifice for benefit. I fear that’s what is happening here.”
“Using the magic could be doing this to her?” Devlin asked, glancing to his grandfather.
“That’s my best guess,” Aeolus said, sympathy coloring his expression.
Owen’s gut clenched in regret for both Anna and Devlin, because he knew what it felt like to watch the woman he loved have to suffer because of the fighting and warfare among the Anemoi. Megan had just lost her home, her father-in-law, her whole life as she knew it. All the gods in this room had been through this. Ella had been assaulted and thrown to her human death. And Laney had been whipped with Eurus’s lightning, only surviving because of a magical amulet Chrys had given her to wear.
One hand applying pressure to her nose, Anna retrieved her paintbrush in the other and began to paint again. The speed of her brush strokes was several notches beyond manic, and very clearly magical in nature, as was the way colored light flowed and sparkled around her as she worked. Owen had never seen anything like it. The thunder and wind worsened again, the sound loud within the old barn.
Devlin gently dumped out the contents of the grocery bags onto the floor next to Anna’s canvas. “You need to take a break and eat something, An
na.”
“I can’t,” she said, not looking away from where she painted lightning shooting from a series of dark clouds.
“You have to,” he said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He grabbed her arm, making her smear paint across the canvas.
Her gaze cut toward him. “It already hurts,” she said, her gaze part pleading and part steely determination. “My head is killing me. Won’t get better ’til I’m done.” She tossed the bloodied napkin away and pressed her knuckles to her nose, as if testing to see if the bleeding had stopped. A little red colored her fingers, but nothing like before.
Devlin passed her another paper towel that she held to her nose, then scanned the pile of junk food. He grabbed the bag of pretzels, popped it open, and looked at his hands, smudged from whatever had happened to him earlier. He disappeared. Owen barely had time to throw a questioning glance at the others. A few seconds passed and Devlin returned again, his hands clean and wet. He dried them and dumped a few pretzels in his palm.
“Open,” he said, holding the twisted pretzel to her lips. She devoured it instantly. Devlin continued to feed her as she worked, her hunger so pronounced Owen could almost feel it himself. For damn sure, he could see himself in Devlin’s actions, because he’d always worried that Megan had enough to eat, especially when she was pregnant. Seeing Devlin behaving similarly gave Owen more proof the god was fundamentally decent.
Devlin gave her food, held water to her mouth so she could drink, and got her clean paper towels as blood continued to leak from her nose. He rubbed her back and wiped sweat from her eyes. There was so much caring in the god’s actions, Owen almost felt he was violating their privacy.
But the image forming on Anna’s canvas compelled him to stay, to watch, to look. At the center of a great collection of storm clouds were two figures depicted flying in the sky from behind. They weren’t in the foreground of the painting, but in the middle, so the details weren’t very clear. What was clear was that one god—presumably Devlin?—carried another being in his arms, one who appeared unconscious. Or worse.