Finally, she gave in and…he was still there.
Completely still. Blatantly scowling. Totally unfathomable.
Was this a vision? Another image she’d have to paint?
Her heart tripped into a sprint, and she couldn’t look away from him. Like the compulsion that forced her to paint these images, Anna couldn’t help but return his stare and memorize his masculine features. The sharp angles of his face, the harsh set of his mouth, the dark shadows around his even darker eyes. Black eyes. Blades of black hair hung low over his forehead and just touched the hooded shirt he wore under his short, scuffed leather jacket. He’d crossed his arms over his chest, and the position caused his biceps to bunch up under the worn leather. In fact, everything about him appeared worn—the coat, the threadbare jeans, the scuffed boots. None of it struck her as the kind of shabby chic you could buy in some upscale store for a small fortune, either. The whole effect was rough. Dangerous. Deprived.
Deprived? What a strange way of describing him. But as Anna’s gaze swept over him again, the thought stuck. For his height, he seemed thin, with his lean hips, clad in old black jeans, a trim waist, and pronounced cheekbones. Her fingers twitched around the nearly forgotten paintbrush. What would it feel like to cup that harsh face in her hand?
Anna gasped and tore her gaze away. She had to blink to pull herself out of the haze of thoughts. Frustration surged through her and tensed the muscles of her shoulders and neck. She didn’t want to be working on another of these paintings as it was, so the last thing she needed was to lose a bunch of time daydreaming. Or would it be daynightmaring?
As she stared at the blank canvas, the image of the shackled man behind the prison bars filled her mind’s eye.
Definitely the latter.
Curiosity pulled her eyes to the left again. The doorway was empty.
“Just paint the damn thing already, Anna,” she whispered to herself.
And then the painting took over. The colors. The darkness. The brushwork. Layer by layer, the heart-wrenching image came to life. The shackled man appeared thin and weak, so weak that he sat in a heap on the floor, his legs stretched on the stone floor in front of him, his arms suspended above his head by iron cuffs chained to the wall. Dried blood streaked down his arms from his wrists, the skin long abused by the heavy iron. His eyes were open, but only a little, as if lifting his eyelids required more effort than he could make.
When she had the prisoner just right, she turned to the other figure in the painting. The Dark Man had his hands on the bars, as if he were looking in on the prisoner. His back to the viewer, it was impossible to tell exactly what he was doing, but as he took form on the canvas, she felt a sort of urgency emanating from him with every stroke of the brush.
As she worked on the details and the lighting, her arms grew heavy and her body felt sluggish. A good session of painting always made her tired, but it was different with these paintings. They left her feeling drained, as if she’d poured her soul out with the images, leaving herself an empty shell.
Prickles ran over her scalp and neck. Everything about these paintings just made her feel…violated and used.
Finally, Anna lowered her brush. She’d been gripping the wooden handle so tightly her fingertips had gone numb. But she was done.
Her shoulders slumped and she slipped the brush into the cup of water, massaging her right hand with her left.
She stared at the painting for a long moment. How…horrible. Grief and anger became a red-hot pressure in her chest and choked off her throat. She burst out crying.
Despair ripped through her so hard and so suddenly that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand. Grasping her stomach, she folded in on herself until her head and shoulders lay on the worktable. Her mind was such a whirl of distress that she couldn’t think it through, couldn’t reason this reaction, couldn’t make it stop.
Anna had no idea how long she cried, but by the time she managed to push herself up from the table her throat felt raw and her muscles ached from the emotional outpouring.
She scrubbed her face with the front of her T-shirt, then mechanically removed the new painting from the easel and carried it across the room. Gently, she settled it against the others to dry, then stepped back.
Pouring rain pattered on the roof like drumsticks on a snare.
Hugging herself, Anna stared at the evil and horror and torment gazing back at her. “I hate you,” she said, her voice a dry scrape.
“Join the club,” said a deep voice from behind her.
Chapter Four
Owen Winters sat at his grandfather’s large mahogany dining table and tried to remain focused on the conversation his uncles—er, rather, brothers—were having. After millennia of calling them uncle, it was going to take some time to get used to thinking of them in a new way. But now he was one of them. He was a Cardinal Anemoi. Supreme God of the North Wind and Guardian of Winter. The other Anemois’ brother in name and spirit.
He had known the day would come when he would be asked to ascend to this position. He just never thought it would be so soon. Or arise out of such tragedy.
Boreas.
His father. Gone. Murdered in front of his eyes. His life lost protecting Owen’s.
Owen fingered the leather lanyard at his throat, the one that held an ancient iron pendant Megan had given him last Christmas. It had been his father’s—his birth father’s, not Boreas’s. Though, his real father had died before Owen had been old enough to remember him, so Boreas had truly been his father in every way that mattered.
Now he’d lost both of them.
As if the wrenching grief wasn’t enough, guilt weighed down on Owen’s shoulders as if he were still wearing the heavy ceremonial fur robes from the installation rites. Layered on top of this was the soul-deep concern for Megan and Teddy. She was a human, and divine law dictated she could not live in the Realm of the Gods. Hades, she shouldn’t be here at all. Only the chaos of the battle two nights ago and her premature labor pains had convinced Aeolus to allow the humans caught in the crossfire of the battle to travel with them to the heavens. Everything Owen had gone through two years ago to be with Megan, only for their togetherness to be threatened so soon, and while she was pregnant with their second child.
“It appears they’ve both gone to ground,” Aeolus said from his seat at the head of the table. “But I will keep looking.”
His grandfather seemed to have aged in the past few days. Though he appeared as regal as ever with his mane of wavy brown hair, highlighted with gold and bronze, dark circles marred his eyes and frown lines cut into the skin around his mouth. He’d even discarded his usual ceremonial tunic and robe for human-style black fighting gear. Clearly, Boreas’s loss hadn’t affected only Owen.
“No doubt they’ve returned to the Eastern Realm,” the West Wind’s Zeph said, blue eyes flashing. “Only place we can’t easily search for them.” He squeezed Ella’s hand, and she smiled at him. Owen watched them for a long moment, and then his gaze cut across the table to where the South Wind’s Chrysander and Laney sat side by side, their hands also entwined. He was glad that his Anemoi brethren had their mates with them here at Aeolus’s compound. He couldn’t care less whether Olympic law technically permitted the humans’ presence or not. Right now, family had to be held close. None of them could weather another loss like Boreas’s.
Without meaning to, Owen looked at the empty chair beside him. Megan’s chair. Though her labor pains had stopped, she was tired and understandably upset. She’d just lost her father-in-law and had no idea what her husband’s becoming a Cardinal Anemoi meant for their lives. And, really, neither did he.
A hot, hollow ache throbbed at the center of Owen’s chest. He pushed the remains of his lunch away.
“I doubt that,” Aeolus said. “Devlin would return there only if he’d been captured. Eurus’s attack with the Harpies at Gibraltar clearly revealed he knew Devlin was working with me, with all of us.”
Zephyros sat forwar
d and jabbed his finger into the table. “Or Devlin led him there. Remember how he just stood on the rock and watched the attack happen while Boreas was nearly ripped to shreds and Chrysander nearly died of hypothermia? I’d say his loyalties are pretty clear.”
Aeolus’s hand fisted around his napkin. “I swear to Hades, Zephyros. If I say he’s trustworthy, why will you not take me at my word?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Zeph said, throwing up his hands. “Maybe because you have a long track record of secrecy and selective truth-telling? Most recently in failing to admit Eurus had stolen your ring, which left Chrysander to get beaten all to hell all summer, and in keeping this whole thing with Devlin secret from us.”
Owen flinched at Zeph’s brutal honesty, but in truth the relationship between the Anemoi and their storm-god father had long been a strained one. After all, back in ancient times Aeolus had once locked the four winds inside the Rock of Gibraltar and forcibly taken their blood so he could ever after control them. Which was why the loss of that Firestone ring was such a big problem—its wearer controlled the Anemoi, and right now, that wearer was Eurus.
Tension hung thick as cobwebs in the air around them.
Chrysander sighed. “I don’t know what to make of what happened at Gibraltar either, Z, but Devlin did come to Owen’s to warn us about Eurus the other night,” he said, raking the fingers of his free hand through his wavy blond hair. “He didn’t have to do that. In fact, he gained nothing by doing it.”
“True,” Aeolus said, his expression a dark storm, “and if Devlin was guilty of betraying me after weeks of our working together and training, I doubt he would’ve come within striking distance. His powers aren’t honed enough to guarantee he could best me. Yet. It argues to his innocence.”
Zeph scoffed. “Nothing innocent about that boy or any of the gods of the East.” Owen shifted in his chair. Of all of them, the tension and rivalry had always been the worst between Zephyros and Eurus, and Zeph had suffered much at Eurus’s hands as a result. He’d come by his mistrust honestly, so it wasn’t likely Aeolus was going to change his mind.
“Zephyros,” Aeolus said, ice sliding into his tone. “You’d do well to remember that a god of the East will become your successor.”
Tossing his napkin onto his plate, Zeph shook his head. “Like I could ever forget. I told you before I’m going to live forever so I can stay in this position for the rest of eternity just to spite this decision.”
Owen could hardly blame Zeph for his outrage over having Eurus’s son Alastor, an offspring of the eastern god and a goddess of spring, appointed his heir since Zephyros had none of his own. And even now that he’d married, the agreement Zeph had made to save Ella’s life and turn her into a goddess had required him to yield on this question of a successor forever. So much of divine politics was defined by quid quo pro—you had to give something to get something. Always.
Chrys chuckled under his breath, earning a cutting glare from Aeolus.
Laney gasped, and her bright-blue eyes went distant.
“What is it?” Chrys asked, leaning closer to her and tucking a thick strand of her nearly black hair behind her ear. “Laney?” Mere seconds lapsed and she sucked in a breath and blinked her eyes, her fair skin paling. Chrys cupped her cheek in his hand and turned her face toward him. “Another vision?” he asked.
She nodded and whispered, “Yeah.” Over the past two weeks, Laney had captured the attention of Hephaestus, Zeus’s son and the master craftsman of the gods who had long ago been outcast because of his gnarled hands and feet and bent back. He’d apparently admired Laney’s protectiveness and selflessness in several times saving Chrys’s life, despite her being nearly blind. Hephaestus’s interest in Chrys and Laney had earned them all an important ally in the battle against Eurus, first in providing Chrys with several pieces of infernal iron, which could neutralize or harm a god when little else could, and second in providing Laney with the gift of prophetic sight. “I’m…I’m not sure…”
“Just try to describe it,” Chrys said as the other men traded glances. Laney’s ability was still very new and untested, but given their situation with Eurus and how little time they had until he ascended to his season, they were open to any help they could get.
Laney slowly pulled her face out of Chrys’s hand and looked across the table. At Zeph. The disease that had taken her sight had left her a tiny sliver of central vision, but she could also identify the gods because she could perceive an aura of light emanating from their bodies.
“It involved me?” Zephyros asked, his voice carefully casual.
A quick nod, then Laney said, “Yes. I think…someone will be installed as your successor.”
Dread slid down Owen’s spine, and the tension in the air proved he wasn’t the only one. “Why do you think so, Laney?” Owen finally said.
“I see another tall, thin man standing on the big W in a ceremony in the compass rose room,” she rushed out. Ella made a small sound of distress. “I’m sorry,” Laney said. “I could totally be wrong.”
Zephyros put an arm around Ella and hugged her against him. “Don’t worry. Okay?” he said to her. “We don’t know what it means. Or when it might even be taking place.”
Given his mindset, Owen’s brain went right to the worst-case scenario—Zephyros having died and his heir coming to power. And soon, if Laney’s track record was any indication. Good gods, none of them could handle that. Would their losses never end?
Two of Aeolus’s underlings began to clear the table, bringing the conversation to a halt. Owen nodded to the lesser god who removed his dish, then waved him off of the plate holding a salad, some fruit, a fresh roll, and a piece of chocolate cake for Megan.
When the servants departed, Zeph looked at Owen and picked the conversation right back up. “What do you think about this question of Devlin’s loyalty?”
Part of Owen was surprised he’d asked because they’d been tiptoeing around him for the last day and a half. Which meant it was time he got his head in the game and did everything he personally could to make sure Laney’s vision—whether it was about Zeph or anyone else at this table—never came true. “Seems to me that if the guy risked training with Aeolus, let himself be experimented on, and came to warn not only of Eurus’s imminent attack but of Apheliotes’s death, that’s a lot of evidence on the side of him being exactly what Aeolus has been saying he is. It’s worth nailing down one way or the other at the very least.”
“Ah, finally, a voice of reason just like your father always was,” Aeolus said, giving him a nod as he rose. The comment poured pride and sadness through Owen in equal amounts. If he could be half the god Boreas was he’d be doing good. “I’m going back out to search for him. Problem is, drinking from the infernal rivers has masked his natural divine energy signature, so unless he uses his powers in the open, looking for him amounts to searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“Then I’ll come, too,” Zeph said, brushing his hands over his jeans. Aeolus was usually a stickler for formal dress and protocol, but not since they’d returned from the battle. Not since Boreas’s death. “Because I won’t be able to trust Devlin until he does something to earn it right in front of my face.”
“You have to go?” Ella said, coming to her feet beside him.
Threading his fingers into her brown hair, Zeph nodded. “Yes, love. But I’ll be back.”
Chrys stood up next. “Count me in.”
“No, Chrysander,” Aeolus said. “You stay here.”
“But—”
“We have a compound full of humans. We need protection here.”
“Owen’s here,” Chrys said, unleashing a flood of gratitude in Owen’s chest at the other god’s easy confidence in his abilities, new as they were.
“Yes, and he has a pregnant wife and a two-year-old to take care of. Stay, please.”
Chrys sat heavily in his seat, discontent rolling off him.
“I can help next time, too,” Owen managed. “
Megan has Tabitha’s company—”
“And mine,” Ella said.
“Me too,” Laney added.
Owen nodded. “So I can go out, too.”
Aeolus gave a single nod. “Very good,” he said, though Owen noticed he hadn’t actually responded to the offer. But Owen meant it. Every word. He’d do whatever it took to end this once and for all.
“Oh, if I’m not going out, then take this.” Chrys pulled something from his back pocket and handed it across the table to Zephyros. The infernal dagger Hephaestus had given him. “Just in case.”
“Thanks,” Zeph said with a dark smile. “Nice little piece of insurance here.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Chrys said. “I imagine between Eurus’s hand and shoulder, he’s feeling a tad under the weather right now.” The hits Chrys had managed to get in on Eurus during the battle had proven the strength of the infernal iron. As Owen had faced Eurus’s lightning lance in the moment before Boreas threw his body between them, Owen had seen the desiccation of the skin on Eurus’s hand with his own eyes.
With an exchange of glances and nods, Aeolus and Zephyros shifted into the elements and disappeared.
After a moment, Owen rose with the plate of food in his hand. “I’m going to take this to Megan. Grab me if you need me.” He met Chrys’s gaze and almost wished he hadn’t, because the sympathy he saw in the other god’s eyes threatened to pierce right through him.
“You got it,” Chrys said.
“I’ll come by and visit Megan later,” Laney added.
“She’ll love that, I’m sure.” An awkward moment passed, and Owen finally thumbed over his shoulder. “I should go.” He left without giving them a chance to respond.
He passed through long splendorous corridors he barely saw. Muraled ceilings arched over gilded walls and marble floors, but none of it meant a thing to Owen. He didn’t want to be in his grandfather’s most beautiful estate in the Realm of the Gods. He wanted to be back on his little .37-acre lot in his homey Cape Cod in Fairfax, Virginia, with Megan and Teddy.