
Contents
Chapter One
Renata forced the cutting edge of her blade against the war criminal's cheek, just below his eye. The man didn't tremble with fear the way she wished he would---not the way she still trembled when she remembered the explosion. Neither did his cruel mouth quiver the way hers did when she remembered being engulfed in flames. No, the war criminal's expression didn't change.
Even though she held his fate in her hands, he wasn't afraid of her. He was cold, stony and remote---even as she brought her hammer down and drove the sharp chisel into his face, for he was made of marble and knew this was as close as the sculptress would ever dare to come.
In the quiet of her studio, Renata slowly came back to herself. She realized that it was dark; she had been carving with nothing to guide her fingers but moonlight and her own depthless rage. And now her dust-covered hands were shaking. Her mind reeled with memories of the war that had killed her father and little brother. Her throat swelled with grief like it had when her mother was abducted by an enemy soldier. Tears burned beneath Renata's lashes and she knew she had to stop working, if only for a moment. She wiped her eyes with the back of an aching forearm, smearing her cheeks with grit and reminding herself that the war was long over.
It was one of those notoriously hot summer nights in New York City, and Renata's unruly tresses were already coiled with perspiration, wet against her neck. Her cotton tank top clung damply to the small of her slender back, perspiration tickling the scars along her spine. It was sweltering.
Renata considered turning on the air conditioner, but she hoped the heat might bring her pet snake from its hiding place. The snake could be anywhere amidst the boxes, stone chips and art magazines that littered Renata's studio, and she sighed knowing that her foster family would scold her for letting Scylla escape her cage and slither off. Then again, they had never liked her pet snake. True, Scylla wasn't cuddly like a cat or a dog, but Renata knew that just because a snake---or a person---didn't wear her heart on her sleeve didn't mean she didn't have one.
It was already midnight though; Renata had no time to search for runaway serpents. She had to put her obsessive final touches on The War Criminal in time for the art exhibit tomorrow.
Steeling her courage, Renata took a deep breath and lifted her tools to work again, but as she did so, she heard rustling in the draperies over her window. "Is that where you've been hiding, Scylla?" she asked, and before she could turn around, she felt a cool breeze lift the downy hairs at the nape of her neck.
Was she imagining she heard someone lifting the sash? Had the emotion that always gripped her while working on this sculpture finally driven her mad? Even over the thumping of her heart, she heard a small tearing sound, like fabric being snagged on a latch. Someone was breaking in!
Renata's mind reeled with disbelief and fear. She was alone; she had deliberately rented a studio off the beaten path. It had seemed like a good idea because she prized her solitude, but now she wondered if anyone would even hear her if she called for help.
In the stillness of her studio, Renata gripped her wooden mallet in one hand and the chisel in the other, her knuckles going white. Her instinct was to not make any sudden movements, so she turned slowly, and she glimpsed a dark figure shadowed under the sweep of the drapes. A large lumbering man was silhouetted against the moonlight. Renata forgot to breathe. She saw a gun in his hand. Her heart forgot to beat. She was too afraid even to scream.
The last time someone had pointed a gun at her, she was just a little girl in war-ravaged Bosnia, but the man aiming the cruel barrel of his weapon at her now didn't look like a soldier. "I won't hurt you if you come with me," he said, his voice thick with some accent that Renata didn't immediately recognize.
At his words, Renata went weak all over, terror rushing through her veins like a hot, withering poison. Who was he? What could this hulking stranger possibly want with her? And why should she believe that he wouldn't hurt her when he was pointing a gun at her?
Since she was a little girl, she had been a victim, as her sculptures attested. But Renata wasn't a little girl anymore, and this wasn't Bosnia. Something inside Renata snapped---like the angry strike of a whip---and she decided then and there that unlike her mother, she wouldn't be taken. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
With nothing but anger to direct her hand, Renata launched her hammer through the air towards her assailant. In slow motion, she watched the tool hurtle towards the intruder, cartwheeling end over end.
The hammer struck him square in the forehead.
It was only a wooden hammer---not one of the metal ones she sometimes used---but it made an audible and satisfying crack against the intruder's skull. Shocked, the man staggered back, his arms tangling with the curtains. Only then did Renata cry out, but it was the intruder who screamed the loudest.
A gyrating tangle of scales and fangs had slipped from the draperies and coiled around the man's shoulders.
Scylla had been hiding there after all, and---as hostile to intruders as its owner---Renata's pet python constricted around the assailant's neck. Perhaps scenting the man's fear, the python pulled into strike position. "Get it off!" the intruder shrieked, fumbling with his gun.
Renata could see that the man was genuinely terrified, but her survival instinct was stronger than her compassion so, seizing the opportunity, she turned for the door and ran.
Only after the detective showed her his NYPD badge for the third time did Renata accompany him inside her studio. Even then, she crossed her arms over herself and tucked her fingers under so that he wouldn't see her tremble.
There was no sign of the intruder or the snake.
Dark, swarthy, and clad in a black leather jacket, the detective took a brief look around the studio. "This is the scene of the crime?"
Renata merely nodded; even under the best of circumstances, she was guarded with strangers, and these were not the best of circumstances.
Still, there was something familiar about the detective's shadowed eyes. He'd introduced himself several times, but she found that she just couldn't remember his name. Maybe it was because she was in shock, or perhaps it was because she couldn't stop staring at his startlingly handsome face.
Renata had nearly been kidnapped, so now was not the time to notice a handsome man, but as a sculptress, she revered chiseled cheekbones and strong jawlines like his.
"Let's go over this one more time," the detective said.
"I've already told you everything," Renata snapped, fixing her cool gray eyes on him. With practice, she had perfected that classic New York City bitchy-but-beautiful stare that drove most men to take a step back, but the detective didn't seem cowed.
"With repetition, sometimes an extra detail or memory comes to mind," the detective insisted. So they sat together on her old beat-up college futon with the denim cover, now as threadbare as her calm. He wrote Renata Rukavina at the top of a page and took careful notes as she told him all over again what happened.
When she finished telling her story, she noticed that the detective was sitting too close to her, and when he leaned forward she worried for a startled instant that he might try to kiss her. But instead, he exhaled a great breath, and fleetingly, she smelled the aroma of freshly baked bread. It was the middle of the night---no one was baking---but the scent somehow relaxed Renata enough to let the detective take her hand.
There was a strange tugging sensation as her skin came into contact with his. She wondered that she allowed it; with friends and lovers---even with her foster family---there was always a struggle between her need for intimacy and her fear of it. Yet she was letting this stranger hold her hand.
"You just had a scare, but you're okay now," he added.
And somehow, she was.
"You're sure you don't know the guy who tried to break in here?" The detective's mop of dark hair softened the intensity of his gaze. "You've no idea why anyone would break into your studio this hour of night?"
Renata shook her head again. If she'd testified before the war tribunals, someone might have had cause to try to shut her up, but that's why Renata hadn't testified. Why she would never testify.
The detective finally went to the windowsill to dust for fingerprints. Meanwhile, Renata searched for her pet python. As she checked all of Scylla's usual hiding spots, she realized the detective was examining her work. "These are some powerful pieces," he said of the statuary adorning her studio.
"Thank you," Renata said politely. "They're not to everyone's taste. One of my critics said they were nightmares brought to life."
The detective circled a black marble sculpture of a man with a gun strapped over his shoulder, his clenched fist pulled back to brutalize an unseen victim. "Not a nice guy, I'm guessing."
"He was charged with crimes against humanity," Renata said, feeling a well of rage rising as she remembered his deeds. "He died before they could convict him, though." What she did not tell the detective was that the soldier had died the very night Renata finished his sculpture, and thus joined her collection of ghosts.
When she was a fledgling artist, Renata carved the faces of children felled by sniper fire outside Sarajevo. Even now, after years of experience, the only living person in her art collection was The War Criminal, so she watched warily as the detective approached the almost-finished statue and ran his hand over the stone. "This is the guy on trial at The Hague right now isn't it?"
"Yes," Renata replied, impressed. It seemed unlikely that an ordinary police detective would know anything about it; in Renata's experience, most people chose to forget the war that had destroyed her childhood. That this man seemed to care made Renata willing to talk. "The War Criminal was going to be the centerpiece of my exhibit at the gallery tomorrow to coincide with the expected verdict against him, but now I'm afraid I won't finish in time."
"But you must finish it," he insisted, a ripple of anger passing across his shoulders beneath his leather jacket. His sudden vehemence startled Renata, and seeing this, he measured his tone. "I'm just saying that you can't let anything stand in your way. An art exhibit is a huge deal, isn't it? You've worked hard for it, haven't you? You can't let someone scare you from finishing important work like this."
Renata was flattered that he thought her work was important, but she was terribly unsettled. She wished he would tell her that they had her would-be kidnapper in custody. She just wanted to feel safe---but then, hadn't she always? Renata shrugged apologetically. "I can't do the delicate finishing touches with shaking hands."
"Look," the detective said. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll keep my squad car parked right outside tonight and make sure nobody bothers you. Meanwhile, you should just take your fear from tonight, turn it to anger, and finish your sculpture."
Renata tilted her head at the curious phrasing he used. "I don't think you should be encouraging that. My therapist thinks I have anger issues."
He gave a mirthless smile, a gleam of savagery in his eye. "No doubt. Sounds like you clocked the perp. Did you throw the hammer because you were scared or angry?"
"Both," Renata admitted.
"Then it seems to me that your anger is what kept you from being kidnapped tonight and it'll help with your art too."
Renata couldn't help thinking, yet again, that this was no ordinary police detective. Once again, he took her hands in his. She felt something tug at her emotions and she realized she was no longer shaking from fear.
Only rage.
Someone had broken into her apartment. Someone had pointed a gun at her and tried to take her. Someone had come into her world, uninvited, and tried to rip apart her life just like the invading soldiers had done all those years ago. And someone should have to pay for that.
Anger roiled and coiled inside her, twisting upon itself with venomous purpose. It was past midnight.
Renata picked up her tools and began to sculpt.
Chapter Two
The dark shadows of Renata's studio receded with the sunrise, and she was roused by an early morning phone call. When Renata told her about the breakin, her foster-mother sounded worried. "You should have never taken a studio in that part of town. Why wasn't the boyfriend there with you?"
"Scylla turned out to be much better protection," Renata said, deciding that now was probably not the time to announce that she and the boyfriend had parted ways. It had happened the way it always did: he accused her of keeping secrets from him, and maybe she had been secretive. After all, some pain you just couldn't share except through art. "Anyway," Renata said into the phone. "I just wanted to call and ask you to wish me luck at the exhibit today. I'm a little nervous."
"Oh, Renata, your work is amazing. You're going to be the talk of the town, honey."
Renata would feel better if her foster parents could attend the exhibit, but they were several states away. Besides, they had already done enough for her. They had taken her in as a child-refugee of a foreign war, and stood by her through countless surgeries to repair her scars. The art show was just going to have to be something Renata did on her own.
"Renata, I know the news is unsettling...."
Cold dread pooled in the pit of Renata's stomach. "What news?"
Her foster mother's silence told her all she needed to know. Renata grabbed the remote and turned on the television.
The war criminal was dead.
It was happening again. The International Criminal Tribunal had not even had the chance to pass judgment on him. He had simply died in his cell.
Perversely, the morning's headlines made Renata's exhibit extremely popular. Visitors flocked to see her artwork, all whispering about the mysterious way in which the accused war criminal had died. Renata knew she should be elated by the attention, but she was sad, because no matter how much critical acclaim she received, if not for her foster parents, Renata would be alone in this world.
"Don't stare like that," Marta, the gallery owner, chided. "You look beautiful, but it's very intimidating. Smile, it's your big debut! And here, let me fix your hair."
Renata knew her exotic dark curls were impervious to the taming of a comb or barrette and they'd never submit to the sleek styles that were currently in fashion, so she rolled her eyes and said, "Never mind my hair, Marta! What are they saying about the exhibit? Do they like it?"
"Darling, they love it! And I need to introduce you to a potential buyer with very deep pockets."
For Renata, this was the most discomfiting part about art. She loved creating, she savored the outlet, and she needed to sell her work to pay the rent. But as a sculptress, she felt an intimate relationship to every piece in her collection. It was difficult to let them go. Still, Renata forced a smile and followed Marta through the throngs of well-wishers.
"Renata," Marta began. "Meet Ms. Kokkinos. She's a private collector, and a great admirer of your work."
A private collector? Renata had assumed that any potential buyer with deep pockets would have been here representing a museum. She never expected a private collector would be interested---after all, Renata's art was sad. Who would buy it to adorn a garden or household foyer?
Ms. Kokkinos turned out to be a woman with a perfectly coiffured helmet of silver hair and an unblinking stare. She towered over Renata and her sturdy frame made Renata's own limbs seem willowy. But the older woman's most arresting feature was the disquieting color of her eyes. Renata had never met anyone with eyes as gray as her own.
Before Renata could offer her hand, the tall woman thrust a business card into her palm. "Ms. Rukavina, my nephew sang your praises and I must say, he was not wrong. Your work is devastating."
At a loss, Renata asked, "Your nephew?"
"He's a police officer. I believe he helped you with a breakin at your studio? I hope you weren't hurt."
The detective. Of course. Now that she thought about it, Renata remembered the Greek cast to his features and could almost see them reflected in the severe face of his formidable aunt. "No, no, I wasn't hurt. I'm honored by the detective's interest in my work---and yours too."
Ms. Kokkinos nodded curtly. "I'm particularly interested in The War Criminal. Would you be willing to make similar sculptures on commission?"
Renata tried not to show her astonishment. No one had ever commissioned a work from her before. "What do you have in mind?"
"I'd like you to sculpt this man."
Renata already had the woman's business card in one hand, so she had to reach with the other for the sketch. In so doing, she glanced at the drawing and her heart lurched.
She knew the face.
This was the face of the soldier who abducted her mother. And upon seeing him again, Renata's knees threatened to buckle beneath her.
Ms. Kokkinos must have seen the horror writ plain on Renata's face, because she eyed Renata owlishly and said, "You needn't haggle over the price. I'm an heiress to a vast fortune, so you'll be generously compensated."
Renata didn't want to be rude, but she felt bloodless and unsteady. "Would you mind---would you mind terribly if I took a moment to get some air?"
Renata didn't wait for a reply. Clutching the drawing and the business card, she hastily withdrew, navigating her way around the velvet gallery ropes and pushing through the crowd. Renata headed straight for the exit that led to the fire-escape balcony. She just hoped she could get there before her knees gave way.
She found the door and flung it open. Without looking at the sketch again, she folded it into a small square around the business card and tucked both inside her bra, close to her heart. Then Renata took deep, comforting gulps of air. It had always been like this when someone triggered an unexpected memory. Even after her surgeries, when the doctors helped find a way for her to stay in the country, news from Bosnia panicked her. Even when she was safe in an American school, loud noises, such as a bell signaling the end of class, sometimes froze her heart within her chest.
Now as the fresh air calmed her jitters, Renata sighed with relief. The scars on her back were bothering her, but when she reached behind to adjust her dress, she realized that it wasn't the fabric irritating her. Something hard and unyielding dug into her, and as she brushed it with her fingers, she realized it was the barrel of a gun.
"Don't scream," a man said from behind her. His arm wrapped around her, hard as iron, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.
Renata tried to decide if she should kick him or impale his foot with the stiletto heel of her golden sandal. But before she could decide, he hauled her towards the rail. "We're going down the fire escape stairs."
This was the second time in two days that someone had tried to abduct her at gunpoint, but unlike the lumbering intruder, this man had a graceful strength that prevented her from raking at him with her fingernails when she tried.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said, sighing deeply by her ear. Suddenly, she smelled acrid smoke and charred flesh, the horrible stench of war. The stink of the explosion, the sensation of being on fire, and the sizzle of her own skin as it burned. Then came the blinding pain and the screaming, and remembering, she was overcome.
Paralyzed, she let her attacker pull her down two steps at a time. In Bosnia, when people were kidnapped, they were forced into the woods and shot, so why wasn't she fighting him? Behind her, the gallery was crowded. If only she could scream, surely someone would help her, but his fingers were clamped securely over her mouth!
Her captor pushed her down another stair, and though she fought down her fear long enough to struggle, it only resulted in her shoe falling off and dropping like a golden teardrop to the ground below. Frustrated, the villain hauled her into his arms and dropped to the landing which groaned under their combined weight.
Thankfully, people on a lower floor of the gallery must have heard the noise or seen Renata's shoe fall because someone called out "Call 911!"
Her kidnapper growled, dragging Renata as she flailed. She was fighting to catch the wrought-iron bars with her hands to stop their descent. Her heart thundered in her ears, louder than the sound of sirens on the streets below. If only she could delay him, the police would rescue her.
Desperate, Renata bit down hard on the fingers over her mouth, and knew she'd drawn blood by the familiar metallic tang on her tongue. Blood was an unmistakable taste, and it sickened her.
Her abductor hissed in pain, but showed no signs of slowing. Together, they dropped the last few feet from the ladder of the fire exit into the alleyway below where a van with darkened windows waited. A side door opened, and Renata was thrown into the vehicle. She landed hard underneath her assailant as two goons slammed the door shut and the van screeched out of the alleyway.
Chapter Three
Her kidnapper used the weight of his body to keep her subdued on the floor of the van while he pushed his bleeding fingers from her mouth and replaced them with a gag. The heart-thumping ride in the darkness gave Renata time to conceive of every possible way he might kill her, and she didn't even realize they had arrived at the airport until they were dragging her onto the charter jet.
It wasn't until after the plane had taken off that her kidnapper finally spoke to her again. "I'm going to take the gag out of your mouth, but you mustn't scream. No one who could help you would hear it anyway, and if you scream you will only frighten the pilot and endanger the mortals."
Renata feared he was a Serbian thug sent to ensure she never testified about the war crimes she had witnessed. But her captor looked Greek and---what had he said? Mortals? What madness was this? Even so, Renata felt safer with this madman than she did with those chillingly sane soldiers in her past, so she nodded her head in agreement.
It was only now that he was so close, that she looked at his face and startled. "Wait, I know you...Detective..."
Why couldn't she remember his name?
"Ah," he said, narrowing his dark, terrifying eyes. "So you've met my brother."
His brother? Yes, Renata could see it now. The chiseled cheekbones and the lines of his jaw were the same, but whereas the detective sported stubble and a messy mane, her captor's dark hair was short and slicked away from his clean-shaven face. They were twins.
"Who are you?" Renata demanded.
"If I told you, you wouldn't remember unless I permitted it, but for now you may call me Damon." He dismissed two of the goons with a single look, as if he were used to being obeyed. His men retreated to the back of the plane and closed the curtains. When they were finally alone, he said, "You're prettier than I thought you'd be, Renata."
So, he knew her name.
Now that her fear was subsiding, anger rose to take its place. "I don't know why you've taken me, but I want to go home. Right now."
"And where exactly is your home?" Damon asked.
She knew where home was. Home was her studio, with Scylla. So why did she pause in answering the question? "Why do you want to know? Where are you taking me?" she asked, resurgent dread choking her words. She couldn't go back to Bosnia. She wouldn't go back. Not now, not ever.
"I'm taking you somewhere my brother and the war gods can't find you," he said, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. Then he took a crystal decanter from the nearby minibar, poured two glasses, and handed one of them to her. "I must remember my manners."
Renata reflected that it was exceedingly unmannerly to abduct a woman from an art gallery. But she'd learned from her therapist that deranged men needed to feel validated, so she took the glass warily and tried to earn his trust. "So you think you're a god---a war god---like your brother. And there are others?"
His sensual lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Don't try to manage me, young lady," he said, though he couldn't have been more than a few years older than she was. "I'm not a psychotic or a sociopath and as long as you do everything I tell you, you have nothing to fear."
Renata needed a stiff drink, and since her captor was confidently sipping from his glass, she decided the drink he'd given her from the same decanter probably wasn't poisoned. She took a mouthful, and swirled the unfamiliar spirit over her tongue. It bolstered her. It made her feel warm, all the way to her toes. But she was still angry. "Why have you kidnapped me?"
"Because your art is dangerous," he said. "I can't allow anyone to use you. When I learned that my aunt was seeking you out, I knew I had to take you before she did."
"Your aunt?" Renata asked, remembering the business card and sketch she'd tucked into her bra. The detective had been unusual and his aunt more so, but neither of them had seemed deranged. Did they know about Damon's mental illness?
"Do you mean Ms. Kokkinos? The patroness at the art exhibit? She's your aunt?"
"Ms. Kokkinos? Is that what she's calling herself these days?" The plane was now above the clouds and Damon seemed to relax. "In Greek, Kokkinos means red. Red like blood. Red like battle lust. It's fitting, I suppose, because my aunt is the gray-eyed daughter of Zeus."
Renata tried, in vain, to keep the incredulity off her face. "I'm sorry---she's what?"
He drained his glass and set it aside. "She wants you to sculpt for her, doesn't she?"
Renata didn't have to answer. "Look, I don't want to be involved in your family squabbles. If you don't want me to sculpt for her, just take me home, and I'll refuse her commission."
"As if that were possible," Damon said, straightening the crease of his expensive dress pants with a slow languid motion. "She won't let you refuse her, Renata. You're her aegis."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Renata snapped.
"Don't you know your Greek mythology?" he asked, arching his brows. "Not all of it is myth."
Suddenly, Renata tried to stifle a yawn, without success. He certainly wasn't boring her, so why was she so tired? "Did you put a sleeping pill in my drink?"
He scowled and a little turbulence shook the plane. "No, Renata. You're probably sleepy because you were up long after midnight last night after setting your serpent on one of my men."
So he'd sent the would-be kidnapper to snatch her from her studio. And when the first attempt had failed, he'd returned to do the job himself. "I didn't set Scylla on anyone," she whispered sleepily, "But if I could have, I would have."
"Oh, you would have, certainly," Damon said.
Renata bit her lower lip, wondering what had become of Scylla and her prey, but she wasn't thinking clearly enough to ask. As it was, Renata's eyes were drooping and her limbs felt weak.
"Come," Damon said, reaching across and unbuckling her seatbelt. In the sweep of the motion, his fingers brushed the tops of her thighs and Renata felt herself grow warm. "Come lay down on the couch, Renata. You can put your head in my lap and rest. We have a few hours before the pilot will flash the seatbelt light again."
"I'm certainly not putting my head in your lap," Renata snarled.
"Oh, I imagine you'll put your head wherever I tell you to," he said.
As if at his command, she felt inexplicably pliant. "Why? If it wasn't a sleeping potion, what was in that drink?"
"It was laced with ambrosia. It's a...restorative," he said, guiding her to the couch and drawing a blanket around her shoulders as she slipped off to sleep.
Damon stroked her curls as she slept, twining his fingers in her magnificent tangle of dark locks. It'd been a long time since he'd last seen Renata, longer still since he'd touched a mortal woman, even chastely, and now he couldn't resist the silken sensation of her hair.
She was so beautiful, he couldn't help but want her. From the elegant arch of her eyebrows to the Slavic planes of her face, she was perfect in every way. He hadn't expected that. He'd been sure her powers would have made her ugly---at the very least, he'd been sure the explosion would have left her with hideous scars.
After all, he'd been there that day alongside the war gods, goading the warriors to fight. But war had changed greatly since the old days; modern warfare had surprised him. It was just as brutal, but colder, more efficient, and utterly inglorious. There were no more challenges between brave Hector and fierce Achilles. It was all war machines now.
The dishonor of modern warfare changed him---changed his very nature---perhaps even before that fateful chariot ride in Bosnia. He hadn't known the soldiers would launch grenades at civilian homes. He hadn't known that the terror he inspired would give excuse to explode the little girl's house. He hadn't known how these weapons could tear at the flesh and spray body parts across neatly tended gardens.
That day years ago, Renata had been playing in front of the house with a jump rope, and had turned away from the blast just in time. Still, the flames had lashed at her back, throwing her to the ground and melting the dress from her body. A hand landed beside her, severed and slimy with gore. It had been a child's hand---her little brother's hand---and seeing it, she'd screamed that terrible scream. Her scream had been so bottomless, he couldn't have gorged upon it even if he'd wanted to.
He'd known then what she would become.
But Renata wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a woman grown and what was he to do with her? He could secret her away, but she was smarter than he'd hoped. Once he told her what she was, how long would it be until she discovered her power and wanted to use it? When that happened, she would fight him with more than the token resistance. And what then? Would he have to chain her to some faraway mountain and set fearsome monsters to guard her? Would he be forced to hurt her? To kill her?
No. For now, they'd have to keep moving and he'd have to keep her with him always. One moment of inattention and she'd run; one moment of weakness and the war gods could snatch her away.
They wanted to use Renata to create more conflict---more horror for their appetites. But what Damon feared most was that they wouldn't have to use her---that deep down, Renata was angry enough to wreak destruction on her own.
Chapter Four
Renata woke to the piercing cries of seabirds and the desolate scent of salt water. Opening her eyes, she found herself in a canopied bed, propped up on downy pillows and nestled beneath a cool white comforter. Pulling away the canopy netting, she took in the simple surroundings of a beach house. Shuttered doors were thrown open to allow a breeze and beyond them stretched a stone patio upon which her captor appeared to be taking his morning coffee.
Damon---who was bent over a newspaper---was wearing a linen shirt open at the collar. The stark white fabric set off his tan and made him look like a bronzed god. Of course, she remembered that Damon thought he actually was some kind of god. At least he dressed the part.
"Come have breakfast, Renata," he said before she could find an avenue of escape. So, in her rumpled green dress, Renata padded towards him on bare feet, squinting in the sunlight. He motioned her towards the bowl of fruit on the table and said, "Make yourself comfortable."
"I'd be more comfortable if you took me home," Renata replied, tucking errant curls behind her ears and folding her arms in front of herself like an armor breastplate. "When the police catch you, you can say goodbye to this cushy lifestyle, you know. They don't have breakfast service in prison."
He seemed amused by her hostility. Then, leaning back into the patio chair, he studied her. "Ah, Renata, that presumes that the police could catch me. It presumes your kidnapping would ever go to trial. It even presumes that you'd want to see me brought to justice, instead of taking revenge yourself."
Something about his words took a vague and disturbing shape, much the same way dark outlines of her sculptures formed in her mind before she had even carved them free of the stone. Something about what he'd said made her bitter, angry...furious. "I know from personal experience that there's no justice in this world."
"Perhaps there would be justice if people were brave enough to tell their stories."
He could only be talking about her unwillingness to testify before the War Crimes Tribunal. Maybe he was a thug sent to silence her after all, but if so, then why was she still alive? Perhaps it was these thoughts of mortality that made her, quite suddenly, ravenously hungry. "Is it safe to eat these grapes? Or are they also laced with something?"
"Sometimes a grape is just a grape," Damon said, looking out over the cobalt waters.
"Where are we?" Renata asked, taking a seat across from him and popping a few grapes into her mouth.
"I'm not going to tell you where we are, because if you ever managed to escape and get to a phone, you'd be able to tell someone where to find you."
Yes, yes, she would. The first chance she had, she'd call the authorities. Then she'd fish out the business card secreted in her bra and call Ms. Kokkinos and warn her that her nephew was dangerously unhinged.
"You know, I like your brother better," she said, searching the table for utensils. Maybe if she could get a fork or a knife...
Damon looked disappointed. "Are you looking for something with which to stab me?"
Unfortunately, he'd only served fruit and pastries. There wasn't a weapon in sight, so Renata saw no point in denying it. "Yes, and I should warn you, my therapist says I have unresolved anger issues."
"Oh, I know you do."
Absently, Damon put the newspaper down on the table. Renata snatched it up and found an article about her kidnapping on the inside page of the New York Times. Renata had to admit that this was higher billing than she'd ever received for her art shows, but she gaped at date on the masthead. "It's been three days! You kidnapped me three days ago? Have I been asleep that long?"
"The precise passage of time isn't my strong suit," Damon admitted, momentarily losing the smugness from his expression as he folded his hands. "But the effects of even a tiny bit of ambrosia can be unpredictable."
Renata stared at his folded hands, the clean fingernails and the unblemished skin. For a moment, a sudden, unbidden thought came to her. She wondered what it would feel like to have those hands seizing her again, and what it would feel like if clutching turned to soft caresses. Then she gasped and covered her mouth.
"Renata, what's wrong?"
"I bit your hand," she rasped. "When you kidnapped me, I bit your hand and broke the skin. I drew blood, I know I did. I tasted it in my mouth. But there's not a mark on you. Not a scratch."
"That was days ago," he said dismissively.
Renata feared she was losing her mind now, but if there was anything she understood it was wounds. "There should be a scab. A bruise at the least!"
"I heal quickly," he said, finishing his coffee.
Renata breathed slowly, in and out, her eyes widening with apprehension. "What are you?"
"A son of Ares," he said, pausing as if to let it sink in.
Renata tried to match it to the names of any Bosnian separatist groups she'd heard of, but could not. She looked into those dark mesmerizing eyes and realized that he was not toying with her. He believed it.
But did she? "You're really a god?" she asked tentatively.
"Not as you think of them," he said. "But neither am I a mortal man."
"What are you, then?" she asked.
"A son of Ares," he repeated, slightly exasperated, then, perhaps sensing that answer wasn't going to suffice, he attempted an explanation. "A long time ago, my twin brother and I drove my father's chariot whenever and wherever war came to a land and people called upon the ancient gods. My brother instills panic; I inspire terror."
He lifted his chin in defiance, as if to challenge anyone who might doubt him, looking halfway torn between pride and shame; and though she couldn't accept the truth of what he was saying, she knew he wasn't lying. "Terror?"
"Yes. I inspire it and I feed off of it," he said.
Renata wasn't able to hide her distaste, but she had to ask, "You said that was a long time ago. You're not driving your...your father's chariot anymore?"
"My family and I have had a...falling out," he explained. "It's a very complicated matter that has set off a series of struggles around the world, but let it suffice to say that we no longer see eye to eye."
Son of Ares. Could it be true? "So the Olympians are real. When there's thunder, it's Zeus? When there's love, it's Aphrodite?"
As the seafoam inched its way up the sand towards the patio where they shared breakfast, he shook his head. "Certainly not as you've read about them. There are old gods of all kinds. Greek, Norse, Hindu, Meso-American...the list goes on. But most of the old gods no longer hold any power."
Renata was forced to ask, "Why not?"
He folded his napkin and sat back in his chair. "Because the forces that they fed upon and the people that called them are dispersed. But war is powerfully present in every age, and in some places where war comes, the people still call upon the war gods---the oldest immortals---even if they don't always know our names. And when they call, we answer."
Renata knew with sudden certainty that Bosnia was such a place. A meeting of Greeks, Russians and Macedonians, Slavs and Gypsies, Christians and Muslims, Serbs, Bosniaks and Croats. How many old gods had been called upon in the war of her childhood? Lost in thought, Renata watched the ocean waves lap against the shore.
"Are you looking for Poseidon?" Damon asked, pulling her back from the memories that haunted her. "You won't find him today, but this island is lovely and the water is warm, so why don't you take a swim?"
It was an abrupt change of subject, as if he couldn't bear to speak of such things a moment longer. Truthfully, Renata needed a few moments to gather her wits too. She looked down at the dress she'd been sleeping in for three days and wanted to be rid of it. "As an immortal, can you conjure up a swimsuit for me out of thin air? Do you have that power?"
"No," he said. "But I can make it so that you're not the slightest bit afraid. I can consume your fears---make you so fearless, you'll happily strip naked and step into the sea."
Renata shivered. The sun-warmed patio stones were toasty beneath her feet and the day was warm, but still, Renata shivered. Whether it was the way he spoke to her, the hungry look on his face, or the words he spoke, she couldn't say. But neither could she help wondering what it would be like to swim naked, to no longer be self-conscious about the scars on her back, to be unafraid to let a man see her completely and utterly exposed.
Still, Renata was confused. "You said you and your brother instilled panic and terror..."
Damon leaned forward over the table until his face was inches from hers. Then with great deliberation, he pursed his lips as if he might kiss her. Instead, he blew a soft breath upon her face and it stirred happier memories inside her. She smelled jasmine, the scent of her mother's perfume, and she felt the tension loosen in her shoulders. The thought that she was being held captive against her will seemed far away, unimportant. Instead she felt she was only the guest of an impossibly handsome man at his beach house retreat.
"I can terrify," Damon told her with sad eyes. "But I can also take some of it away."
His face was still inches from hers, and she wondered what he had done to her that she so wanted to kiss him. More than that, she wanted to reach out with the fingers of a sculptress and trace the lines of his mouth. Would his lips feel smooth like marble, rough as granite, or soft like her own? "But why would a Son of Ares want anything to do with me?"
Too late, Renata realized she'd spoken the question aloud. But Damon didn't look surprised by it. "Because, Renata," he said, simply. "You're a gorgon."
Chapter Five
A gorgon? Renata didn't know whether to laugh or be deeply insulted. She'd studied ancient art in school. She knew that gorgons were monstrous harpies with metal claws, snakes for hair, and faces so hideous they turned anyone who looked at them to stone.
Not her disfiguring burns, nor the scars left after plastic surgery, nor even a single bad-hair day had ever made Renata feel so ugly that she'd have called herself a gorgon. Not even in jest.
"What? Literally a gorgon?" Furious, Renata shot up out of her chair and stalked to the edge of the little patio, wondering if she should leap into the sand and just start running away from Damon as far and as fast as she could. But something made her stay. "What are you saying? I remember being a child---I remember my father and my brother and my mother. You're saying I'm Medusa in disguise?"
"Medusa is dead," Damon said, very seriously. "A vigilante named Perseus cut off her head."
A flash of her little brother's severed hand passed through Renata's mind and deep tremors shook her. She was so overcome with revulsion she couldn't speak.
"You see, Renata, not all gorgons are immortal. Some gorgons are not born---they are made."
"How? How are they made?" Renata demanded to know.
"They're forged of righteous rage against a horror they were helpless to stop. That's what happened to Medusa. That's what happened to you."
Renata turned back to him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "And so what does it mean? I have no scales, no claws, and my only snake is an escaped pet python."
"Your monstrosity is on the inside," Damon replied.
It was, quite possibly, the most hurtful thing anyone had ever said to her. It wounded her so deeply her muscles all tightened, like she'd been struck, like she'd been shot.
Damon's shoulders sagged as if he realized he was hurting her, but felt he must continue. "Some might say that all the rage you feel, all that ugliness, is coiling around your heart."
Some might say that. Like all the men who had ever tried to love her. Is that why she'd driven them all away with her remoteness and secrecy? Had she been afraid they would see her ugly inner gorgon?
"How am I any different than all the other survivors of war-torn countries? What good is it being a gorgon?"
"Gorgons take revenge," Damon said, coming towards her.
Together they watched two seagulls battle for a scrap of food in the surf, each bird fighting with angry shrieks.
"I don't take revenge," Renata said, bitterly. "I run and hide. I've never gone back to Bosnia and I never will. I can't even face the men responsible for what happened to my family. I can't face them."
"I know you can't," he said, touching her arm lightly, as if to comfort her. "So you turn them to stone. Two of them now have died after you carved them. Did you think it was an accident?"
No. Not in her heart. Somewhere inside her, she had known it was more than coincidence. She had thought it'd happened because she wished them dead, and now Damon was telling her that she had the power to make those wishes come true. She couldn't deny the small thrill of empowerment that flowed through her, alongside the guilt and horror. If she was a gorgon, it meant she never had to see these evil men, never had to face them or re-live her story. She only had to put them into her artwork to end their miserable lives.
Being a gorgon meant never being a victim again.
Tears wet her cheeks, but she didn't remember crying. She wanted to say something, but her throat closed shut. Damon tried to make her look at him, but she turned away and her stony gray eyes fixed upon the depthless ocean and all its secrets.
Damon tried again. "I didn't tell you this to hurt you---"
"A boat is coming," she interrupted, forcing herself to speak over the lump in her throat. Her voice sounded foreign and far away.
Damon looked as if he weren't ready to let the matter drop, as if he wanted to encourage her to talk about the confusion swirling inside her, but he seemed to think better of it. "The boat is early," he said, clearly frustrated. "But the boat is for us. It's time to go."
"Where are we going?" she asked, fists clenching at her sides. "I won't go back to Bosnia."
"I won't ever force you to go back there," Damon reassured her. "But we must leave this place now. The cell phone reception is terrible and there's no internet connection; I have work to do in the real world."
The real world? Renata wondered what that even meant anymore. "What kind of work does an immortal do?"
"We do any kind of work we like," Damon said. "My aunt is a professional benefactress. She has always had a special eye for the gifted and a unique way of fostering their talents. She has a stable of favorites. Meanwhile, my brother is in law enforcement---he feeds off the fear of crime victims."
"And you?" Renata asked.
He eyed her with scant amusement. "I'm a security consultant for the global banking industry."
"Security," she sputtered with surprise.
He towered over her with barely constrained menace. "Trust me when I say that I'm an expert at frightening people away from taking things that don't belong to them."
Renata didn't fight against leaving the island with him. She hadn't seen the point. Did she really want her kidnapper leaving her on a secluded island by herself? Moreover, she was still in shock at everything he'd told her. Her hands were cold and she couldn't catch her breath. And as the boat ferried them towards their destination, she almost didn't care where they went. As long as it was somewhere far, far away.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
Chapter Six
Ever since Renata sipped the ambrosia, time had passed in fits and starts. She was unable to keep a firm grasp of it. Had it been days or weeks since she'd been kidnapped? Worse, she didn't even know where she was.
Asia. They were somewhere in Asia. That was all Renata was able to surmise from the penthouse window. The billboards that hung over the sprawling streets below were covered with symbols she couldn't read. Chinese? Korean? Japanese? She just didn't know. Renata saw thousands of cars, bicycles, and even the occasional covered rickshaw pass beneath her, but from the isolation of her skyscraper tower, there was no way to call for rescue.
Except for the oriental bathroom with the stylized waterfall tub, Damon's penthouse was thoroughly Western in its sensibilities. The floor was black marble. The sofas were leather. The accent pieces---mostly Greek amphorae---were genuine antiques. The apartment was spacious, sparse and masculine. Renata might have marveled at the luxury were it not for the advanced security system that had turned this apartment into her prison.
Until they were safely ensconced behind the steel doors and motion sensors, Damon hadn't allowed her any privacy, but inside the penthouse, he gave her his bedroom and contented himself to sleep on one of the sofas.
And as soon as he left her alone, in the darkness that shielded her from the monitors, she slipped the little business card and the sketch wrapped around it out of her bra, and into the pillowcase beneath her head.
In the morning, Renata wandered into the wood-slatted bathroom and saw that a bath had been drawn for her. Fed by an artificial stream trickling over a decorative rock outcropping, the foaming bath beckoned. She peeled off the green dress she hoped never to see again, then climbed into the tub.
"There are new clothes for you on the bed," Damon said, interrupting her tranquility. He was standing in the doorway without a care for her privacy. Instinctively, Renata sank lower into the water, letting the bubbles cover her nudity.
She knew he wanted her to say something, but she was silent.
"I had to guess at your size," Damon said. "But my people did their best. If you make a list of things you need, I'll make sure that you have garments to wear that are more to your liking."
Again, Renata knew he was looking for a response, but she gave him none. Instead, she reached for a sponge and pulled it under the water, letting the rough texture scrape across her fingertips and awaken her inner sculptress. Or her inner gorgon. Which was which?
Damon crossed his arms. "You're still not speaking to me, then." It was a statement, not a question, but instead of retreating and leaving her alone, he stepped into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub.
Renata felt exposed. She wanted to tell him not to sit so close to her, but that admission of discomfort would make her even more vulnerable. A few moments more of awkward silence passed before Damon asked her, "Is there something I can get you, Renata? Is there something you want?"
"I want my mother," Renata said, before the thought had even fully formed in her mind.
He seemed uncomfortable. "Do you really want to involve your foster mother in this?"
"I want my real mother, but not you or anybody else can give her to me, because the soldier took her away."
"Tell me," Damon said.
Renata didn't like talking about it. It was her pain. Her sin. Her secret. She could express herself in sculpture, but it had taken her therapist years to get her to open up. Did he really think he could handle what she had to say? "After the explosion, I was badly burned," Renata said, tentatively. "My mother tried to take me to a refugee camp for help. As we hurried down the scorched side of the road, she kept telling me to be quiet, that the enemy would hear me screaming, but I was in so much pain. I couldn't stop and so the soldier heard us. He pointed a gun at us and took her into the woods. I heard my mother cry out, over and over, but I never saw her again."
The rush of the waterfall over the rock garden filled the room as if to hush her sad tale, and Damon was silent for a long time. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was my fault. If I had been quiet, they wouldn't have taken her," Renata cried, and her eyes made clear that she would brook no argument.
The tilt of Damon's chin lost its imperious angle. He stared down at the floor. Finally he asked, "Did you ever look for her?"
"After the war, when I was old enough, I called everyone I knew in Bosnia. My foster parents even hired an investigator. I'd hoped that with the publicity for my art that someone might come forward, but..."
He reached into the tub for her wet hand and clasped it in his own, his fingers twined with hers as if he was tugging something inside her, shaping it, the way she would shape clay. Then he was leaning closer to her. Was he looking at her with pity, or something else? Was it sympathy or desire she saw in his eyes, or both? And why, after having told this stranger her secrets, did she now want him so badly?
Maybe she just wanted to lose herself in a kiss, to forget about wars and gorgons and feel something warm and real. Or maybe it was something more base and raw---she couldn't say. But in that moment, something made her offer her lips to him and something made him take them.
It was, at first, a gentle kiss. But then she reached up and wrapped her dripping arms around his neck. He seemed to tense, then snap.
His hands went to her hair, his lips crushed down upon hers, and he started to pull her against him, heedless of the warm water they were spilling upon the floor.
His grip tightened and he kissed her hungrily, as if he were made of the same fury that was inside her. She parted her lips for him, and his tongue captured hers as if in triumph. Renata's breath quickened as the electricity of their kiss sparked through her, but then he was trying to lift her up out of the water, and she flailed, desperately gripping the edge of the tub to stop him.
His voice was throaty. "I want to see you. I want to touch you."
"I have scars," Renata replied, breaking apart from him and slipping beneath the water, denying the ache of her body for more.
"I don't care," Damon said. "You're beautiful, so beautiful."
Renata knew that the surgeons had repaired the worst of her damaged skin. That in reality, only faint traces of her injuries remained. But in her mind, she always imagined that her scars were deformities so ugly that seeing them would turn a man's desire for her to something brittle that would crumble away. Were her scars her gorgon skin? She couldn't bring herself to ask.
Perhaps sensing that she could be persuaded, Damon offered her a towel, holding it open for her so that all she had to do was step out of the tub to him and come into his arms. She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to, but she said, "I'm not ready yet."
Damon looked as if he might argue, but then slowly nodded. Whatever had been about to happen between them would wait.
He set the towel on the edge of the tub and leaned over to kiss her again. This time, a tender kiss, filled with self-control. "Renata, I know that hearing the truth about what you are has frightened you. I can take that fear away, if you want me to."
"I'm not frightened that I'm a gorgon," she said. "I'm sickened. You tell me that I can kill with my hands, just by forcing stone into the shapes I see in my mind. That I have killed...before."
"It isn't your fault," he said simply. "You can't be blamed. You didn't know what you were doing when you carved those men. Now that you know, it won't happen again."
She eyed him carefully. "How do you know it won't?"
"Because, Renata, I'll never let you sculpt again."
Chapter Seven
Later that night, Deimos received the phone call he'd been dreading.
"You had no right to give the gorgon ambrosia," his twin brother snarled into the other end of the phone.
They had not seen one another in years, but Damon could still imagine the way his twin scowled when he said it, black eyes glowing like coal.
"It was only a tiny bit," Damon replied. "But I have enough to make her immortal if I choose, so don't push me."
"It's our crafty aunt who will push you, not me." Static crackled on the line. "How long do you think you can keep the gorgon away from us?"
"I'll keep her as long as I have to," Damon replied.
"We will find you." It was a threat. "You can't hide her forever. I know all your haunts."
"No, you don't. Not all of them," Damon replied much more calmly than he felt, then hung up before the call could be traced.
Just that morning, his men reported seeing an owl perched on the penthouse balcony---probably one of his aunt's many spies. Luckily, this foreign place had many old gods of its own who would not take kindly to her showing too much power here.
Still, it was time to move again.
Renata had been subdued since their kiss in the bathtub and she did not argue when he asked her to pack her things and board the plane again so soon.
This time he took her to his snow-covered chalet in a northern country.
As their entourage marched up the trail, Damon marveled at the way Renata's cheeks turned rosy in the cold, and how the falling flakes settled into her wild black curls. He first thought perhaps she was only a local beauty, that her mortal charm might fade against a different backdrop, but now he saw that she was captivating in any setting. If only he could know what went on behind those stormy gray eyes of hers.
Once they were inside, she stared out the frosted window panes over the pine-dotted hillside and asked, "Where are we?"
He no longer felt the need to keep it from her. "Finland."
Norse territory. An unfriendly place for his aunt, he hoped.
Renata let her breath fog the checkerboard window while her fingers explored the crevices between the rough-hewn logs that made up the cabin walls. It made him sad to see her sculptress fingers still grasping for every sensation, but some things could not be helped.
When he'd planned Renata's abduction, he'd been thinking only of how to keep her powers out of destructive hands. He'd thought he'd have to keep her chained and that she'd fight him every step of the way.
But Renata hadn't triumphed at the knowledge that she had the power to kill. She'd been sickened by it. She'd actually used that word. She wasn't some murderous monster who would take justice into her own hands, renewing the cycle of revenge that turned old grievances into new ones and led to war.
Why hadn't it ever occurred to him that she might not want to use her powers for revenge? Why hadn't he considered that she might simply become his ally instead of his enemy? Maybe he didn't need to keep her as his prisoner. Maybe if he needed to keep her at all, it was only to protect her.
Or to be near her.
Yes, he mustn't lie to himself about that. He remembered the way he'd kissed her in the bath and how she had responded. He remembered the taste of her, like slow-flowing honey. She'd stopped him before he went too far, but left the promise of more. "I'm not ready yet," she'd said.
He could respect that, for now.
The next morning, Damon found her in her room, curled up next to the fire, wearing a bathrobe. "I hope you enjoy crepes," he said, coming into her room bearing a tray.
"You're delivering me breakfast now?" she asked. "Don't you have people for that?"
He was glad to see her in better spirits. It was, he suspected, her fierce resilience that drew him to her, that made him want her so much. "Yes, I have people for this, but I wanted to bring it myself before I went out."
She blinked. "Out? Where are you going?"
He hadn't left her alone before. He'd been too worried that she might run. But he felt he knew her better now. She wouldn't run from him, and if someone tried to take her, they couldn't make her kill.
"I have some work to do, but I won't be long," he said. "So I have to stay here alone with your goons?"
He arched an eyebrow. "My goons, as you call them, will stay out of your way. If you need me, for any reason, they can reach me on my cell phone."
Renata smiled and waved as he left, as if he were her lover and not her captor. But in her mind, she replayed what he'd said after they kissed.
When he'd told her he'd never let her sculpt again, her heart had hardened against him. Her art was her life. It wasn't just her job; it was her vocation, her identity. She was an artist, and she'd worked hard to become a success in a profession where so few ever made it.
She didn't know precisely how long she'd been away from her studio, but she already missed the feel of her tools in her hands almost as much as she missed her pet python. Poor Scylla. Had anyone found her? Renata had been gone so long she wondered who was feeding her snake? Who was, even now, comforting Renata's foster mom and telling her that Renata would be all right?
Renata had let herself grow complacent. She'd let herself fall under Damon's spell and forget that he was holding her against her will. She resented the security system, the monitors that tracked her every move. And in an act of rebellion, she now climbed beneath the covers and pretended to nap.
Using the coverlet as a shield from the cameras, Renata carefully extracted the paper from her pillow case, and unfolded it from around Ms. Kokkinos' business card. She spread out the sketch of the soldier who had taken her mother and stared at it. She was no longer afraid of him. Tracing the lines of his face with her fingers, she knew she held power over this villain now. She could take his life just by carving his likeness in stone. Why didn't Damon want her to use her powers to give men like this one the ending they so richly deserved?
Perhaps because Damon was some kind of demigod of war, it made sense that he'd want to protect the evil men who helped him instill terror. Perhaps this is why Damon was shielding these wicked criminals from her righteous anger. Somehow, Renata knew she had to escape him.
Just then, she realized that Damon hadn't bothered to unplug the phone by the bedside. He'd trusted his cameras to warn him if she was doing anything he didn't want her to do. But if he was gone for the day, Renata had to wonder if his goons were as diligent at spying on her as he was.
Turning in such a way that the comforter obstructed their view, Renata snaked her hand out and pulled the bedside phone beneath the covers. Then she waited, her heart pounding as she pretended to be asleep. One. Two. Three. Renata counted the seconds, forcing herself not to move too quickly lest she alert anyone watching.
Renata's first instinct was to dial 911, but then she realized that she was in a foreign country. Did they even have 911 in Finland? Panic frayed her nerves as she realized that she'd never been able to remember country codes. Who would she dial for help?
In her hand, she held the business card. Ms. Athena Kokkinos, it said, and below was printed the number, international country code and all.
She began to dial.
She had only pressed three numbers when the door flew open and Damon burst in, warmth in his tone. "Renata I forgot to tell you---"
Startled, Renata let the comforter slip, and now the telephone was in plain sight. She and Damon stared at one another as her fingers hovered over the buttons, frozen in fear.
"Who are you calling?" Damon demanded, all the warmth gone from his voice in an instant.
When Renata didn't answer, he charged towards her and plucked the business card from her hand. When he read it, a terrible shadow passed over his eyes, and he grabbed the phone. "Did you reach her?"
Renata scrambled back on the bed to escape his wrath. "No, no, I didn't get that far," she babbled, knowing she shouldn't provoke him further, but unable to keep her own temper from rising. "But you can't hold me captive forever. Some day, some way, I'll get free of you. You can't watch me every second."
"And when you do, you'll run to her?" Damon growled. "Even knowing what she wants you to do with your powers?"
"Why shouldn't I run to her?" Renata demanded. "Why shouldn't I save the world the burden of having to hunt these men down? They killed my family. I can return the favor."
"Who killed your family, Renata? Do you even know? Was it the Serbs, the Bosniaks, the Croats, the Montenegrins? Who killed their families before?"
"There's no moral equivalency," she snapped. "Don't equate what happened to them to what happened to us."
"I'm not," he started to say, but she was already clawing at him for the phone. She was on her knees, her legs tangled in the blankets as her nails dug into his black dress shirt.
She got hold of the phone and held onto it with all her strength. "Let me call her, Damon. You can't stop me from sculpting."
The more she wrestled with him the more it seemed to enraged him. "Let go of the phone," Damon snarled.
"You'll have to break my fingers first!" Renata shouted.
His jaw clenched as he brought his face close to hers, warning, "I'll do just that, Renata. I'll break your fingers, one by one, before I let you pick up a chisel again."
The force of his threat carried on his breath as it puffed into her face. It had the scent of gunpowder and the iron tang of blood. It carried the stench of corpses and carrion. It carried the very essence of dread. It was more than just a scent. It was a power that overwhelmed her. It was terror in its most primal form, and Renata could not fight it.
A thousand snakes of terror slithered inside her, coiling and striking her conscious mind. As the memories of her childhood flowed over her, she fell back on the bed and began to scream. Her scream came from such a deep part inside that it exploded out of her and scraped her raw. Her scream was a mixture of keening and rage, of grief and frenzy.
A mirror across the room from the bed shattered, glass shards scattering across the wooden floor like shell fragments.
What had he done to her? He was killing her.
Renata screamed again and the cabin windows rattled ominously. She was hurting her own ears and her skin felt like it was on fire. She was burning, burning. She would make the whole world burn with her.
"Renata, stop!" Damon was shaking her.
She saw him shout the words, reading his lips rather than hearing the sound. All she could hear was her own scream. She felt like her fingernails were fraying, hurt slicing through her, and she couldn't stop screaming.
It was agony.
Damon pushed her down, smothering her body with his own, urgently offering his flesh as the only respite from the pain. "I'm sorry!" he was whispering. "I'm going to take it away."
Desperate, she pressed her cheek to the bare skin of his chest where she'd torn his shirt. Where his skin touched hers, she felt the familiar tingle, the tug at the fear inside her, as if he were drawing it out of her, as if he were devouring it.
His mouth was open in silent feasting, twisted in a grimace. "Give me your terror. I'll take it away."
Renata didn't fight him. She let him have it all. Every nightmare, every secret, every horrible burden she carried. And as he drew the terror from her, Renata's screams turned to whimpers as she shivered against him.
Slowly, he eased her from dread to contentment, and her breathing calmed, easy and languid. In a rush, she scented the woodsy smoke of a warm meal spent in her father's lap, then the cherry Popsicles she used to bring her littler brother, which made him smile and stick out his red-stained tongue.
Damon gave her back these happier memories, eased her down into the bed, and let them flow over her.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that, in his arms, but soon found that she was as calm and relaxed as she'd ever been. She wanted to tell him that he'd taken enough, but he kept holding her, kept pulling from her the fear, the tensions, and more. He lay gasping on top of her, as if he were now the one in terrible pain.
He had taken the poison in her and pulled it into himself. He had saved her. She knew it as sure as she knew her own name. He had saved her, and he was the only one who could.
Beneath him, she felt her body tighten again, but this time with arousal. She wasn't afraid anymore, not of anything. Not of her wants, not of her needs, not of the raw desires that ached in her belly and breasts. Like she had in the bath, Renata wrapped her arms around his neck, but this time without restraint. Writhing beneath him, she kissed his neck, his chin, his mouth.
"Renata---" he began, but she cut him off.
"I want you," she said, and started to unbutton his ruined shirt. "I want you to see me. I'm not afraid."
His expression was pained. "That's because I consumed your fears. I went too far."
Undeterred, she pulled his shirt over his shoulders, and now that she saw the carved lines of his muscled chest, she wanted nothing more than to run her fingers over them. "Even so, I want you," she said again, reaching for his belt with a wanton freedom she'd never felt before.
He growled low in his throat, as if it was taking his every effort to resist her. She felt the hardness between his legs, but still he held back. "Not tonight," he said. "I took your inhibitions from you---this isn't right."
"Inhibitions only stop me from doing what I want to do," Renata said. She was wet, she was wanting, and she could not help but grind her hips. "You gave me terror---you can give me this."
It was too much for him. Using one arm to lift her up, he used the other to untie her robe. They undressed in haste, clothes kicked off and left crumpled wherever they fell. His mouth came down on her nipples and they hardened in reply. His thighs pushed between hers, splaying her beneath him. Then he was pushing inside her, filling her, and she arched up to meet him stroke for stroke.
Her nails dug into the sculpted muscles of his arms as his hips battered her own. Renata had never made love like this before. Never let herself moan aloud, never let herself guide a man's hands to touch her in just the way she wanted to be touched---not that Damon needed guidance. His hands were everywhere, until finally she was shaking at the precipice and with an artful thrust of his pelvis, he pushed her over the edge.
This time, when Renata screamed, it was with pleasure, and the music of it was a delight to her own ears. Damon wasn't far behind her. He let out an animal sound as he flooded her. Then together, they lay tangled and entwined.
Afterwards, Renata let him roll her onto her stomach and plant rows of kisses upon her back. She wasn't afraid. He'd been right. He could make her so unafraid, she'd strip down and swim naked in the sea. He could make her fearless, and it was the greatest gift anyone had ever given her.
As he kissed each tiny scar on her back with reverence, she sighed with contentment. At long last, she turned and rolled into his arms, caressing his face, his chest, and memorizing each line.
Perhaps it was her sculptress's touch that brought regret to his handsome face. "We shouldn't have done that."
"Why not?" Renata asked, quite certain that this was one of the best things she'd ever done.
"I frightened you," he said. "I went too far, always too far."
He looked tortured, so Renata tried to comfort him with a kiss at the corners of his clean-shaven upper lip, and inhaled the soapy scent of his skin. "Those screams had been inside me for a long time. Perhaps they needed to come out."
"Even so, I threatened to break your fingers." He took her hand from where it cupped the curve of his cheek and kissed each fingertip in turn. "It was unforgivable."
"I know you wouldn't really hurt me," she said.
"You don't know that," he said. "You don't know me."
She knew him. She might even be in love with him. He knew what she'd done. He knew what she was---a gorgon. He'd even seen her shatter mirrors, yet his attraction to her had not crumbled away. He knew her secrets, yet still thought she was beautiful. "I feel like I've always known you, Damon. The first time I saw you, your face was familiar, and I don't think it was only because you look like your brother."
It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes clouded over like a storm and he sat up in the bed, pulling the coverlet to his waist. "You don't even know my true name."
Renata was still too free from fear not to ask. "Then what is your true name?"
"Deimos, Son of Ares, and I feed upon fear. Terror sustains me. And I have hurt you, Renata. More than just tonight, more than you know. When I told you that you were a gorgon, you thought I was calling you a monster. But I'm the monster."
"Deimos," Renata repeated with wonder, trying the new name on her tongue and finding it pleasurable to say. She reached for his hand, but he was already up and out of the bed, finding his clothes and dressing.
"Do you know why my brother Phobos and I both look familiar to you? Because we were there the day of the explosion. We were both there the day soldiers ripped your life apart."
Renata tilted her head, searching her memories.
"The warriors in Bosnia called on the old immortals and we answered," he said. "My brother and I drove our father's chariot, spreading fear and dread. I saw you burning. I heard you scream that gorgon's scream that shattered windows and stopped soldiers in their tracks."
Renata remembered that now, how the fighting had stopped, how the soldiers had retreated long enough for her mother to scoop up her wounded body and try to get her to safety.
"And when you screamed," he continued, "It froze my blood inside me. I've carried this stone inside my heart ever since. I swore that I'd never drive my father's war chariot again."
Renata whispered now, "Did you ever drive it again?"
"No," he spat. "Mortal men create enough fear to feed me---never again will I help them make more."
Renata wanted to reach out for him, but as he pushed his dark hair back from his face he warned her away. "Every bad thing that has ever happened to you in your life is my fault. So you see, Renata, I have no right to touch you, no right to love you. And it won't happen again."
Chapter Eight
Since they'd made love, Renata's sense of fearlessness had faded, but she was still left with longing. She needed to talk to him, but he'd stayed away.
Everything had changed.
This time, when the goons came to fetch Renata and whisk her to the airport, Deimos wasn't with them. She was comforted to be back on his private jet, but it alarmed her that he wasn't on board.
When the plane was in the air and the pilot had taken off the seatbelt sign, one of Deimos's men delivered the crystal decanter to Renata. It was accompanied by an envelope with her name written in florid script.
Renata wondered if drinking more of the ambrosia-laced spirits would lift her mood, for she feared what lay coiled and lurking within the envelope. Mustering her courage, Renata tore the envelope open and found that it contained the sketch, the business card and a short, handwritten note.
Renata, I'm sending you home because I was wrong to have taken you in the first place. You have to make your own choices about how to use your powers, just as I've made my own. If you want to sculpt, then sculpt. I have no right to control, imprison, or decide for you. I can't protect you, but the ambrosia can. The more you drink, the less mortal you'll be. Don't share Medusa's fate.
Renata's studio looked smaller and shabbier than she remembered it, but she was grateful to see that Marta, the gallery owner, had found her python while she was away. Renata pressed her hand against the glass cage and watched Scylla's forked tongue taste the air. Renata lifted her nose to do the same, but didn't smell anything, comforting or otherwise.
She missed Deimos. If she closed her eyes, she could trace the contours of his face with her artists' fingers. She had memorized the smooth planes and the hard edges. But memories were no substitute for the warmth of his skin against hers. She had no way of contacting him, no way of telling him how much she ached for him. He was just gone. Gone from her life as if he'd never been there at all, and she wasn't certain she would ever see him again.
Meanwhile, she wandered around her apartment, aimlessly. Yellow police tape littered her studio like drooping party streamers, and Renata realized that they must have searched the whole place for clues to her whereabouts.
The first call she made was to her foster parents, who were so relieved to hear from her that they insisted on hopping on a plane to come see her. But Renata knew they'd ask questions she didn't want to answer---not yet, anyway---so she told them to give her some time to collect herself.
There were about a hundred calls from her therapist, and Renata deleted them all. It was near midnight. The skyline was as black as her mood, so she tied up her hair, picked up her chisel and began to sculpt.
Renata had been expecting a visit from Ms. Athena Kokkinos and her nephew the police detective a few days after her return, so she didn't startle at the knock. "Good to see you again," the detective said when Renata opened the door.
"I'm glad you think so, Phobos," she said, her heart aching at the familiarity of his face and the sadness of knowing that he only looked like the man she loved.
The detective seemed taken aback by the use of his true name, but his aunt pushed into the studio and marched over to Renata's workspace. With one good yank, she pulled the canvas off the stone then turned her angry eyes on Renata. "What's this?"
"It's a statue of my father and my brother," Renata said, squaring her shoulders. "I took all the details I remembered, all the sweet little lines of my baby brother's smile, all the rough calluses of my father's hands, and I brought them to life. At least, as much life as a gorgon can give to stone statues."
"I gave you a sketch to carve," the woman barked. "A sketch of a man you should hate. Make an end to him. Avenge your family."
"I should," Renata said. "But not the way you want me to. I won't kill for you."
"It isn't as if he doesn't deserve to die," she said.
"But that isn't why you want me to kill him," Renata said. "He's in jail and you can't reach him, but I can. He's on trial, and for some reason, you don't want him convicted. I only asked you to come here today so I could return your sketch to you. I can't accept your patronage."
The older woman glared at Renata and drew herself up to a towering height. "Do you know who I am?"
"Oh, I know," Renata said to the gray-eyed daughter of Zeus. "And I mean you no disrespect, but you'll have to find yourself another sculptress."
"Do I need to bend you to my will?" Athena asked.
"Only if you want to risk the lives of your other pets," Renata said. "Give me a chisel, and you never know what I might carve. Take my chisel away and I can always make a sculpture with a butter knife and a bar of soap."
Renata had no idea if this was a legitimate threat, but she felt that it was one that she needed to make.
"I'll make you too scared to refuse," Phobos said.
"If you do, I'll scream," Renata warned. "If you come near me, I'll scream my gorgon scream, so terrible that you'll choke on it."
Phobos looked as if he might test Renata's resolve, but his aunt stopped him. "Leave it be, Phobos. She'll change her mind in time, and when she does, she has my card. Let's go."
But Renata didn't think she would change her mind.
Besides, she had a different, more important call to make. This time, she dialed a lawyer in the Netherlands.
Renata stepped out of the International Court of Justice into the afternoon sun. It had been painful to relive those memories, to tell her story to the court, but now she felt as if she were taller, lighter and freer than she had ever been. Underneath the Peace Palace's cathedral-like spires, she felt reverent, and somehow it didn't surprise her to see Deimos waiting for her on the verdant lawn.
It had been more than a year since she'd seen him last, but his face was exactly the same. For he was ageless. As was her love for him. She knew in the moment he folded a newspaper under his arm and smiled at her. Renata wondered if it was the first time she had ever seen him smile.
"How did you find me?" Renata asked.
"Sometimes people call upon the oldest immortals and we answer," Deimos said, and then showed her the newspaper. "The headlines also helped."
"I was afraid to testify," Renata said.
"But you did it anyway," he said, taking her hands. "You helped to convict him, and all his crimes are exposed in the light of day. No one is going to take up his cause as an excuse to make war. I'm so proud of you."
Maybe it was that she was so happy to see Deimos again, or maybe it was that he was proud of her, or maybe it was the worshipful way he held her sculptress's fingers, but somehow she found herself blinking back tears. "I found a way to sculpt without hurting anyone," she said.
He reached up and brushed away her tears. "I'm not accustomed to dealing with people's better instincts, young lady, but I should have realized you'd find a better way. Anyway, I won't keep you. I just wanted to see you one last time."
"Take me with you," Renata said, the words bursting out of her. "Wherever you're going, I want to go with you."
"Renata, I've already told you. Everything bad that ever happened to you is my fault."
"You're wrong," she insisted. "It was mortal men who made war, not you. They called you and if you hadn't come, others would have. What happened to me would have happened with or without you."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Deimos told her.
"Even if I weren't sure, it doesn't matter," she said. "Because I love you and I forgive you."
"No," he said stubbornly. "You can't."
"I can," Renata said, feeling her gorgon's power strongly now. "You changed and that's what matters. You shaped yourself into something else. And that's what we all have to do. We all have to change before things will ever get better in the world."
"I don't know that things will ever get better," he told her sadly. "There will always be other wars---and other gorgons."
"And we'll stop them," she said. "Together."
"Together for how long?" he asked, his eyes off somewhere in the distance. "I left the decanter of ambrosia on the plane for you, but you didn't drink it. I think you mean to leave your options open, to escape my love with old age. You're always trying to run away from me."
"What if I'm done trying to escape you?" Renata wanted to know. "What if I drank the ambrosia now?"
His expression became fiercely possessive. "I'd keep you with me, forever."
"Then take me with you," she said. "We'll toast with ambrosia."
Deimos pulled Renata into his arms and devoured her in a kiss, the lushness of his lips eliciting a whimper from her. He kissed her, right there on the street, where anyone could see them, and Renata wasn't the least bit afraid.
"Let's go then," he said. "The plane is fueled up and ready."
"Where are we going?" Renata asked.
He arched a dark brow. "First? On our honeymoon."
"Then?" she asked, smiling.
He held her close, as if ready to take her fears from her should they ever come again. "Then, we should go back to Bosnia and look for your mother---if you're ready."
To her astonishment, Renata realized that she was.
Don't miss the other spooky and sensual NOCTURNE BITES:
SHADOW LOVER by Lydia Parks
RESURRECTION by Lisa Childs
SALVATION OF THE DAMNED by Theresa Meyers
HONOR CALLS by Caridad Piñeiro
WOLF BAIT by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
BLACKOUT by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
CLAWS OF THE LYNX by Linda O. Johnston
CAPUTRED by Lori Devoti
MORTAL ENEMY, IMMORTAL LOVER by Olivia Gates
BROKEN SOULS by Bonnie Vanak
SCIONS: PERCEPTION by Patrice Michelle
MAHINA'S STORM by Vivi Anna
WILDERNESS by Barbara J. Hancock
DREAMCATCHER by Anna Leonard
SON OF THE SEA by Nancy Holder
MATE OF THE WOLF by Karen Whiddon
RETURN OF THE BEAST by Lisa Renee Jones
RACING THE MOON by Michele Hauf
Looking for more paranormal romance? The sizzling and spine-chilling books of Silhouette Nocturne are available at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.
Interested in writing for Nocturne Bites? Send your submission to NocturneBites@Harlequin.ca
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3330-4
Midnight Medusa
Copyright © 2009 by Stephanie Dray
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

