Wicked Omen

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Wicked Omen ISBN 9781419916694 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Wicked Omen Copyright © 2008 Sherrill Quinn Edited by Briana St. James Photography and cover art by Les Byerley. Electronic book Publication July 2008 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

WICKED OMEN

Sherrill Quinn

Sherrill Quinn

Glossary Aphrodisian: A vampire who is a descendant of Aphrodite. They subsist off humans’ sexual energy instead of blood. Sex with an Aphrodisian is addictive. Aresian: A vampire who is a descendant of Ares. These are the strongest of the clans, second only to the “parent” godkin—Zeusians, Hadesians and Poseidonites. Athenite: A vampire who is a descendant of Athena. The most violent of the godkin, these vampires don’t hesitate to take what they want by whatever means necessary. Blood Price Tattoo: Athenian vampires have been known to take unprotected Heliosian vampires as slaves (those who do not have a nest). Because Helosian vampires often lack the strength to overpower Athenians (unless they release the power of plague, which rots them as well as their victims), they must earn their freedom by one hundred years or more of slavery. At the conclusion of their service, they are given a tattoo that shows they have won their freedom and can not be enslaved again by another Athenian. Godkin: The offspring of the Greek gods; also known as vampires. Hadesian: A vampire who is a descendant of Hades. These vampires have the ability to visit death upon any they touch if they so wish to. They can also become invisible for a brief time, but it requires a tremendous amount of energy to do so. These are the most darkly seductive of the godkin. Heliosian: A vampire who is a descendant of the sun god Helios. These vampires can go out into the harshest of sunlight, though it does tend to give them a more aged appearance than other vampires. They have the ability to mesmerize with music/song. They may also visit a plague upon others by touching them, though they then become victims themselves. 4

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Hephaestian: A vampire who is a descendant of Hephaestus. These are the craftsmen of the godkin, creating deadly weaponry as well as exquisite jewelry. They are just as comfortable using the weapons they create. Nest: A tribe/group/clan of vampires

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Prologue The Greek gods were not known for their restraint. They lived large and loud and fucked like bunnies every chance they got. It didn’t matter if it was a human woman, a Muse, a Nymph or a goddess. If she was female, they sent their sticks and berries into the bush. And goddesses were just as randy. There were consequences. Their children—known as godkin—had the same hedonistic appetites as their Olympian parents. And with each succeeding generation, something else became apparent. The descendants of the gods had a price to pay for their immortality—they had to feed on the blood or energy—or both—of other living creatures in order to sustain their own lives. The gods, as gods are wont to do, didn’t concern themselves with these insignificant problems, though from time to time they have popped in to cause mischief for their offspring—godly entertainment, if you will. Other than that, they’ve kept to themselves, eating, drinking and being oh–so–very merry in all sorts of ways. But their descendants—those immortal beings now known as vampires—continue on, some good, some bad, but all… Deliciously naughty.

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Chapter One

The City-State of Sparta, 623 B.C. Nikolaos, general of Sparta, swung his short sword in an arc, slicing through the throats of two enemy troops. Spinning on one heel, he met an attack from behind. The Thracian mercenary bearing down on him wore streaks of blood on his face, so much so it nearly obscured the color of his skin. The blood of his enemies, worn where others could see it, one finger-width per kill. This man—this Thracian pig—had killed his share of Spartoi today. For that, he too would die. Nikolaos would be most happy to dispatch him to Tartarus, where the pig could roast in the fires of the deepest pits of Hades’ domain. Nikolaos felt the bloodlust boiling in his veins, hardening the muscles of his face, burning in the depths of his eyes. He knew the visage he presented to the enemy—the long fangs and glowing crimson eyes of an Aresian vampire in full battle lust. He was doubly blessed by Ares. Not only was the war god his paternal greatgrandfather, he was also the progenitor of all Spartoi. Holding tightly to his control, keeping the bloodlust at bay for the moment, Nikolaos called upon the power of his dual bloodline and met his advancing foe. They came together with a clash of swords. Nikolaos had lost his spear and shield hours ago and had been fighting hand-to-hand ever since. His muscles were tight with fatigue. The smell of sweat and blood was overpowering, but he was inured to it all. He’d been a warrior for two hundred years now, and if this Thracian thought he had better skills than Nikolaos, he’d soon find out he was wrong. Dead wrong. “Spartan dog!” The Thracian blocked Nikolaos’ parry and came in low, his bloodstained sword held in a forward thrust aimed at Nikolaos’ gut. 7

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Nikolaos blocked the attack, spinning quickly to put enough distance between them so he could maneuver his own short sword to dispatch this pig to hell. He feinted to the left. When the other man moved to block the advance, it left him vulnerable. Nikolaos thrust his sword deep, putting all his Aresian strength behind the blow. His short sword drove through the man’s hardened leather breastplate straight into his body, all the way to the hilt. With one hand on the Thracian’s shoulder, Nikolaos twisted his wrist, driving the blade upward, and watched while life fled. Hearing the clank of armor behind him, he yanked his sword free and whirled to face his new adversary. The captain of his troops held up one hand. His own sword was in his bloodied right hand and he came forward with a slight limp. “We’ve routed them, Lord General.” He swiped a dirty hand across his face. “Those who are not dead are in custody.” He glanced at the corpse by Nikolaos’ feet. “This was the last of them.” Nikolaos nodded. He went down on one knee beside the Thracian and wiped his sword against the man’s tunic, then sheathed it, rising as he did so. He looked away from the dead man, vaguely unsettled by the look of surprise in the wide-open eyes. “Am I the only one who sees the danger in having more Helot slaves than Spartoi, Castor?” He shook his head. “Especially since they now have mercenaries like this Thracian kunarion fighting their battles for them?” “No, my lord.” Castor looked out over the hillside, strewn with bodies. “I also share your concern. To think that I leave my wife and children alone and vulnerable…” He trailed off. Then, with a sigh, he murmured, “I have nothing but respect for our kings, but they push our expansion too fast. If we do not accept new blood into the ranks of the Spartoi, we will soon be a minority in our own lands.” “Careful how loudly you say that, my friend,” Nikolaos cautioned. “King Anaxander especially would be most displeased to hear such words.”

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Castor waved one hand in dismissal. “He can ill-afford to censure seasoned warriors.” He sheathed his sword and rested his hand on the hilt. “How is it you have never sat on the throne? You’ve seen two centuries’ worth of kings come and go. Surely the Ephora must recognize your worthiness to lead our people.” “Even if the governing council recognizes my worthiness, as you put it,” Nikolaos responded, “you must be of the royal bloodline to lead Sparta. I am not.” “Yet you are as much a son of Ares as any of them. More so.” Castor took a step forward and placed one hand on Nikolaos’ forearm. “Many of us would gladly take up arms to ensure—” “Stop!” Nikolaos flung Castor’s hand away from him and scowled at his second-incommand. “I have no desire to sit on the throne. It is treason to suggest it.” “I have no fear of dying.” “Nor I.” There had been a time not all that long ago when Nikolaos would have welcomed the sting of death, had eagerly anticipated the journey to the Isles of the Blessed where all heroes spent eternity. He was tired of war, tired of the loneliness that ate away at his soul. It wasn’t easy, watching those around him grow old and die while he stayed youthful and fit. But in spite of his many headlong rushes into battle, the god of the underworld apparently did not want him. Nikolaos would have thought one less Aresian on this plane of existence would be a good thing, but it seemed Hades preferred that the vampire descendents of the gods be Zeus’ problem instead of his. “I’d prefer to die in battle,” Nikolaos went on, “than at the end of an executioner’s axe.” “Aye, my lord.” Castor turned away from him and started back the way he’d come. Nikolaos fell into step beside him. Within moments, they came upon the rest of his troops. He scanned the crowd, at one glance taking in the beaten Helots on their knees with their hands behind their heads, huddled in a group with the tired but victorious

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Spartoi gathered ’round them. But there was one man missing… “Where’s Deucalios?” he asked, referring to his boyhood friend and fellow Aresian vampire. Castor’s throat moved with his hard swallow. “He has fallen, my lord.” He gestured toward the rocky knoll that crowned the hill upon which they stood. In spite of the warmth of the day and his own overheated, battle-worn body, a chill iced its way through Nikolaos. With leaden steps, he walked in the direction his lieutenant had pointed. There, in what clearly had been a killing frenzy, Deucalios lay in pieces. The gaping hole in his chest was further mute testament that the butchers who did this knew how to make sure the Aresian warrior could not be restored to life. Fisting his hands, Nikolaos went to his knees beside his fallen comrade. His eyes burned with unshed tears, his throat tightened around the howl of grief clawing to be set free. What was the benefit in having near immortality if it only made you a target of vicious attacks like this? Until the heart had been removed from his chest, Deucalios would have been coherent enough to feel every bite of the blade that rendered him asunder. The only reason Nikolaos could think of for the viciousness of the attack was because, like him, Deucalios was an Aresian. When Nikolaos returned to Sparta, he would visit the oracle and discover whatever portends she could envision. For now, though, he would avenge his friend. He put his hand palm down in a deep crimson pool of his friend’s blood. Then he placed his hand on his brass chest plate, over his heart, marking himself with Deucalios’ life essence. “I will avenge you, my brother,” he muttered, bowing his head. Grief turned to an all-consuming rage that brought back his bloodlust. A red haze colored his vision. He jumped to his feet and returned to the captives. His nostrils flared as he sought out those who had brought Deucalios to such an ignoble death. He paused in front of each enemy soldier, breathing deeply, taking in the multitude of scents that fierce battle always brought. The coppery smell of blood, the pungent 10

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tang of sweat, the stench of fear. But there was one particular aroma he sought—the same scent that wafted to his nostrils from the bloody palm print on his chest. Deucalios cried out for vengeance. It wasn’t until he reached the sixth Helot that he found what he sought. With one hand wrapped around the man’s throat, Nikolaos hauled him up, letting his feet dangle in the air. The man scrabbled at Nikolaos’ hand with fingers coated with dried blood as he gasped for breath. “Did you think this butchery would go unpunished?” Nikolaos eased the man down until his feet touched the ground. He moved one hand to the man’s shoulder and with the other tilted the man’s head, baring his throat. The combination of lingering battle lust and scouring rage hardened his body. He wouldn’t touch this man in a sexual manner were Zeus himself to order it, but taking his blood was another thing altogether. “Think again, little man.” Castor grabbed Nikolaos’ shoulder. “My lord…” When Nikolaos turned toward him with a snarl, the other man held his ground, though his bloody, dirt-stained face paled. “Are you certain you wish to do this here? Now?” Castor gestured toward the group of men with an upward tilt of his chin. “Why not?” Lust for blood and revenge beat at Nikolaos, making his pulse thud behind his eyes, his fangs ache with the need to pierce flesh. “Is it any worse than what was done to Deucalios? Perhaps they should see what happens when they anger an Aresian. They might think twice the next time they try to rebel.” Castor lifted his hands in supplication. “You may do as you see fit, of course, and none would gainsay you.” His dark gaze met Nikolaos’. “But they have seen how our great god of war shows no particular favor toward his vampire kin. Another act of brutality may only serve to fan the flames of dissent.” Nikolaos released his grip and the frightened Helot fell to the ground with a low whimper. “Speak carefully, Captain,” Nikolaos muttered. His need hammered at him,

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making his speech guttural. The two-inch fangs hanging over his bottom lip did nothing for the clarity of his diction either. Castor walked several paces away and paused, waiting for Nikolaos to join him. Once he did, the other man murmured, “I direct you back to our earlier conversation, Lord General. Already we have more Helots than we Spartoi can realistically manage. If these serfs decide to stop working the land, decide that dying is better than giving over half of their crops to their Spartan masters, what then?” Nikolaos clenched his jaw. “So you suggest that we appease them.” “Not appease, my lord. Not exactly. I think we must pick the battles we can win and not cause upset where it is not necessary.” “In other words, appease them.” Nikolaos shook his head. “If they believe they have success in even one small skirmish, they will fight on. Then they’ll lay down their lives rather than provide the necessary foodstuffs for their masters.” He glanced back at the group of men. Even though they were on their knees in a posture of defeat, he saw from the set of shoulders and the still-burning flames of righteous anger in their gazes that they were not entirely cowed. “We are warriors, Castor. We know nothing of farming.” “Nor should we, Lord General. I merely provide a caution in exacting vengeance where all can see.” Nikolaos studied his trusted captain. The man’s words rang with a certain verity, yet Nikolaos could not—would not—allow Deucalios’ murder go unavenged. “Fine. We’ll let the Assembly determine what’s to be done with these men. Except for him.” He turned and pointed to the man who still wore the scent of his murdered friend’s blood. “He’s mine. Bring him to me.” With that he spun on his heel and started down the rocky slope toward the Spartan encampment. He didn’t look behind him to see what was happening with the captured Helots—he knew Castor would see that his orders were carried out.

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Nikolaos pushed back the flap of his war-tent and entered. Inside were accoutrements of life in battle—his bedroll and coarse woolen blankets, a small table and chair for planning strategies, a rock pit for a fire in the evening and a knapsack with extra clothing. Scowling, he pulled off his helmet and placed it on the table. He removed his red cape, his scowl deepening at the tears in the fabric. Although that was the cloak’s function—to act as a barrier and to hide his wounds and any blood that otherwise might be bared for the enemy to see—for an adversary to get that close… He needed to increase the intensity of his practice sessions. He sat down on the rickety chair that always surprised him with its ability to withstand his bulk. With a low grunt, he leaned over and unfastened his greaves, straightening to set the bronze shin guards on the table. Then he closed his eyes and rotated his shoulders to ease the tension riding him. Ares preserve me. He needed a blood thrall, but the uncertain—and often brutal—life of a warrior on the battlefield didn’t lend itself to having a companion who would be left unguarded and vulnerable. His eyes burned. He could wait until his captain brought him the Helot who’d murdered Deucalios. Then he would replenish the blood he’d lost from wounds sustained during the battle as well as discover whether others were involved in the despicable butchery. In the meantime, he had to get the stench of war cleansed from his body. There was no time or means for a true bath, but he had a bucket of water and cleansing rags. They would have to do. He stood and shrugged out of his breastplate, hanging it from a nail in the center post. He traced one finger through the drying blood of his friend, then discarded his sandals and the rest of his clothing. He dipped one of the cloths into the water and stroked it over his torso and arms. The tepid temperature of the water helped cool his overheated body, yet there was one part of him that refused to be appeased. Battle and blood always made him hard, ready for sex. 13

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He wrapped the wet cleansing cloth around his erection and stroked, hard tugs of his hand, uncaring of technique. He had but one goal—relief from the lust that made his flesh ache. He was just about to ejaculate when a clearing of a throat from outside his tent garnered his attention and stayed his release. He let go of his flagging erection. “Come,” he growled, not bothering to cover his nudity—or his still half-erect cock. He was not the only man in camp in this condition and so whoever entered would not be surprised to see him thus. Castor ducked between the flaps of the tent, pulling along with him the Helot. The man’s hands were bound behind his back and his feet were fettered with manacles and a short chain. The captain gave the man a push, sending him tumbling to his knees. “Perhaps this kunarion can provide you some relief, Lord General.” Castor’s gaze flicked down to Nikolaos’ erection, his dark eyes flaring with unmistakable interest. It wouldn’t be the first time the captain had satisfied Nikolaos’ lust-ridden body after a heated skirmish. Castor had dispensed with his helmet. His dark hair was wet, his face, hands and arms cleansed of the blood that had streaked his skin. Clearly, he’d taken the time to bathe some of the stench of battle from his body as well. “Not in a thousand lifetimes,” Nikolaos muttered. He inhaled, taking in the scent of the defeated man’s fear, and the bloodlust hammered at him. “But he can provide relief of another sort.” “Do what you will to me. It cannot be worse than a life of slavery.” The Helot met Nikolaos’ gaze briefly, then his eyelids dropped and he stared at the ground. “You think not?” Nikolaos took his time studying the man, allowing the fear to escalate. Soon the overriding energy from the strong emotion zinged through Nikolaos’ veins, heightening his arousal so that his rod rose toward his belly. He took the few steps necessary to stand directly in front of the enemy. “Accept your place in life. You are no longer a free man. You will never again be a free man.” The man’s jaw flexed, but he remained silent. 14

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Nikolaos could no longer ignore his need for blood. “Have you ever been the blood thrall of an Aresian? No, of course you haven’t.” He answered his own question. “Else you’d know there are worse things than death.” He lifted the man to his feet and twisted him over his arm, then fit his teeth into the man’s throat. Hot, coppery blood flowed over his tongue and down his throat. He vaguely heard the man’s shout, felt him begin to struggle and tightened his grip. His wounds began to heal. His energy was replenished. As he drank more and more, the Helot’s struggles lessened. Once Nikolaos had drunk his fill, he shoved the weakened man away from him. Emotions beat at him—fatigue, fear, hatred—all coming from the man whose blood he’d just taken. Castor caught the staggering Helot and raised one brow. “You did not finish him.” “There is more I need from him.” To the Helot, he said, “You will cooperate with my men,” he intoned and pushed at the man’s mind with his own, instilling a sense of panicked anxiety at the thought of not helping. Nikolaos looked at Castor. “Find out who else was involved in Deucalios’ death.” He would see that they all paid for their perfidy. “Aye, my lord.” Castor half-dragged, half-carried the Helot to the flaps of the tent. He called to another man to take the prisoner away and interrogate him, and turned once again to Nikolaos. His gaze centered on the hard shaft rising against Nikolaos’ belly. “It would be my privilege, Lord General, to give you relief.” Feeling like his cock could drill through stone, Nikolaos nodded. He turned, picked up one of his folded blankets, doubled it over and dropped it at his feet. His captain licked his lips and went to his knees on the thick material. One calloused palm cupped Nikolaos’ heavy balls while the other stroked down his thick cock, sliding the foreskin along his glans with rough friction. The other man gave a low moan and dipped his head, taking Nikolaos’ rod deep until the fat head hit the back of his throat. 15

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Fire raced from Nikolaos’ balls through his shaft. His hips bucked, driving his cock deeper. He pulled back but Castor’s hands moving around to grip his buttocks was all the encouragement he needed. He began shuttling in and out of his captain’s mouth with rough urgency. Castor moved one hand back to Nikolaos’ balls while he stroked the fingers of his other hand in the crease of Nikolaos’ ass. As Nikolaos withdrew, Castor’s tongue swept around his cock head, tapping on the underside and dipping into the slit to draw out the viscous liquid weeping from the tip. Then he closed his lips around the head and sucked, his cheeks hollowing. His tongue swept around the rim, laving, setting fire to nerves, making Nikolaos’ cock grow more rigid. Castor gave a low moan and opened his mouth and went down on Nikolaos, taking the entire length of turgid flesh, letting the head slip down his throat. The hot wetness surrounding his cock sent a shudder up Nikolaos’ spine. His balls drew tight against his body. Castor released his cock and licked his way down the shaft until he reached Nikolaos’ sac, then he pulled one taut testicle into the warmth of his mouth. He curled his fingers around Nikolaos’ cock and stroked him as he sucked gently on first one ball and then the other. Nikolaos shuddered and thrust his hips forward, his burning climax building ever higher. The captain made a sound deep in his throat and took Nikolaos’ shaft between his lips once again. Strong fingers tugged and squeezed his sac. The hot, wet mouth around his shaft and the rough fingers plying his balls brought Nikolaos to a swift, brutal release. He gripped Castor’s head, thrusting deep, and spurted down the other man’s throat. Castor kept working his cock, his tongue sliding around the head, tapping on the underside, dipping into the slit where the last traces of Nikolaos’ cum lingered. Nikolaos knew his captain would continue to service him until he told him to stop. But since he could feel the renewed stirrings in his flesh, he knew that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

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Chapter Two Kalla of Messenia took her place on the small padded bench that served as the Seat of the Oracle. The newly built temple to Ares in the heart of the city-state of Sparta was dark and decorated sparsely—as if the Spartans would do it any other way. She supposed she was lucky to have a cushion on the bench—it was a luxury many Spartans disdained, preferring instead to sit on hard, curved wooden seats. Yet another reason she was glad she was Messenian, even if it meant for the moment that she was a Helot—a slave—to the hated Spartans. She had been here only two months and she missed her home, her family, with an intensity she could taste. Other than a few torches on the walls, this room held nothing else. She glanced about, as always uneasy being in a temple of the god of war. She was a follower of Athena, not Ares, and had the feeling—nay, the certainty—that one day the goddess would strike out at her for her disloyalty. Or at the very least visit grief upon her for what Athena most likely would see as Kalla’s defection to Ares. But what else can I do? She was in an untenable position. Praxiteles, the most senior member of the ruling council—the Ephora, made up of seasoned warriors who had seen at least their sixtieth summer—had threatened to have her father and brothers killed unless she cooperated. And, not for the first time, she wondered why he’d chosen her. Except for the fact that he was their Spartan master, she and her family had few dealings with him other than when her brothers delivered half the family’s crops to him twice a year. So how had he found out about her true gift—visions granted by the warrior goddess? Kalla sighed. Her ability to foresee events, both those already past and those yet to come, was well known in her home province. It was likely that one of her fellow Helots, 17

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trying to spare his or his family’s lives, had told of this gift the goddess had bestowed upon her, and Praxiteles was determined to use it to his full advantage. Odious wretch. The man in question walked into the inner chamber. He came nearer, his usual smug smile in place. Praxiteles was average for a Spartan, which meant he still eclipsed her by several inches and at least fifty pounds. And though he had just seen his sixtyfifth summer, he remained fit and virile. Thick thighs below the short chiton were just beginning to show the kind of muscle loss that age brought. She knew firsthand how strong he was, having been the recipient of the back of his hand several times before she finally relented to his “request” for her help in this game of deception. She would have to make sure she stayed within the parameters Praxiteles had set for her. And it wasn’t as if she had a choice. If she didn’t… She pressed a hand against her stomach where a hard knot formed. She could betray her family or she could betray the Spartans. You can do this. You have to do this. Looking at Praxiteles as he walked toward her, she wondered at the hunger for power that seemed to all but consume him. His chiton was trimmed in red embroidery, the symbol of a fish on the material just below his collarbones adding a splash of color to his white clothing. Unlike most Spartans, the brooches at his shoulders, holding his chiton together, were ornate, made of gold and bearing a number of small, colorful jewels. Why couldn’t his people see him for the hypocrite he was? On the other hand, perhaps they did and simply didn’t care. Apathy on the part of the Spartans could explain why Praxiteles had become as powerful as he had. And by keeping the warriors out on campaigns as much as he had, leaving the city with only women, children and old men except for a garrison or two of guards, guaranteed he could complete his machinations without much oversight.

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He stopped in front of her, his dark gaze traveling the length of her body, lingering at her breasts and groin before coming back to her face. “You look right at home, Kalla.” He stroked one hand over her bare shoulder. Kalla resisted the urge to ask him how his wife fared, knowing that would only earn her a hard slap on the face. Most Spartans took their marriage vows seriously, but she wondered how much of it was because the women were trained nearly as well as the men and could certainly do some damage if they had a mind to. She allowed herself a brief fantasy of the senior Ephor being skewered by his wife’s spear. Praxiteles played with the brooch at her shoulder. She fought the urge to fidget, still uncomfortable in the soft floor-length chiton that left one shoulder bare and was belted beneath her breasts. She was used to coarser wool fastened at each shoulder and gathered simply at the waist. All he would have to do was unfasten the brooch and the material would tumble down, leaving her breasts bare to his gaze, his touch. Thankfully, he left the clasp alone and slid his hand down her arm, lifting her hand to clasp her fingers in his. She gave a slight tug to test his hold, as always loath to feel his skin against hers. “Do not test me, Kalla.” His voice dropped a notch. “One word from me and a squad of hoplites will be dispatched to your family’s farm. And then no more father, no more brothers.” He played with her fingers, bending them, exerting pressure enough to cause discomfort. When she kept her face bland, not showing that he was having any affect on her, he leaned closer and murmured in her ear, “If I can kill a servant who has been in my household for nearly ten years, what makes you think you would have immunity from my displeasure?” Again she made no answer. Praxiteles pulled back and frowned down at her. “Do not push me too far, little Helot.” An effective reminder that he held all the power and she held none. No matter. She would rather be a poor Helot than the richest Spartoi. They were barbaric, placing physical strength above all else, so much so that newborn babes who were deemed too 19

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small or sickly were placed on the side of Mount Taigetos to die. Only a week ago, one of her friends had found a squalling infant and had rescued it, deciding to raise it as her own. As many Helots had done before. The old man tapped one fingertip against her chin. “I am still your master.” She ducked her head, as much to hide her growing anger at the injustice of it all as to conceal her fear. One wrong step—just one—and her brothers would die. She couldn’t bear that on her conscience. She cast her gaze down and tried to look as subservient as possible, though her frustration and the sense of helplessness that were her constant companions rose. Detestable man. Though she wondered why he would kill a tenured house servant, for him it could have been any reason. His morning bread wasn’t fresh enough or the cheese wasn’t sliced thick enough or the servant didn’t move fast enough. So she bit back the question her curiosity prompted and instead, keeping her voice soft and obsequious, murmured, “I am yours to command.” “Yes, you are.” Praxiteles cupped her chin and tilted her face, tacit approval for her to meet his gaze, which she did. She noticed that his eyes had specks of green in the brown, framed by thick black lashes. No man should have eyes that beautiful, especially one as odious as this. He gave a smile of praise, his expression one an indulgent master would show to a favored pet. His mouth hovered over hers as he added, “But once King Leotychides is deposed and Anaxander is the one true king of all Sparta, you may rest assured we will have this discussion again.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his breath warm against her face, his smell not unpleasant. Were he not such a detestable human being, she might have enjoyed his company. “I am aware of Nikolaos’ interest in you. It could work in our favor.” Outraged that he would include her as if she were a willing participant in his schemes to undermine the diarchy, she stiffened. While it was true she was a participant in the plan to have one of the kings removed from power, it was under 20

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extreme duress. Had she any power of her own to keep her family safe, she would never have agreed to this pretense. “Whilst I would prefer to keep you for myself, if it furthers our cause to have the Aresian between your thighs, then by all means seduce him.” A low laugh left him. “I’ve heard the man is nearly insatiable. I’m surprised he hasn’t killed any of the females he’s bedded.” Yes, that was a concern. Kalla bit the inside of her cheek and tried to keep her face without expression. Over the last two months—especially when Nikolaos had visited her here at the temple—she had often wondered what he would be like as a lover. He was a warrior and a vampire, so she did not expect tenderness. But oft times the wilder the lovemaking, the more fulfilling. Her pussy spasmed, protesting its emptiness, demanding in its need. But she maintained her composure. She would not give Praxiteles anything more to use against her than she already had. Were he to know how badly she wanted Nikolaos…why, he’d more than likely order her to whore herself and then hide in a darkened corner so he could watch. His lips touched the corner of her mouth again and she stiffened even more, fighting the urge to jerk away from him. “You’re learning,” he muttered against her mouth. At the wet slide of his tongue against her lips, Kalla closed her eyes and swallowed the bitter vitriol running up her throat. Athena deliver me, she prayed, not surprised when the goddess didn’t answer her request. After all, was she not pretending to be an Oracle of Ares? Why should she expect help from her patron goddess after such disloyalty? Praxiteles curled his hand over her breast, fingers kneading her through her chiton. The unwelcome caress left her unmoved. As he pulled back from her, she opened her eyes to see his graying brows drawn low. He stared at her, dark eyes sparkling with irritation. Several moments passed, during which he kept his hand on her breast, no 21

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doubt trying to make her feel even more uncomfortable, not only by his hand where it was but also by the lengthening silence. He wouldn’t know it, but she had never been one to feel a need to fill a lull in conversation. She could stand here quietly as long as he could. Probably longer, considering his position as a senior politician. He nodded a few times as if coming to some sort of conclusion and dropped his hand. As he moved away from her, he said, “Here is the first vision you’re to share with Nikolaos the next time he comes to consult with you.” The senior Ephor went on to tell a horrendous tale of battle, of one of their own being brutally dismembered, his heart removed and burned. She shivered, realizing he spoke of one of the godkin. Vampires who were descended from the gods themselves. Kalla wondered of whom he spoke—other than Nikolaos, she knew of at least three other Aresian vampires who lived and fought among the Spartans. She was relieved it wasn’t Nikolaos and irritated that she should care one way or the other. Nikolaos was first and foremost a Spartan—the enemy. If he fell in battle, it would be one less hated Spartan in the world. A cramp in the vicinity of her heart made her catch her breath. She had come to think of Nikolaos less and less as the enemy and more and more as a friend with the potential to become someone very important to her. But that would mean giving up everything she believed in, all her hopes of one day seeing her people living free from Spartan tyranny. Besides, Spartan law would never allow her, a Helot, to marry a Spartan citizen, especially one of their decorated and revered generals. Plus there was the fact that he was a vampire. Nikolaos was Ares’ descendent twice over—by his birth as a Spartan and by being the great-grandson of the god himself. Could she really love someone who drank other people’s blood in order to sustain his life? 22

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It was yet another reminder of just how very different they were. As if he realized she no longer focused on him, Praxiteles snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “One day, little Helot, I’ll have your complete attention. Once the mighty Nikolaos has been felled on the field of battle, there will be none left against me.” He didn’t sound as if he were speaking hypothetically. “You know this will happen?” Steeling herself against the distaste being this close to him brought, Kalla leaned forward, staring into his eyes with all the admiration she could muster. Which wasn’t much. His grin was wide and devious. “I’m a powerful man, Kalla. I can do whatever I want. If I want Nikolaos dead—” He snapped his fingers. “I have people to do the job— either willingly or reluctantly. It doesn’t matter—if I say it’s to be done, it’s done.” “And it will be done…when?” “Soon enough. I think I’ve been patient enough with that particular irritation. The next time he goes to battle… Trust me. He won’t be coming back.” Oh great goddess. What was she to do? Praxiteles wrapped one arm around her waist and drew her up against his hardened body. His free hand curled lightly around her throat, the thumb tipping her chin up. He had just begun to lower his mouth to hers when there came a noise from the outer chamber. Kalla heard Nikolaos’ deep voice calling out to his second-incommand, telling him to stable his horse for him. Immediately her heart banged against her ribs in recognition and anticipation, even as she cautioned herself to not feel anything. Getting involved emotionally with Nikolaos would only bring her heartache. Though all their contact in the past few months had been as oracle and seeker, she had learned a lot about this man’s character. Chiefly that he would brook no disloyalty toward him or his precious Spartans.

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Praxiteles drew back. Looking toward the door to the outer chamber, he scowled, then tapped her on the chin. His hard gaze held hers. “One day you won’t be saved so conveniently, little oracle. One day it will be just you and me, and on that day the sword of my flesh shall rest in your sheath.” He pressed a quick, brutal kiss to her lips. “Don’t disappoint me.” He released her and strode through a side door to an antechamber that also served as her bedroom. From there he could slip past Nikolaos unnoticed. The door closed behind him just as Nikolaos’ heavy treads approached the entrance to the main chamber. Sweet Athena. Here was a chance to bring the mighty Spartan government to its knees, to be instrumental in an internal struggle for power that might result in freedom for her people. She should feel joyful. But when Nikolaos came into the room, his black gaze focused completely on her, his tired face lightening with pleasure, Kalla felt only sorrow. And confusion that it should be so. The big vampire closed the door behind him—a signal to all that the Oracle was not to be disturbed—and walked toward her with long strides. He was dressed simply today, without his cape, and she had a better opportunity to study him and appreciate the fine physique of the Spartan warrior. Even as she berated herself for noticing the muscular thighs and bulging biceps that made her fingers itch with the urge to test their hardness, her gaze wandered over every inch of him. Her pulse quickened and she felt her lower body clench with sudden, irrational desire. By Athena’s aegis, he was the enemy. She shouldn’t be lusting after him, no matter how firm his buttocks were. Though were she to be honest with herself, there was more than lust roiling through her. She had come to care for this man who was more than a man, whether she wanted to admit it or not. When he reached her, he bowed his head and went down on one knee in a traditional show of respect. “May the gods grant you clarity of vision.”

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“And may they bestow health and prosperity upon you and yours,” she answered just as formally. His head came up and he grinned. The expression was fleeting for, as he rose to his feet, his face settled once more into grim lines. “I’ve missed you,” he said, lifting one hand to smooth the back of his fingers over her cheek. He smelled like clean, fresh soap and warm, sexy man. Clasping her hands in front of her, Kalla resisted the urge to trace the creases bracketing Nikolaos’ sensual lips. He looked sad and angry, and so lustful her body immediately reacted with cream sliding from her sheath to lie slickly along her labia. “And I you,” she replied truthfully, albeit reluctantly. She had missed him, damn him. And because she couldn’t hide her concern, she touched him, running one finger from the edge of his aquiline nose to the corner of his mouth. “You look tired.” He caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’m better now.” She knew he meant now that he was with her. Great Athena, why did he have to be so nice? Didn’t he know he wasn’t supposed to be kind? He was a Spartan and a vampire, for Olympus’ sake. Neither creature was known for being benign. Keeping her hand in his, he leaned down and took her mouth in a soft kiss. His lips coaxed hers to part and his tongue slipped inside, tangling with hers. Her breath sighed out. She leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his hard chest. She felt protected in his arms, making it easier to forget just how much danger she was in. When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against hers. They stood thus for several minutes, then his chest lifted in a deep sigh. “I needed that.” So had she. He brushed his lips against her forehead and drew far enough away to look down at her. “I grow tired of battle, Kalla.” His sigh wafted over her skin, making her shiver with awareness. Long black lashes swept down, hiding his gaze from her. “Yet battle is the only life I have known—the only life I have wanted to know.”

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She searched his face, looking for an indication of what he was feeling. His face was its usual impassive mask. A warrior’s face, hard, giving nothing away to friend or foe. Another sigh left him and his eyes slowly opened. She was surprised to see a shadow of doubt there—he had always been so self-assured. His chest rose with a sigh. “I have sworn my life to the preservation of Sparta, but with the Messenian uprisings… I’m not certain our way of life can exist much longer.” I could have told you that. But she kept her words behind her teeth, wanting to see where he would go after this revelation. The firm line of his mouth softened for a moment. “As much as I would like to lose myself in the solace of your arms, I find that I need your foresight more, Oracle.” Knowing she must give him the vision as Praxiteles instructed, Kalla gently eased away from him and from her desire to know what was going on in his complex mind. She had a duty to perform and she would do it—she had no other choice. Perching on the bench, she linked her fingers together. “Something most troubling was shared with me just before you arrived.” Not an untruth. After all, Praxiteles had given her the “vision” she was to pass along. “What was it?” Nikolaos came to her and went to his knees before her. Taking her hands in his, he flexed her fingers gently before twining them through his. “Tell me.” “I do not know if this has happened already or is yet to come.” All right, that was definitely a lie, since she knew the terrible deed had already occurred. But to play her part, she had to pretend the vision wasn’t that specific. It was up to the seeker to determine if it was something he had already lived through or if he had yet to experience it. “Tell me,” he urged again, briefly squeezing her fingers. His hands were dark against her fairer skin, the fingers broad and long. The sprinkling of black hair along the backs and up his wrists and forearms made him all the more masculine. 26

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She’d finally found a man she could very easily fall in love with and he was the enemy. Sometimes she didn’t appreciate the gods’ sense of humor. Not at all. Kalla swallowed back her reluctance to lie to him. There was no alternative. Closing her eyes, she pitched her voice low and plunged ahead. “I see blood. Bodies. A fierce battle.” She took a breath and held it, then let it out slowly. “The clash of swords. A fallen man. Unseeing eyes. A broken heart.” She paused and bit her lip. Sweet Athena, but she hated doing this to him. But to save her family, she had no other choice. “No, not a broken heart. A burning heart. A heart that’s been destroyed.” His fingers tightened on hers. Bracing herself for his reaction, she opened her eyes. And gasped at what she saw.

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Chapter Three Kalla tightened her fingers on Nikolaos’. The muscles in his face had hardened, giving him an otherworldly look, and his eyes were rimmed in crimson. In this moment, it wasn’t difficult to believe he was, indeed, one of the godkin. Between one heartbeat and the next, she was transported into a vision so real it stole her breath. Beneath the watchful gaze of an owl, the two of them were on a wide bed, he on top of her, his hips moving back and forth in a lazy movement so sensual her pussy flooded with moisture. In the vision, Nikolaos fit his teeth into her neck, making her scream as a powerful orgasm shook her entire body. The vision released its grip on her and Kalla jerked her hands away from Nikolaos’. Her breath came fast from between parted lips. She swallowed, trying to regain her equilibrium. What was the goddess trying to tell her by sending her that vision? It was from Athena—it had contained her sacred bird, an unmistakable sign it was from the wise goddess of war and protector of cities. And it was clearly an event yet to happen, but Kalla couldn’t believe—wouldn’t believe!—that Athena wanted her to bed the enemy. Of course, it would mean she wouldn’t have to fight her attraction so hard… No. No-no-no! He is Spartan, she reminded herself. The oppressor. It would be a betrayal of everything she held dear. Wouldn’t it? “What’s wrong?” Nikolaos leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the bench on either side of her hips. “Kalla?” She couldn’t share this vision with him, not yet. It was too new, too remarkable. With a shake of her head, she decided to point him back toward the earlier “vision”, the one supplied by Praxiteles. From Nikolaos’ reaction, he had witnessed the soldier’s 28

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death—if not the actual deed, then at least the horrible aftermath. “I’m so sorry, Niko.” She met his gaze, saw his eyes had returned to normal, as had his face, though it was still set in grim, tired lines. “Was it someone you knew?” He sighed. His eyes closed and he gave a brief nod of his head. “Vai. It was Deucalios.” His best friend, another of the godkin. Nikolaos’ back bowed. His shoulders shook and she was lost. Slipping to her knees in front of him, Kalla wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, his big hands coming up to slide along her back, pulling her closer. She felt his tears against her skin and her own eyes flooded with moisture. Big strong warrior, brought to his knees by grief over a loved one’s death, just as if he were…like her. As she held him, her thoughts whirled as if caught up by a windstorm. He felt pain, as did she. He experienced loss, perhaps more than she because of his status as a Spartan general. Clearly Deucalios had been important to him, possibly the closest thing he had to family. And she knew how dear family was. He gave a sigh and straightened. Tears streaked his cheeks and left his eyes bloodshot. Kalla raised her hands and wiped the moisture from Nikolaos’ face, then leaned up and pressed her lips gently to his. What was meant to be a caress of comfort quickly turned into one of passion too long denied. One of his large hands curved around her nape. He tilted her head and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed. Her hands slipped from his face to his shoulders, fingers curling into thick, rock-hard muscles. His mouth ate at hers, nipping, licking, almost bruising in pressure. Their teeth clicked and he gentled, nibbling at the corner of her lips before kissing a path down her

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throat. He paused at the juncture where neck met shoulder. She shivered as his touch, the warmth of his breath, seemed to make her nerve endings spark with fire. He gave a low chuckle. “I’ll have to remember this spot.” He lightly sucked her skin there, then licked over it. Remembering her vision, remembering the very sharp fangs he had, Kalla stiffened. “Sshh, dearling,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.” Gods save her—she wasn’t an imbecile. “Teeth in the neck have to hurt,” she muttered back. He laughed and raised his head, meeting her gaze. His dark irises were rimmed with crimson, the color bleeding out into the whites of his eyes. The tips of his fangs protruded over his lower lip. Even as she looked at him, the fangs lengthened until the sharp ends reached the middle of his chin. “This is what my body does when I’m aroused.” He took one of her hands and placed her palm on his flat stomach, then slid it slowly down until their joined hands cupped his elongated manhood. “As well as this.” Unable to stop her reaction, Kalla curled her fingers over him. “All men do this,” she said, squeezing lightly through the material of his thigh-length chiton. “But not all can visit death upon another.” “Don’t fool yourself,” he muttered, skimming his knuckles over her cheek. “Men are physically stronger than women, and during lovemaking a woman is at her most vulnerable.” One big hand curled around her throat, the tips of his fingers beneath one ear, his thumb under the other. “But I will never harm you. I use my strength to protect.” He moved his hand, flattening it just beneath her collarbones. Kalla nodded. She had never feared Nikolaos would hurt her physically. At least, not as long as he never found out her role in Praxiteles’ schemes. Her fingers spasmed, gripping Nikolaos’ cock harder.

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His eyes fluttered closed and he threw his head back. “Gods above, I’ve been wanting to feel your hands on me.” He tightened his hand on hers, stopping her movement, and tipped his head down to look at her again. “But there’s something I’ve been wanting more than that.” A frown tugged at her brows. She should stop him, but the vision came back to her. She and Nikolaos making love under the gaze of the wisest of creatures—Athena’s sacred bird, the owl. When his hands went to the brooch at her shoulder, her breath caught, but she made no move to stop him. He paused, then unfastened the jewelry from her shoulder and let the material fall. The corded belt beneath her breasts kept it from dropping to the floor, but if his expression was anything to go by, for now he was satisfied with this much. His eyes darkened, his breath roughened. Rough warrior’s hands smoothed over her shoulders, down her chest. He cupped her breasts, rubbing the calloused pads of his thumbs over her nipples. Her sensitive flesh stiffened. Kalla moaned and leaned into his hands, wordlessly begging for a firmer touch. Strong fingers moved and began tugging on the distended tips. Then he bent and drew a nipple into his mouth.

Nikolaos forced himself to go slowly when all he wanted was to devour her. His fangs ached with the need to pierce her skin. He needed to take all of her, with teeth and cock. He drew strongly on her breast, needing this connection with a strength he couldn’t explain. All he knew was that he wanted her with a depth of desire he hadn’t felt in a very long time. But there was more to it than desire, something deeper he didn’t want to examine too closely. Not now that she was finally in his arms.

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Moving to her other breast, he licked over the pebbled peak. She moved restlessly against him, sliding her belly against his cloth-covered erection. He groaned and sucked on her nipple, feeling it lengthen against the roof of his mouth. Another brush of her sex against his dragged a groan from deep in his chest. He needed to be inside her more than he needed to breathe. Her gasping moan thrummed through him. He stood and, in a smooth movement, picked her up. Long strides took him to the door of the antechamber, where he knew her bedroom was. “Open the door,” he growled. He needed to taste all of her and he’d be damned if he was going to do it on a hard floor when there was a soft bed nearby. Without a word, she leaned down and pushed the handle. He shouldered open the door. As he kicked it closed behind them, she twisted her fingers in his hair and drew his face down. Kalla’s mouth opened over his, tongue sliding between his lips like hot, wet silk. Her tongue danced and mated with his, stealing his breath. By all the gods, she tasted good. Sweet, fresh. Intoxicating. Exactly what he needed after the week he’d had. Nikolaos lifted his head so he could see to navigate to the narrow bed. As he walked, her mouth drifted over his skin bared by the sleeveless chiton he wore, each soft caress sending blood pounding into his hard rod. He placed her gently on the mattress. He stood beside the bed, staring down at her. He’d wanted this—wanted her—so badly that now that the time was here, his arousal was so great it set a fine trembling in his fingers. He clenched them at his side, hiding that sign of vulnerability from her. It was enough that she’d seen him cry. “Let me make love with you, dearling.” At this moment, here and now, he needed the succor of her body more than he needed to breathe. “Make love with me,” he pleaded softly. She swallowed. A fleeting look of unease flickered in her eyes, but she held his gaze, nodding her head.

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He untied the simple braided belt around his waist and dropped it to the floor, then unfastened the brass brooches at his shoulders. His chiton fell to his feet and he stood there, naked, letting her look her fill. When her body subtly relaxed, he sat on the bed beside her. Reaching out, he untied the belt beneath her breasts. Each time his knuckles grazed her soft skin, she gasped, and every gasp sent another flood of heat to his shaft. “Lift your hips.” Nikolaos cleared his throat, trying to dispel the lingering huskiness his arousal caused. When she rose up, he drew the material of her chiton down her slender legs, then dropped the clothing to one side. Placing his hands on the inside of her knees, he gently urged her legs apart, his gaze fastened on glistening pink flesh guarded by dark curls. She was beautiful—soft and yielding where he was rigid and tough. She deserved better than the rough touch of a hardened warrior, but he knew he’d not let her go to another. Whether he deserved her or not, he would take whatever she was willing to give. Making a space for himself between her thighs, he flicked out his tongue, touching the tip to her sex, laving her, manipulating the fleshy folds. “Niko…” She shivered under his touch. He drew the taste of her onto his taste buds, down his throat and groaned at the tangy-sweet flavor. Bringing up his hands, he parted her folds with his fingers. She spread her legs farther apart and lifted her hips in clear invitation. The petals of her inner lips unfurled and more of her cream slid from her channel. He drew her womanly perfume through his nose. All other odors faded into the background. He could hear nothing more than her sighs of pleasure. Another deep breath, another taste. She moaned and pushed toward him, seeking contact with his tongue. His brain shut down as his rampaging arousal took over. Pushing aside anything else, Nikolaos concentrated on pleasuring her. When his tongue darted between her nether lips again, 33

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she gasped and bucked against him, pushing her cunt against his face. He lapped the full length of her slit. Probing the different textures of her pussy, he found her to be everything he’d ever wanted. Soft in all the right places. Hot and slick and eager. He dipped his tongue into her channel and she groaned. With her soft curls tickling his nose, he thrust his tongue deeper, rubbing against her sensitive inner walls. She shrieked and shoved her hips against his mouth, her breaths quick and gasping. She tasted tart and tangy and sweet. Her clit swelled. Yielding to temptation, he flicked his tongue against it, then drew it into his mouth, suckling her gently. She gave a small whimper and ground her hips against him. He took his tongue from her clit and drew it through her folds, tracing every line, every crevice, teasing her. When her hands came up and grasped his head, trying to hold him where she wanted him, he gave her what they both wanted. He drove his tongue inside her cunt once more, exultant when she pumped her hips in time to his thrusts. She gave a long, low moan and arched against him. Her orgasm rolled through her and she came, gushing her cream into his mouth. Even as her body still quaked beneath him, Nikolaos rolled up and over her. He rubbed his cock through her folds, slicking himself with her cream, then started a slow entry. She was hot and tight and he gritted his teeth to keep from spilling himself then and there. With just the tip of his cock inside her sheath, he paused, waiting for her signal to proceed. He would not hurt her. “Niko.” She sighed, tilting her hips slightly. That was it. He felt her muscles slacken and slid more of his shaft inside her wet heat. Gods, she was as snug around him as a fist. He moved slowly, feeding in one inch at a time, giving her body time to adjust to his invasion. He pressed forward until finally, finally, his hips melded to hers. 34

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Nikolaos began to move, a long, slow pull out of her cunt that seemed endless and nearly killed him with the sensation of her rippling channel grasping at his hard length. She panted and grasped at him, fingers curling into his ass to pull him back to her. “You like that, sweetling?” He leaned in and nibbled at her mouth, thrusting back inside. “Gods, your cunt is so tight. It holds me, tugs at me as if you never want me to go.” He pulled back, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. “More.” Her whimper was a demand. He slid his hands around to her ass and lifted her into another slow glide. She moaned and just that small, sweet sound was enough to shred his control. The part of him that was godkin roared inside him like flames from a fire. He stroked out, then pulled her forward onto his hard lunge as his teeth plunged into her throat. He drew her blood into his mouth, moaning at the salty, coppery flavor. Immediately, he was assaulted by emotions. His. Hers. There was passion, fondness, a hint of anger and a strong dose of guilt. Before he could ponder on it, she flew apart in his arms. Her release triggered his own. A tingling began at his spine and vibrated outward through his entire body. He plunged deeper, harder. Faster. A rush of heat. His hips pumped. He threw back his head as he hovered on the edge of his orgasm. Another thrust and he came on a shout. His release spurted into her in hot jets as her inner muscles milked him with the last of her climax. When his own body finally stilled, he collapsed over her, keeping his weight braced on his elbows. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine.” Her eyes opened. There was a hint of tears in her eyes, but she smiled readily enough. She looped her hands around his neck and drew his face down to hers. “But don’t think we’re finished just yet…” She tempted him, but the underlying guilt she felt wove a darker thread through the misty weave of emotions roiling through him.

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Chapter Four When Nikolaos dodged her seeking mouth and pulled away from her, Kalla looked at him with a frown. He rose up on one elbow, staring down at her with one big hand on her hip and a scowl on his face. His irritated demeanor made her nervous. She leaned over and picked up her chiton, holding it over her nakedness. “Why do you feel guilty?” “What?” She blinked at him. How could he possibly know… Her hand flew to her throat where the marks of his teeth still throbbed. She’d forgotten. How could she have forgotten? Once a godkin took another’s blood, he could sense that person’s emotions. That bond grew stronger as more blood was taken. And from what she’d heard, if there was a transfer of blood—if a human drank from a vampire—the human became a vampire and the bond was reciprocal. Add if the blood exchange was consistent, the human’s life became prolonged. So if she ever took Nikolaos’ blood, and kept taking it on a regular basis, she could be as close to immortal as a human could get. Soft feminine laughter sounded in her head and she ground her teeth together. Athena. The goddess had blocked the knowledge from her—that was why Kalla hadn’t remembered that bit of information. This was the payment she’d been afraid the goddess would exact once Athena decided to act on Kalla’s defection. Another tinkle of laughter. Kalla scowled. She really didn’t appreciate the goddess’s sense of humor. “You feel guilty for lying with me.” Nikolaos’ eyes narrowed. Now that his hungers—carnal and otherwise—were apparently satisfied, his fangs had retracted and 36

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his eyes were once again normal, though a muscle flexed in his rigid jaw. “Is it because I am Aresian?” “No, of course not.” But how else could she explain the guilt she felt at deceiving him with the “vision” of Deucalios’ death? “Then why?” “I…” She cast about for a reasonable answer and couldn’t come up with one. So an unreasonable one would have to do. “As Oracle, I should keep myself apart from the people so my visions remain free of bias.” He made a sound deep in his throat that was pointedly disbelieving and raised one brow. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” She pursed her lips. Nikolaos was an Aresian vampire, the fiercest of all the vampire tribes. One of the strongest too, outside of the descendants of Zeus and Poseidon, and able to cause panic in another person, which she was certain was a tremendous advantage on the battlefield. It didn’t explain, though, why he engendered such strong lust in her. Plus he was over two hundred years old—she knew he was very adept at reading people. If she were to save her family, she’d have to learn to be a much better liar. Just pretend you’re a character in one of the dramas by Sophocles, she admonished herself. You can do this. Deciding that saying nothing was better than continuing to unsuccessfully try to come up with excuses, she shrugged, but kept her mouth shut. Nikolaos gave a nod, apparently accepting her silence for now, but she had no doubt he wouldn’t give up until he’d pried the truth from her. “You don’t trust me.” He said it as a statement of fact, not as a request for confirmation. As a warrior, and with his sometimes brutal honesty, she knew he was used to not being liked, although no one could ever say he was untrustworthy. Others’

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attitudes toward him had never seemed to matter before, but now he seemed bothered by it. Did her opinion of him matter that much? She’d feel better if it did, for his opinion about her mattered a great deal to her. “I trust you.” “Hmm.” His eyes glinted. “I know you like me,” he muttered, sliding his hand from her hip to the place between her thighs. She gasped and pressed up against him. His smile was dark as he played with the folds of her sex. “You’re not the kind of woman who would have sex with a man she didn’t like.” She’d like to think that too, but to save her family she knew she’d do whatever it took. Even turn herself into a whore. Except she knew that wasn’t what had prompted her to lie with Nikolaos. But these feelings burgeoning inside her were too new, too unwelcome, and she pushed them aside. “Niko…” He sighed and withdrew his hand. “Kalla, tell me right now—” “There’s nothing to tell.” She slid out from under him, getting off the bed, and pulled on her chiton. Once she’d fastened it at the shoulder, she fished the belt off the bed, yanking on it to loosen it from where it was caught under Nikolaos’ big body. “Don’t you have revolting slaves you need to quell?” His eyes narrowed at her shrewish tone. “I wouldn’t call them revolting,” he responded slowly. He scooted over to the edge of the bed and sat on the edge, clasping his hands loosely between his thighs. “Aggravating, a necessary evil, even sometimes unpleasant to deal with, but certainly not revolting.” Kalla bit back a growl of irritation. “You know what I mean. Don’t you have a revolt somewhere to put down?” His seed began to slide from her body. She pressed her thighs together to keep it from slipping down her legs. His lips thinned. Irritation showed in every line of his body as he snapped up his chiton and got dressed. “As a matter of fact,” he growled, jerking the unembellished material over his lean hips, “I have a meeting with the kings about yet another 38

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Messenian uprising.” He walked over to her and cupped her chin in a grip surprisingly gentle, given his mood. “But don’t think you and I are finished with this conversation, dearling.” He brought his mouth down on hers, lips coaxing hers apart for a kiss so tender it brought tears to her eyes. When he withdrew, he rested his forehead on hers. “I know you’re hiding something from me, Kalla, and I’ll find out what it is.” He straightened and stared down into her eyes. “Once I’m done with this meeting, there’ll be no more lies between us.” His fingers trailed over her cheek and then he turned away. “Wait!” He paused and turned back toward her. She couldn’t let him blindly walk into a trap, no matter the consequences to her. For all that she didn’t want to feel what she did, she couldn’t let her unwillingness to admit her love to aid in his death. All she had to do was form her warning as if she’d had a vision. She would tell him enough to prepare him, then she’d escape to her home and warn her father and brothers. Once they were safely off, she would meet her own fate on her terms, not those dictated by Praxiteles. Bile churned in her gut and raced up her throat. She swallowed rapidly, desperate not to be sick in front of him. How could she explain that? “There is something else I see,” she said softly. Not able to bear looking at him as she lied to him yet again, she closed her eyes. “A battle, just started. Spartans and Helots, fighting in an open field. I see you, bloodied from battle… Beware!” She swallowed again, then opened her eyes, wanting—needing—to make sure he took her words to heart. “An assassin approaches, one of your own men.” Nikolaos shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” Kalla pushed back the irrational hurt his words caused. Of course he thought her a liar—she was! But in this instance, she was trying to help him. Knowing enough about him to know if she pushed too hard, he’d be stubborn about this, she forced a 39

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nonchalant shrug. “It is your prerogative to believe or disbelieve. I only speak of what I have foreseen. As the great Oracle at Delphi has said more than once, ‘To be forewarned is to be forearmed.’” He gave a snort. “I don’t particularly care what Apollo’s oracle has to say. I’m more interested in what the oracle of Ares says.” Oh. That would be her. “Then believe what I tell you, Niko.” She clenched her fingers to keep from reaching out and touching him one last time. Her stomach churned violently. “Don’t trust anyone.” Not even me. He nodded, one brief incline of his head, and turned away from her once more. Once she was sure he had left the temple, she ran over to the chamber pot and emptied the contents of her stomach.

***** Nikolaos walked away from the Temple of Ares, his mind turning over again and again this last conversation with Kalla. Was it possible one of his own men would try to kill him on the field of battle? If so, why? What could the unknown assassin possibly hope to gain? And what was Kalla hiding from him that made her feel so racked with guilt? He clenched his jaw against the sense of impotence that assailed him. He hated feeling powerless, especially when it came to his woman. She had a problem she was trying to hide from him and she shouldn’t—he could solve it for her. Gods above, but he already missed her. Missed feeling her warm, wet heat surrounding his cock, missed hearing her moans and sighs of passion. Missed her wit, her vivacity. Her sheer stubborn determination to keep him at arms’ length, even after having shared herself with him.

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He sighed and shook his head. He was like the pheasant he and his troops had had for dinner last night—roasted and very well done. He had a suspicion that his days as an unattached male were numbered. A slow grin curled his mouth. He couldn’t be happier about it. Two hundred years was a long time to be a warrior—it was time to give it up and let the younger men perform their duty. He would take his place among the assembly and, if Ares so ordained, among the Ephora the next time there was an opening. His smile faded. As long as he didn’t have to deal with that prig Praxiteles. The man set Nikolaos’ teeth on edge—he wasn’t sure if it was the way the Ephor flaunted his wealth or if it was that indefinable something about him that Nikolaos just didn’t like. Whatever it was, the man bore watching. Perhaps sitting with him as an equal was the way to do it. As he reached the outer doors to the palace, the guards saluted him, fists over their hearts, holding that pose until he passed by. He went on to the solarium, where he knew he’d find King Leotychides this time of day. His friend was sitting on a bench beside a small cluster of potted flowers. He wore the customary short-skirted chiton, like Nikolaos and, like Nikolaos’, the white material was completely unadorned. Except for the jeweled brooches at his shoulders, bearing the royal colors of purple and red, he appeared as any other Spartan. Unlike that prissy fool Praxiteles. Leotychides looked up and smiled when he saw Nikolaos. Standing, he held out his arms in greeting. “Nikolaos, my friend.” They clasped each other by the wrist. He put his free hand on Nikolaos’ right shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it.” Nikolaos shook his head. “If there’s word of another uprising, I need to be here.” Leotychides nodded. He turned and walked a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back. With his broad shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, he looked older than his forty-five years.

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For all that Nikolaos was ageless, as long as he took in blood, those around him seemed to age faster and faster. It was something he would never get used to. He tried to inure himself to the pain, but it wasn’t easy. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Nikolaos watched the king closely. “Yes. No.” Leotychides sighed. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” Eyebrows raised, Nikolaos said in a dry voice, “Thank you for clarifying it for me.” The king gave a bark of laughter that held little humor. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “It remains somewhat muddled to me, my friend. I would make it clear if I could.” “Tell me what you know.” “I don’t know anything, that’s the problem.” Leotychides paced back to the bench and sat down. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands between his knees. “I have suspicions, intuition. That’s all.” “Then tell me what you think.” Nikolaos crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against a supporting column. “I’ll sound like an anxious old woman.” “And that’s different from your usual…how?” Nikolaos smiled at the king’s snort of laughter. “I certainly don’t have to be concerned about being too egotistical with you around, do I?” Leotychides leaned back, supporting himself with his palms flat on the edge of the bench. “I don’t have proof of anything,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just the…feeling that something’s not right. With Anaxander.” “Not right how?” Another heavy sigh left the king. “He carries on conversations with certain members of the Assembly and Ephora that stop when I enter the room. There have been instances where he’s given orders to the troops without consulting me.”

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“Perhaps there wasn’t time,” Nikolaos offered, unwilling to believe one king would pit himself against the other. The diarchy was one reason Sparta remained so strong. “That’s what I told myself the first time it happened.” Leotychides’ voice held the underpinnings of anger. “And the second time. And the third.” He shook his head and stood. “When I have confronted him, he always has some excuse that on the surface makes sense. But putting all these little things together…” “There’s something going on.” Nikolaos pursed his lips. Following his own instincts, he asked, “Does one of these men he’s talking to happen to be Praxiteles?” Leotychides looked at him, his gaze sharp. “Yes, it is. Why?” “He doesn’t act as a Spartan should,” Nikolaos responded with a shrug. “Although by sponsoring an Oracle dedicated to Sparta, he seems to have our best interests at heart.” He lifted his shoulders in another shrug. “But, still, there’s something not right there.” “You’ve noticed.” The king’s voice was dry. He made a slashing motion across his throat with one hand. “Off with his head.” One corner of Nikolaos’ mouth turned up at his friend’s humor. “It would be nice if it were that easy,” he said. “But you know as well as I do it’s not so simple to impeach one of the Ephora.” “Nearly as difficult as removing a king from the throne.” Leotychides raised his eyebrows. “Except for the part where an oracle has to proclaim the king unfit.” An oracle. Kalla. The oracle sponsored by… Praxiteles. Another little thing, perhaps, but one that carried much weight. He’d have another little talk with Kalla and this time he wouldn’t let her prevaricate. He’d find out what she knew if he had to keep her tied down until she talked.

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Before he could tell the king what he was thinking, a palace guard stopped in the doorway of the solarium. “Your Majesty, King Anaxander and the Ephora are gathered, waiting for you and General Nikolaos.” Leotychides nodded. “Come, my friend,” he said, clapping one hand on Nikolaos’ shoulder. “Let’s go hear what mischief the Messenians have been up to now. I fear you’re headed for the battlefield again.” A battlefield where a friend might very well prove to be the enemy.

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Chapter Five A day after the order to go back to battle was given, Nikolaos fought his way through a squadron of Messenian Helots. The midday sun beat down on him. Sweat mingled with blood—his and that of the men he’d killed this day. The odor was pungent and overwhelming and all too familiar. Gritting his teeth against the fatigue pulling at him, he shoved his sword into the body of yet another Helot, yanking it free to meet an attack from his right. Once that man was dispatched, Nikolaos looked around and saw no other advancing threat. Around him rose the groans of dying men. Nikolaos had done his duty and sent many of these men on to their fate in the Underworld. But he was tired. So tired of always warring, Ares be damned. His thoughts drifted back to his last time with Kalla, when they’d made love. Resolutely, he shoved it aside and concentrated on the battle at hand. While he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her before he left Sparta, she was the first person he was going to see when he got back. He still had unanswered questions, not the first of which was exactly what her relationship with Praxiteles was. He turned to see his captain walking toward him, stepping around fallen Spartoi and Helots alike. Except for a squadron of his men chasing fleeing Helots over the next rise, he and Castor were the only breathing men here. “What news do you bring, Castor?” Nikolaos asked, glancing down as he sheathed his sword. Gods, but he was tired. He flexed his arm, trying to work the soreness out. “Just this.” As Nikolaos looked up, the captain lunged forward and thrust his short sword into Nikolaos’ side, between the fastenings of the front and back plates of his armor. 45

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Nikolaos’ breath wheezed from his lungs as agony shot through him. He reached out and grabbed the edge of Castor’s breastplate, trying to hold himself upright. He gripped Castor’s wrist with his left hand, keeping the other warrior from driving the blade upward. Confusion flooded his mind. This was his most trusted companion-atarms, a man he called friend. Nay, more than that. A man as close as a brother. Shock struck his soul. His first thought was, incredibly, of Kalla and the way her dark gaze had willed him to believe her vision—the one that had foretold exactly what had just happened. His second thought was… “Why?” That sorrow filled the other man’s eyes was of little consolation. “I have no choice, Niko.” Castor’s arm trembled with the force he exerted against Nikolaos’ hold. “I have a wife, children…” He managed to drive the blade deeper. He really means to kill me. Confusion was replaced by rage. Strength-inspiring fury. Fangs erupted from Nikolaos’ gums as the vampire took over. As he wielded his preternatural strength, bones crunched beneath his fingers. Castor cried out. His sword dropped to the ground. He cradled his hand and backed away, eyes wild and filled with anguish. With barely a pause, he pulled a dagger from a sheath on his calf and held it in front of him, using his less-dominant hand. Nikolaos kept a wary eye trained on the knife. A Spartan could do more damage with his so-called weak hand than most men could do with their strong, and Castor was an extraordinary warrior. One of the best. Nikolaos stalked forward, one hand pressed to his wound, applying pressure to halt the bleeding. The other hand was curled into a fist at his side. Had he been an ordinary man, such a wound would surely have proven to be fatal. But he wasn’t ordinary—he was godkin and already he could feel the wound healing, the pain fading. All he need do was have one good feeding and he would be as new. 46

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While the beast beat at him to take what he needed from the betrayer in front of him, Nikolaos hesitated. He wanted to know why. Then a decision would be made as to what fate would befall the captain of his troops. He pulled his own dagger and, without warning, flipped the blade into his hand and launched the weapon at Castor. It embedded into the captain’s left shoulder, causing his hand to become nerveless, as Nikolaos intended. Castor’s dagger fell from his slack fingers and hit the rocky ground with a scraping thud. Taut-jawed, Castor took a few steps backward. He tripped over a stone and fell to the ground. He scrabbled back as well as he could, keeping his injured wrist cradled on his stomach. Finally, his back against a large boulder, he could go no farther. He leaned against the rock and closed his eyes. “I knew it was hopeless, but I had to try. Do with me what you will, Niko.” His voice cracked. “I have but one request.” “What?” Castor raised his gaze to Nikolaos’. “Do not take retribution against my family. They’re blameless in all this.” Nikolaos’ scowl grew darker. “I don’t make war on women and children. You know that,” he muttered. Trying to read the other man’s expression, he demanded, “Just tell me why. I’m your friend.” “How would you choose, were you given one to make between your wife and children and a friend?” Nikolaos went to one knee and stared at Castor. “What choice? What in the name of Hades are you talking about?” Castor rolled his head back and forth over the rock. His deep sigh lifted his chest. “If you come back from the battlefield alive and whole, he said my family would be killed. He’s taken them to his home.” His dark eyes glittered with tears. “What else could I do? And now I’ve failed. They’ll die anyway.” “Who, Castor?” Nikolaos narrowed his eyes. “Tell me who’s done this to you.”

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Castor shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Don’t you understand?” His voice rose to a shout. “He’ll kill them.” “Who!” Nikolaos caught his captain by the edge of his breastplate and hauled him forward, ignoring the other man’s cry of pain as his injured wrist and shoulder were jostled. “Damn it,” Nikolaos swore. “Tell me.” Castor remained stubbornly silent, his lips pressed together. Acting on his instincts, Nikolaos murmured, “It’s Praxiteles, isn’t it?” Castor’s eyes dilated and his breath caught, though immediately after those telltale reactions, he shook his head. “You never could lie well, my friend.” Nikolaos released Castor, easing him back to rest against the boulder. Rocking back on his heels, Nikolaos considered what his next actions should be. “She’s involved too, you know. The little oracle.” Nikolaos sent a sharp glance to Castor. Castor grimaced and nodded. “She must be. I’ve seen Praxiteles there with her, kissing her, touching her familiarly.” He seemed unaware of the stiffening of Nikolaos’ body. He sighed and closed his eyes, slumping. “If he got to me, I’m sure he could get to a woman alone like Kalla.” Kalla. Nikolaos refused to believe it. How could she make love to him so sweetly, with such hot passion, if she were in league with Praxiteles? His gut churned. She couldn’t be part of this, of whatever machinations the devious Ephor had set in motion. And yet he knew she’d been hiding something from him. If she was part of all this, it could explain the guilt he’d sensed from her the last time they were together. Hearing someone approach, Nikolaos jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. Even after seeing it was one of his own men, he stayed alert. There was no guarantee Castor was the only man Praxiteles had turned against him.

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The man slowed, then, seeing Nikolaos maintained his battle stance, came to a halt. He held up both hands, showing himself to be empty-handed. “My lord?” He gazed from Nikolaos to Castor and back to Nikolaos once more, confusion drawing his brows together. Keeping his sword in hand, Nikolaos nodded toward Castor. “See to him.” He paused. To Castor he said, “I give you my word—I will get to your family and remove them from harm’s way.” He paused again, fighting back a surge of bitter disappointment. “You should have come to me.” Castor shook his head and struggled to sit up straighter. “I am not the only one he…enlisted, you can be sure. Were I to have told you, he would know it.” His gaze darted to the newcomer and Nikolaos could see the doubt in his gaze. Damn. Was it safe to leave Castor with this man? He had served under Nikolaos for ten years. But then Castor had been with him for twenty. If Nikolaos left him behind, would the captain meet the same fate he’d planned for Nikolaos? With a growl, he strode to Castor. Keeping his gaze on the other warrior, Nikolaos took Castor’s uninjured wrist and pulled him to his feet. Castor let out a low groan as the action yanked on his wounded shoulder. Nikolaos pulled the dagger out and Castor cursed. With economical movements, Nikolaos stripped Castor of his body armor. With the dagger, he cut off a piece of material from his chiton. Folding it into a thick pad, he placed it against Castor’s wound. “Hold it there,” he said to the other man. While the warrior held the material in place, Nikolaos cut a long swath from his cape and used the crimson cloth to bind the bandage in place. Other than a few grunts, Castor remained silent. Nikolaos nodded his thanks to the other man. “Return to the men. See to the wounded. Prepare funeral convoys for our dead.” The man saluted, then turned on his heel and strode off. Waiting until he knew he wouldn’t be overheard, Nikolaos looked at Castor. “I cannot take time to set your wrist.” 49

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“I know.” “You will be in great pain the entire ride back to the city.” “Yes.” Castor sounded defeated, not like the man Nikolaos knew. But then he would never have thought Castor would try to kill him. He didn’t know the man as well as he’d thought.

***** Nikolaos strode through the courtyard of the house of Praxiteles, sword in one hand and short dagger in the other. He’d left Castor near the front gate, telling him to wait there. There had been some resistance upon reaching the house, but mere mortals were no match for a fully enraged Aresian. Knowing they were still loyal Spartans—though on the wrong side, as far as he was concerned—he had merely incapacitated them instead of slicing them into pieces, as he would have preferred to do. Nikolaos had fed from the last man, finally regaining his full strength, and now, completely healed, he burst through the front door. With only house servants left—servants who were slaves with no particular loyalty to the overbearing pig—no one stood between him and the senior Ephor who was slowly backing away from him at the far edge of the courtyard. Eyes burning with bloodlust and hatred, Nikolaos sheathed his bloodied dagger and, sword still at the ready, continued his approach toward Praxiteles. “Now Nikolaos, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m a member of the Ephora!” Praxiteles’ voice rose and then went raspy as Nikolaos’ hand closed around his throat. “You can’t do this to me!” he choked out, hands scrabbling at Nikolaos’ fingers. “Watch me.” Nikolaos applied more pressure, gratified to see the bastard’s face turn red. “Tell me what you’re up to or I swear by all Ares holds dear, I will rip. Your. Head. Off.” 50

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Praxiteles strained his neck backward. His eyes bulged. His nails bit into Nikolaos’ flesh like the sting of a bee. Nikolaos ignored it. “You have no right…” “I have every right!” Nikolaos roared. He gave the other man a little shake, making his head wobble. “I, like every Spartan to a man, have pledged my allegiance to this city. I am foresworn to protect her. To protect her kings.” “It’s…not…working.” Seeing the difficulty Praxiteles had in speaking, Nikolaos eased his grip, though reluctantly. But the other man wouldn’t be able to talk with a crushed larynx, much as Nikolaos might like to continue on. “What’s not working?” “The diarchy.” Nikolaos narrowed his eyes. Leotychides’ suspicions may yet prove to be correct. “Explain.” Praxiteles pulled on Nikolaos’ arm. “Let me go and I will tell you.” “Tell me and I’ll let you go.” A crafty, stubborn expression crossed the old man’s face. “Without me, you’ll not discover the depths of the conspiracy.” “What conspiracy?” Nikolaos’ fingers tightened in threat. He wasn’t well known for his patience, a fact of which Praxiteles was very much aware. The Ephor had oft chided Nikolaos for his impatience. “Let me go and I’ll tell you,” Praxiteles said again. Nikolaos drew in a breath and began counting to ten, trying to rein in his rage. He didn’t trust this man—Praxiteles was clever and as devious as they came. But he needed answers. Now. He released his hold on Praxiteles’ throat. The old man took a step backward and coughed, rubbing his throat. His gaze darted around the courtyard, no doubt seeking an avenue of escape.

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Nikolaos brought his sword up, putting the tip beneath the man’s chin. “Don’t try my patience any further, old man. Tell me what I want to know.” Without any shift of expression or any other warning of any sort, Praxiteles jumped sideways, skirting a large pot, and grabbed up a sword from behind a life-sized statue of Ares. As Nikolaos approached, Praxiteles gathered the skirt of his ankle-length chiton and tucked it under the belt at his waist, thereby giving him more freedom of movement. “It hasn’t been that many years since I was on the battlefield, my lord general.” His eyes glowed with determination and pride. “None could best me then and you will not succeed now.” He feinted to the left, drawing Nikolaos’ aim, then came in with a low lunge toward Nikolaos’ side. The same side that bore the remnants of Castor’s attack. Nikolaos blocked the thrust and whirled, bringing his sword downward in a slicing arc. The old man parried, pushing Nikolaos away from him before coming in low, aiming a crippling blow toward the backs of Nikolaos’ knees. With a leap into the air, Nikolaos dodged the blow. When he landed, he planted one foot on the flat edge of Praxiteles’ sword, trapping it between his foot and the ground. Then he flipped his sword around and rammed the blunt tip of the hilt into the old man’s face. Praxiteles lost his grip on the sword and stumbled back. Blood flowed from his nose. He brought one hand up to swipe at his face. “Kill me and you’ll be ostracized. As it is, people only tolerate you because they’re afraid of angering Ares.” Nikolaos shook his head. “Try again, old man. My ego isn’t so weak you can hurt me with words.” He advanced slowly on the retreating man. He saw a young maid standing by the archway leading into the family’s quarters. Seeing that she seemed to be waiting for the outcome of the battle, he turned his attention back to Praxiteles. “Besides which, you don’t have that kind of power. Or that much support. You sent one of my own men to assassinate me—the kings would support my lawful claim for retribution.” 52

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A smirk curved the old man’s face, but he said nothing. Nikolaos reached out and grabbed Praxiteles by the neckline of his chiton and hauled him forward. Holding his gaze, Nikolaos called forth the psychic power of Ares and began pushing panic into Praxiteles’ mind. The more anxious the other man felt— the more trapped—the easier it would be to glean the truth. “There are all sorts of ways you can die, Ephor,” he said in a low voice. “In the end, you will tell me what I want to know.”

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Chapter Six Thirty minutes later, bleeding from several wounds—some deep, some superficial—Praxiteles held up his hands in surrender. Nikolaos kept his sword at the ready, even after the older man had dropped his. Nikolaos could have ended the fight after only a few minutes but had taken the opportunity to play with the Ephor, wearing him down so he would finally admit to his plan to discredit Leotychides so that Anaxander would have a chance to rule Sparta alone. “And Kalla?” Nikolaos asked. “She is part of it as well?” Waiting for the other man’s answer, he clamped his jaw shut as his tension and dread mounted. Praxiteles nodded. He closed his eyes, his head lolling to one side. Nikolaos put his hand on the Ephor’s neck, feeling for his heartbeat. Satisfied the man was still alive—Nikolaos was not his executioner, merely his judge—he once again sheathed his dagger. Beckoning to the wide-eyed maid, he said, “Your master has lost consciousness. Where’s your mistress?” “She has barricaded herself in her room, my lord. However, the other woman they brought here yesterday, with her children, she waits there.” The girl glanced toward the guest quarters. Nikolaos nodded his thanks and strode to the door the young woman indicated. After giving a perfunctory knock, he eased open the door and saw Castor’s wife and two little girls huddled together on the far side of the room. When she saw Nikolaos, she slumped and hugged her children. “It’s all right, my little ones,” she murmured. “This is one of your father’s friends.” Nikolaos bit back the retort hovering on his tongue. As Castor had said, these were innocent pawns and not part of this ugliness. Whatever conflict he had with his captain

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would be kept a private matter between the two men. “Your husband awaits you outside,” was all he said. “Go now.” She urged the children out of the room and, by the time she reached the front door, she was running, holding the little girls by their hands. Nikolaos heard her cries of greeting, her exclamations over Castor’s wounds. He drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Things were back to normal, it seemed. Castor had his family back and Nikolaos was alone. As always. “Sir?” Nikolaos turned to see the young servant standing a few feet away. He looked over her shoulder and saw Praxiteles lying where he’d left him. The man’s wife wasn’t to be seen. “Did you not fetch your mistress as I asked?” She bit her lip and nodded. “She will not come out while you are still here. She’s afraid.” “Yet you’re not?” She shook head. “I am not as afraid as perhaps I should be.” A quick smile lit her face, taking her tired appearance and turning it briefly into something sparkling. Then she sobered and became an overworked servant once more. “I heard you ask him about the oracle.” Nikolaos shrugged. “It’s of little import.” Ha! If that were true, his gut wouldn’t be tight, his entire being focused on the maid’s response. “I don’t think she was here willingly, my lord general. Whenever I heard Praxiteles speak of her, he always seemed to be gloating about some hold he had over her.” She looked down at her clasped hands. “Kalla has always been kind to me when I’ve visited the temple.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “I would hate to see her mistreated by this,” she gestured toward the beaten Praxiteles, “or any man, for that matter.” Then, as if fearing she’d gone too far, she dropped her gaze once more.

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He walked up to her slowly. He rested one hand briefly on her shoulder. “Kalla would no doubt be gratified to have such a champion.” He turned and started toward the front door. “I’m going to the temple now, to get her side of this tale.” It had better be good. Even as he thought that, he knew he could never hurt her, not even to save his beloved Sparta. But he would get the answers he needed. “She went home.” Nikolaos twisted around. “Where?” he demanded. She chewed on her lip. “I fear you will not like it, my lord.” He forced himself to remain calm so as to not frighten the girl. But the vampire clawed away at his insides. “Tell me,” he said more gently. “She is not Spartan. She is not even of the tradesmen class.” She bit her lip. “She is Messenian. Like me. A mere slave.” The girl glanced toward Praxiteles and, not for the first time, bitterness showed in her gaze. “Did you know he killed one of his servants a few days ago? He was my brother.” She looked again at Nikolaos. “He told your friend about the plot against King Leotychides.” He frowned. “Castor knew?” It was her turn to frown. Confusion danced in her eyes. “I know not this Castor. I speak of the other godkin. The one like you.” Deucalios. “Deucalios died because…” “Because he knew Praxiteles was conspiring with King Anaxander to have Leotychides declared unfit to rule.” She glanced again toward her master who lay still and silent on the ground in the courtyard. “That’s why he chose Kalla as oracle. Because she has the true sight.” “And how do you know all of this?” Her gaze, when she turned it back to Nikolaos, was hard and made her seem years older. “I am just a Helot, my lord general. Unworthy of notice until I have done

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something not to my master’s liking.” She gave a shrug. “They are unaware of my presence and many times speak of things best said in private.” Nikolaos let that pass. He knew the Helot’s lot in life was a hard one, but it made the Spartoi way of life possible. There couldn’t be one without the other. It was the way things had always been. “Do you know where she lives?” The girl searched his face. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw there, she told him the location of Kalla’s farm. “Go to my home,” he told the servant. “You’re not safe here.” He saw the look that passed through her eyes and realized the young woman thought of leaving altogether. He shook his head. “Don’t think about leaving Sparta,” he told her. “A runaway slave is as good as dead and you know it. Trust me to treat you well.” She inclined her head and then walked away. Nikolaos strode out of Praxiteles’ house and called to the hoplite he’d brought with him. It was a young soldier from whom he’d drawn blood before, so being able to sense the man’s emotions made Nikolaos relatively certain he was trustworthy. “Go to King Leotychides. Speak only to him—no one else. Give him this,” he said, handing the young man his seal. He gave the soldier an abbreviated version of the events up to that point. “Tell the king all I have told you.” Once the soldier saluted and left, Nikolaos mounted his horse and headed toward Messenian territory, leaving Praxiteles’ fate to the gods. And King Leotychides. For now, Nikolaos had other matters to attend to.

***** “Father, please…!” Kalla grabbed Timon’s hands to stop his busy work on the leather wrapping on the handle of a scythe. His hands were large and work-worn, scarred from years of hard manual labor. He had patiently listened to her, going from happiness at seeing her again to disbelief the further into her story she got and finally to tired resolve. She tightened her fingers on his. “You and the boys must leave.”

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“I’m not leaving our home, daughter. Let the Spartoi come.” Her father gently dislodged her hands and continued his repair work. “They’ll kill you.” She bit her lip against the shaft of pain that sent through her. By her betrayal and flight from Sparta she’d already lost Nikolaos. If she were to lose her father and brothers now, after all she’d been through, after what she’d sacrificed, she didn’t think she could survive it. Timon drew in a breath and looked toward the nearest field behind the house, where Kalla’s two brothers worked diligently to harvest the wheat crop on time. “I will not leave your mother,” he said softly. Kalla’s heart squeezed. Her mother had died when Kalla had been but a small child and her father had never gotten over the loss. The gravesite of her mother and the small boy child buried with her was behind the house beneath a small grove of olive trees. At least once a day—usually just after sunset, once it was too late to work in the fields— her father would stand under those trees and talk to her mother. Kalla understood his reluctance, but today she had no patience for it. A very large part of her life had fallen apart. It hurt and it was frightening. She hadn’t gone through this heartbreak so her father could stubbornly put his and her brothers’ lives in jeopardy. “Do you think she would want you and her other sons to join her there beneath the trees? She would understand you leaving, Father.” He sighed. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “You may be right. But on this I will not be moved.” His face darkened with anger. “This land has been in my family for generations. My father worked the land and his father before him. Then the Spartoi came and took it from us by force. Your mother’s labor was brought on early because of their attack.” She’d heard all of this her entire life. She had been but a toddler when the Spartoi had come to Messenia, but she remembered the horrors of those months of warring. The hardened Spartoi had easily overwhelmed her people. Her mother and the baby boy she carried had died in childbirth. Kalla could still remember the scene—the blood, smoke 58

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from the surrounding fields as neighboring Messenians set fire to their own crops rather than let the warriors have them. The cries of pain. The sudden silence broken only by her father’s wail of grief. Those who had been lucky enough to survive the conquering troops were forced to work their own lands as serfs, giving as much as half of their crops to their Spartan overseers. It was an unheard of thing that a Spartan should provide for himself by working his own land. No, the Spartoi spent their time in battle or preparing for battle or thinking about going to battle… Against such a war machine they had no hope. “I know, Father. But—” Timon slashed his hand through the air. “No! There are no ‘buts’. My decision is final.” He ran a work-roughened hand through his gray hair. Looking at her, dark eyes holding confusion and sorrow, he asked, “When Praxiteles made this threat, why didn’t you come to me, Kalla?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t. If I told you, he’d have had you killed. If I didn’t cooperate, he’d have had you killed. If I did anything to undermine the success of the plan, he’d have had you killed. So I had to lie to you and tell you my friend needed me. But instead of being with Chloe, I was in Sparta.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out in one big rush. “Don’t you understand? I had no other option. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t…” She swallowed, tears welling. “You couldn’t let the man you’ve fallen in love with die.” Her father put the scythe aside and stood. He cupped her face in his calloused palms, scrubbing away the tear that rolled down her cheek. “I would have expected nothing less noble of you, little one. Although your choice of lover is questionable…” Her indrawn breath shuddered as she fought back more tears. “I know, Father. But he is a good man, an honorable man, and my heart recognizes that even as my mind tells me he’s the enemy.” She brought up her hands and lightly gripped her father’s 59

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wrists. “But I fear he’ll be enraged when he discovers my part in this perfidy. And it’s not as if we can have a future together. He is Spartan. I’m Messenian, a slave. Our joining would never be permitted.” Something passed through her father’s eyes, a fleeting expression she couldn’t identify. He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. “What is it?” He shook his head. “Nothing that will change anything,” he murmured. His voice hard, he added, “We’ll be ready when the Spartoi come. Run, fetch your brothers. We’ll make our stand here.” “Father—” “Go.” His face was as stern as she had ever seen it. Heavy-hearted, she did as he bid her. The midday sun beat down on her, quickly making her perspire in the heat. She ran until she reached the middle of the field through wheat already reaped. When she neared her brothers, she slowed and pressed a hand to her waist, trying to relieve the pain in her side. “Come to the house.” Both men turned toward her, twin expressions of delight on their faces. They dropped their tools and headed toward her. Heliodorus, her oldest brother, reached her first and hauled her into a hug against his bare, sweaty chest. “Gods, but it’s good to see you.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away, staring down into her face. “Did you just get home?” “Don’t be rude,” Eugeus chided, knocking his brother to one side. Unlike Heliodorus, he had a full chiton on. As a young man during the first Messenian uprising, he had been accidentally burned and had disfiguring scars along his right shoulder and down his back. Ever self-conscious of them, he always remained clothed, even on the hottest of days. The sleeveless chiton showed just the edge of the scarring along his shoulder. He hugged Kalla, one hand gently cupping the back of her head as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We’ve missed you, little sister.”

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She allowed herself a few seconds to soak in their love, as always feeling safe and protected by them even as she knew, as physically strong as her brothers might be, they had no training and were no match for the Spartoi. Reluctantly, she pulled away. “I’ve missed you too. Both of you.” Grabbing Eugeus by the hand, she drew him forward. “Come to the house.” Heliodorus bent and picked up his scythe. Leaning on it, he glanced over the field and then looked back at her. “We can’t take a break, Kalla. If we don’t get this field harvested, there’ll be hell to pay from Praxiteles.” “You have no idea,” she muttered. “Things have happened and we have to leave. I need you to convince Father.” “What things?” Eugeus asked, coming to a halt. Trying to make him keep going was like trying to budge a stubborn mule. “What’s wrong?” “I’ll explain on the way,” she said between deep breaths. “Father said come,” she added, knowing as dutiful sons they would do their father’s bidding. Sure enough, without further hesitation, both young men put their scythes over their shoulders and started back to the house with her. She explained what had happened and why she had really left the farm. “So you see,” she finished, “you must convince Father to leave.” Eugeus shook his head. “I agree with him. This is our home. No Spartan dog will make me run.”

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Chapter Seven Nikolaos brought his horse to a halt at the top of a small hill and studied the crofter’s hut nestled in the valley. The mud brick and thatched roof abode couldn’t have held more than two bedrooms, if that. There was no movement and he thought perhaps he’d missed Kalla—that she’d either already been here and left or had yet to arrive. He’d had a lot of time to think on the half-day it had taken to get here. He’d gone from rage at her duplicity to hurt at her betrayal to sorrow for the loss of things that might have been. All he wanted now was closure—he needed to know why. He swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. Dropping the reins, he gave his horse freedom of movement. The gelding immediately dropped its head and began chomping on sparse outgrowths of grass. Just as Nikolaos started toward the small house, the front door opened. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword then relaxed when Kalla came outside. When three burly men followed her out, Nikolaos’ hand went back to his weapon, though he left it sheathed. It was easy to see the men were related—the older one had gray hair and the build of a Titan, with thick arms and legs that bespoke of a lifetime of physical labor. The two younger men held themselves in the same ready stance, the features they shared with the older man holding the same tense expressions. Meaty fists clenched crudely made swords. A father and his sons then, protecting the female of their family. One of the younger men started forward and Kalla placed a slender hand on his arm. “Wait, Eugeus,” she said. “Let me talk to him.” “Stay away from him, Kalla.” This from the other young man.

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“He came alone, Heliodorus. I’ll be fine.” She didn’t look convinced of that to Nikolaos. She must have realized her brothers wouldn’t be satisfied with her lack of conviction, for she looked back at them and said, “Really. He won’t hurt me.” “Just how can you be sure of that?” her father demanded. He held his sword so tightly his knuckles shone white. “He doesn’t make war on women and children,” she murmured, holding Nikolaos’ gaze. This time her words were backed by her belief. Her family dropped their swords to their sides. “Stay close,” her father said, keeping his distrustful gaze on Nikolaos. “I will.” She reached out and took his free hand for a moment. Then she turned and walked toward Nikolaos. The closer she came, the paler her face grew until he was afraid she’d reach him and fall unconscious at his feet. When she was a few feet away, she stopped. Her shoulders went back and she met his gaze head on. He should have known better than to think her so weak—his Kalla had a backbone of iron. His Kalla. She wasn’t his. She had never been his, would never be his. He was Spartan. She was a slave. It had all been an act. Her emotions were heightened, making it easy for him to read them, though they jumbled together like leaves whirling in a windstorm. There was the guilt he’d sensed earlier, mixed in with fear, bitterness and… Love. Sweet gods above. She loved him? How could she? She’d been part of Praxiteles’ scheming. Hadn’t she? 63

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“I had no choice,” she burst out. She reached out one hand as if to touch his arm but dropped it before making contact. “Praxiteles threatened to murder my family if I didn’t cooperate.” That sounded familiar. “Why you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. He wanted to see if she’d be truthful in this, at least. She sighed. “Because I do have the sight, granted to me by Athena.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like an uncomplimentary description of the goddess’s birth origins and Nikolaos bit back a grin. He didn’t want to be distracted with humor right now. He wanted answers. Kalla’s gaze dropped. “Praxiteles boasted of engineering Deucalios’ death and he told me how he planned to have you killed as well.” Her throat moved with a hard swallow. She looked up at him. “That’s why I gave you the warning.” “Which I didn’t heed.” He took a step closer, needing to be near her. From the corner of his eye, he saw her family stiffen, but when he made no effort to touch her, they relaxed their stance. “Castor attacked me.” “Castor!” Her eyes widened. “What did Praxiteles do to get him to betray you?” “Held his family at his home with the threat that he would kill them if I came back from the campaign alive.” He could no longer resist her. Reaching out, he stroked his fingers down her soft cheek. He heard the clank of metal and knew her father and brothers had brought their swords up, but he ignored them. She waved them off. “Is Castor…?” “He’s fine. Recovering from a broken wrist and a knife wound.” Nikolaos didn’t volunteer the information that the break was such that the other man most likely would never hold a sword in battle again. That was a problem for another day. “What of Praxiteles?” Kalla’s soft brown eyes searched his face. For the first time since he’d known her, he saw hope in their depths. His heart twisted at the realization.

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How had he never seen before the despair lurking in her gaze? Had he been that caught up in his own needs that he had completely ignored hers? “By now he’s in Leotychides’ hands.” Nikolaos had made sure the senior member of the Ephora couldn’t be moved. If he stayed still, his wounds weren’t life-threatening. Endeavor to move him any great distance and that would not be so. Nikolaos had learned a thing or two in two hundred years of being a warrior. “At any rate, once this becomes known, he will lose any authority or power he once may have had.” “And…” She paused, biting her lip. Clasping her hands, she twisted her fingers together. “What will become of me?” Her teeth came down on her lip again. He knew she worried about the consequences of running away. When she spoke, her lip retained the mark of her teeth. “I stole a horse too.” He nodded. He’d surmised that early on—otherwise she’d have never made it back to her father’s as quickly as she had. “You won’t be in trouble for the horse, I’ll see to that.” He paused to gather his thoughts. At his hesitation, her emotions flared again, fear rushing to the forefront like thick, dark storm clouds. He hastened to assure her, “I will do everything in my power to protect you from prosecution, now that I know the circumstances behind your part in the plot.” “But I’m not of Sparta,” she murmured. Her eyes were round, clouded by anxiety. “I have no protection under Spartan law.” “I’ll find a way.” Nikolaos cupped her cheek. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this on my journey here.” He swallowed back his rising fear. He, a seasoned warrior and the great-grandson of Ares, felt like he was about to face down the fiercest of enemies with no hope of winning. For if Kalla’s answer to his question wasn’t what he wanted to hear, it would crush him. And even if it was, what future was there for them? As she said, she wasn’t of Sparta. “One thing I must first know… Was all of it a lie?” “No!” She curled her fingers around his. Turning her face, she pressed a kiss in his palm. 65

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The sweetness of the gesture swelled his heart even as the simple eroticism of the act made another part of his anatomy burgeon to life. “My feelings for you aren’t a lie.” Kalla’s dark gaze held his. “I didn’t want to feel this way, Niko.” “Yet you made love with me.” He didn’t bother hiding his puzzlement. While he understood women had the same physical needs as men—understood too that they could hide those desires much better than men could—he knew enough about Kalla to understand she wouldn’t have lain with him without some strong emotion propelling her. Love or hate, either would be that impetus. But it seemed she felt love for him. “I had a vision of us,” she whispered. “I couldn’t believe the goddess wanted us together. I’d fought against my desire so long and not just because I was part of Praxiteles’ plot.” She shook her head. “You are Spartan. I am a slave. We could never be together openly and I won’t settle for less.” Her chin lifted. “I don’t deserve less than your all.” He didn’t disagree. His gut churned with anger—at the situation, at his helplessness to rectify it. The Spartan people—his people—would never allow them to be together as husband and wife. It was their way to keep the classes separate. The Spartiate—citizens born to Spartan parents—at the top. The perioeci, or tradesmen class, allowed to conduct business yet not afforded the protection of citizenry. And the Helots—slaves of many nations, yet with no nation to call their own. Like Kalla. Nikolaos stilled. This was what he’d been fighting for, to preserve the Spartan way of life, even when that meant maintaining a slave labor force. He swallowed back the bitter bile of regret. Now, everything he’d fought for, his very way of life, blocked his path to happiness.

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Kalla stared at Nikolaos, wondering what was going on behind that handsome face of his. She was aware of her father and brothers several feet behind her, still in their protective stances, but she stayed focused on Nikolaos. He had come to her, not dressed as a warrior with his breastplate and crimson cape, but as a simple Spartan in a plain thigh-length chiton, a dagger sheathed to one calf. Her pulse jumped. He was so muscular, his biceps bulging, his thighs and calves long and hard. His eyes flickered then narrowed. His gaze settled on her face. “Be my wife.” She blinked. Hadn’t he been listening? “Niko… I can’t marry you. Even if the Assembly voted to allow such a joining, you know the Ephora would overturn it.” She shook her head, talking over the protest he was making. “I don’t think you’d have even Leotychides’ support, regardless of your loyalty to him.” “It doesn’t matter.” He cupped her face in his palms and leaned over her, bringing his face to within inches of hers. As he filled her vision, it became too much and she had to close her eyes to block him out. He asked the impossible. If she looked at him, she might be weak enough to say yes. “We’ll leave Sparta, go to Thrace or even Athens.” Her eyes flew open at that. He would become a mercenary with the Thracians or go to Athens, the one city-state most denigrated by Spartans? He would give up everything for her? “I can’t let you do that.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Faced with living in Sparta without you or living with you without Sparta, I find my homeland isn’t as important to me as I’d thought.” “Niko, no.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and pulled away from his hold. “Sparta is everything to you. Has been for two hundred years. You can’t tell me

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you can just walk away from everything you hold dear, everything familiar. From your home.” “You’re my home now, dearling. You.” He twisted his hands around to lace his fingers through hers. “Whatever I have to do to keep you with me is worth the sacrifice.” Kalla swallowed back tears. Mighty Athena, guide me, she prayed. Everything she wanted was within her grasp—all she had to do was reach out and take it. But would there come a time when he would grow to hate her for the sacrifices he willingly made now? A time when she was old and gray and he was still young and vital?

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Chapter Eight A rough cough from behind caught Kalla’s attention. She turned to see her father walking toward them. Nikolaos’ arm came around her shoulders, pulling her against him as if afraid her father would take her away from him. “I, ah, may have a solution.” Timon cleared his throat again. Stopping beside them, he drove the tip of his sword into the ground, a clear signal that his animosity toward Nikolaos had lessened. She waited. And waited. Just when she was about to prompt him, he took her hand and said, “You are not Messenian by birth.” Kalla frowned. “What do you mean?” Her father glanced toward Nikolaos. She looked as well and saw understanding on his face. “What!” she demanded, wanting that same comprehension. “You were small and sickly, left to die on the side of Mount Taigetos like so many other Spartoi children before you.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “On her way home from Sparta after working as a house servant for two years, my wife found you there and brought you home. Against my wishes.” His fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze. “But being the sole woman in a houseful of males, she so wanted a little girl. And except for those first weeks when you would not stop crying,” he added with a slight smile, “I have never regretted her decision. You are as much my daughter as if you had come from my seed.” She stared at her father in disbelief. No, not her father. Not by birth, at any rate. But certainly the father of her heart. “This is what you almost told me earlier, wasn’t it? When I tried to get you to leave.”

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He nodded. “I didn’t anticipate your young man would come after you with amorous intentions. So I reckoned nothing good would come of the disclosure.” She chewed on the inside of her lower lip and glanced at Nikolaos. He gave her a nod. “Er, Father, there is something else you should know about Nikolaos.” Timon raised his eyebrows. “Yes?” “I am Aresian.” Nikolaos’ arm tightened around her shoulders. Her father’s chin came up. “Do you love my daughter?” Nikolaos held her gaze. “I do.” “Will you treat her with care, protect her with your life and love her all your days?” “I will.” Her father shrugged. “Well then, that’s fine as far as I’m concerned.” He looked at Kalla. “He’ll be able to keep you safe, of a certainty. That’s my main concern.” His face grew sad. “Although I will miss you, my daughter.” Which brought home to her the same looming reason she and Nikolaos could not be together. “I may not be Messenian by birth, but I am certainly Messenian by choice.” She glanced at Nikolaos. “I couldn’t live as a Spartan, knowing my people were still enslaved.” “But now you have an opportunity to make the lives of Messenians better, Kalla.” Her father cupped her chin. “You know firsthand how difficult life is as a Helot—you can work toward change. From inside Sparta.” She bit her lip. If she agreed to marry Nikolaos, would it now seem as if she did so only to help her people? “I can sense your doubt, dearling.” Nikolaos sent a look of thanks to her father. “Perhaps the rest of this conversation should be conducted in private.” A smile curled Timon’s lips before he pressed them together and looked suitably stern. She couldn’t help but laugh. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she murmured, “You’re really quite soft on the inside, aren’t you, for all your toughness on the outside.”

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“You’re calling your father leathery?” She laughed and kissed him again. “As an old cow hide,” she retorted. Nikolaos slid his arm from around her shoulders and took her hand, linking their fingers together. “We’ll go talk in the barn,” she murmured. Timon nodded. “Just be sure you’re back in time for dinner.” The twinkle in his eyes belied his strict admonition. She and Nikolaos walked in silence around to the side of the house and then the furlong or so it took to reach the barn. He opened the door, waiting for her to precede him. Kalla stepped over the threshold and took in a deep breath of hay and horses. Their two draft horses put their heads over their stalls and whickered softly, then went back to eating hay. Dust motes chased each other through the sunlight filtered by the wooden slats of the barn walls. Suddenly nervous, she turned to face Nikolaos. “Don’t,” he said, pulling her into a loose embrace. “Don’t be afraid of me.” She sighed and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m not. Not really.” “Then what is it?” His big hands rubbed soothingly up and down her back. Kalla shook her head and sighed. Lifting her head, she met his gaze. “You’ll always wonder if I married you to make life easier for my people. And when I’m old and gray, I’ll wonder if you still care.” “You admitted your feelings for me before your father told you of your origins,” he reminded her. “I have no worries about your motivations, dearling. And no concern about your aspirations to help your people.” “Even if that means the Sparta you’re used to one day no longer exists?” She held her breath. His sensual mouth curved upward. “I was ready to give it all up, remember?” He leaned down and rubbed his lips over hers. “I want to be with you.” She huffed another sigh.

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Nikolaos leaned back. “What?” “It’s not like we have proof.” She worried about that. It was one thing to say she was a Spartan baby left on the mountainside—one who’d proved them wrong by being strong enough to survive—and quite another thing to substantiate the claim. “My word is all the proof that will be required.” The sheer arrogance of the statement was pure Nikolaos, but she knew he was right. He was a much-revered warrior, a natural leader to whom most Spartoi gave their respect. If he said it, it was true. He locked his hands at the base of her spine and leaned over her, bending her slightly backward over his supporting arms. “Now, is there anything else we need to clear up, dearling? It’s been a rather long, tiring day. I need something to restore my flagging strength.” She grinned, feeling happier than she had in a very long time. Though there was still that little matter of the tremendous gap between their ages. Her smile faded. “You don’t age. I will.” He raised one brow. “You wouldn’t have to.” She blinked at him. She’d heard whispered conversations, of course, that any of the godkin could bestow immortality upon another. But she’d thought the rumors to be just that—rumors. “It’s true then? I could be like you?” He gave a nod. “You would have to ingest blood, but I can be your donor.” He frowned. “At any rate, I will have to be your donor much of the time in order to maintain your longevity. I’m not so sure, anyway, that I like the idea of you touching another man to get what you need.” It was her turn to frown. “But it’s all right for you to touch another woman?” His expression softened. “You’re already starting to sound like a wife,” he teased. Sobering, he said, “It doesn’t have to be sexual in nature, sweetling. Many times I have

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fed and it’s been a simple intake of nourishment and nothing more.” His eyes started twinkling. “But, barring young women, I can take from men or little old ladies.” Kalla grinned even as relief rushed through her. And trepidation. Did she really want to be a vampire? To live forever while those around her—her father, her brothers—aged and died? But to do otherwise would be to lose Nikolaos while she aged and died. Besides, as her father said, here was an opportunity to help her people from the inside. Imagine how much she could accomplish with centuries stretching before her… “What plot are you hatching now?” Nikolaos’ eyes were watchful, but with an indulgent light that told her he was teasing her again. “Nothing,” she demurred with a smile. “Just thinking about what I can do with eternity.” “I can show you one thing you can do with eternity.” His voice deepened. He drew her into a vacant stall. Holding her gaze with his, he untied his braided belt and let it drop to the hay. Without bothering to undo the brooches at his shoulders, he pulled his chiton up and over his head. He unstrapped the weapon sheath from his calf and dropped it to the hay. Going to his knees, he laid the garment over the hay. Then he held out one broad hand in invitation. Kalla looked at him, her big, brawny warrior. Joy and love surged through her. He was hers. Forever. All she had to do was take his hand. She let her gaze wander over him. His dark hair was tousled from his long ride here, his jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. Broad chest tapered to a long, rippled abdomen and slim hips. She looked at his groin. His erection was long and thick, rising up toward his belly, the head already a dark shade of red. Lust burgeoned, making her swollen and wet with need. She took his hand and let him draw her down onto his chiton.

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He came down over her, his mouth slanting across hers with hungry force. His tongue swept between her lips—taking, giving. Demanding, pleading. She met him with equal intensity. Love and lust roiled within her, filling her to overflowing. She took from him just as much as she gave. She could swear she felt his soul in the heated caress. Passion ignited. While he untied the belt from beneath her breasts, she fumbled with the brooch at her shoulder. Relieved when the garment was pulled from her and she was as bare as he, she wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him closer. She wanted—needed—to feel his warm skin against hers. They had wasted time. She had wasted time fighting him, fighting herself. Denying feelings that had been there all along. Now her fears were allayed and hopes she’d never before dared to have would be realized. Not only would he be hers, he would be hers forever. She rubbed against him, her breasts smoothing across his skin. Her nipples immediately hardened at the friction of the wiry hair on his chest. As he kissed a path down the side of her throat, she clasped his back, fingertips digging into the hard muscles. She stared up at Nikolaos. His erection pulsed against her and set off an answering throb in her swollen clit. A surge of arousal flooded her pussy with slick, hot moisture. He was so handsome, so compelling. And he was hers. He moved down farther, lapping at her nipples like he was a cat and she his bowl of cream. He used teeth and tongue to pull one hard nub into the wet, hot cavern of his mouth and suckled with a slow, leisurely draw. He braced himself above her on his forearm, while his other hand slid down her belly to stroke into the wet folds of her sex. When one finger found her clit and flicked it back and forth, she gasped and lifted against him. “Niko, please…” She needed more.

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His chuckle was low and wicked. He kissed a fiery path over her belly. Just as he took her clit into his mouth, he pushed a thick finger into her pussy, sliding in through her cream and out again. In, out. A slow, leisurely glide that made her insane. He suckled her pleasure nub, driving her closer and closer to an orgasm. And all the while, that finger stroked in and out, picking up speed until she was writhing beneath him, straining for the peak. He replaced his finger with his tongue, stroking inside her, flicking against the sensitive walls of her channel. Rubbing her clit in short, hard circles, he built her need. Almost there. She cried out, her body clenching, tightening around his tongue. Back bowing, fingers digging into his back, she reached, reached…

Nikolaos felt the hunger burning in his belly and knew he had to have this woman—his woman—again. It had been too long since he’d lost himself in the creamy depths of her body, too long since he’d connected with her soul. He inhaled her unique scent and stroked his tongue through her folds, gentling her. Rearing up, he guided himself to her opening, pushing into her with one long, demanding thrust. She moaned and lifted her hips, taking all of him. Reaching between them, he pressed his fingers against her clit and started tugging and rubbing. He increased the pressure and speed, keeping the same rhythm as his cock stroking in and out of her channel. As he climbed toward a climax, his fangs erupted. He groaned, driving his cock into her with hard, short jabs. Her inner muscles contracted around him. His balls grew taut, drawing up against his body. Heat spread out from the base of his spine, feathering around to tighten his groin. “Give me your throat,” he muttered. Without a word, she turned her head, baring her neck to him. He took what she offered, nostrils flaring at the sweetness, his mouth sucking her blood down his throat.

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Convulsing in his arms, she screamed with her climax. His own pleasure roared through him. Throwing back his head, he shoved against her, holding himself still as his cock exploded in her satiny depths. His release jetted into her in wave after hot wave. As he came down from his orgasm, his cock gave final little jerks. Nikolaos lowered his head, licking away the last few drops of blood from her throat. With a sigh, he rolled to his back and held her against him. Ignoring the rasp of hay beneath his body, he cradled her against his heart. He needed this woman—he’d searched for her his entire life, though he hadn’t known it. He had been aware of the loneliness, the emptiness. The futility of his life that wasn’t filled by his love of Sparta. Now he had another love, a greater love, and he would do everything in his power to protect it. To protect her. She lifted her head and looked down at him. “Is it my turn?” She whisked away strands of hair where they adhered to the sweat on his forehead. “Your turn for what?” She’d had an orgasm, he was sure of it. “To take your blood. To become like you.” Nikolaos’ heart pounded. “You’re certain you want this?” She nodded. “I love you. I want to be with you forever.” “My love.” Nikolaos reached for his dagger. Drawing a thin cut along his chest, he urged her mouth down to him. “You won’t need much, dearling.” Her tongue lapped at him. A delicate shiver worked its way through her body. After several moments, she lifted her head. A telltale edge of crimson rimmed her irises. “When will I know?” He smiled. “You’re an Aresian now, Kalla. Just that little bit of godkin blood was enough to begin the process. Taking my blood from time to time will keep the transformation complete.”

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Wicked Omen

“I don’t feel any different.” She tilted her head to one side. Her eyes widened and she placed her fingers over her upper lip, pressing against her gums. “Ouch. Ouch!” Pain passed over her face, her eyes filming with tears as her body reacted to his blood, sending her newly formed fangs sliding down. Just as quickly, the pain must have faded, for her face cleared. She reached up and poked one finger against her fangs. “Oh.” Her breath caught and her eyes drifted closed. Nikolaos had seen this look pass across her once before, when she’d had a vision. He wondered what sight the goddess saw fit to share this time. When Kalla’s eyelids swept up, carnal delight danced in her eyes. “It seems this is what Athena had in mind all along. You and me, like this.” One slender hand wrapped around his cock. He immediately grew hard and long in her palm. She bent and took his lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. He clasped her face between her palms and took control, deepening the caress until they both breathed heavily. Against her mouth he whispered, “I would that all your omens be as wicked.”

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About the Author Sherrill Quinn grew up in Northeast Ohio on the southern edge of the snow belt. After sloshing through too many winters of ice and snow, she moved to southern Arizona where she’s lived since 2000. After twenty years building a career in Human Resources, she went back to her early love of writing and started a second career in erotic romance in early 2005.

Sherrill welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Also by Sherrill Quinn Demon of Her Dreams Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction I anthology Jewel of Apthgar To the Victor Go the Spoils

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