Warrior

By Deidre Huesmann

While Azalee recovers from her stabbing, the High Priestess continues to lord over her. Azalee begins to feel her situation is hopeless once the Mother of Mykonos declares her mistrust of the Blistered child. With few allies, she makes desperate moves to gain some sense of control.

In Athens, Joel and the others come to the dreaded realization that Joel is also a chosen mortal by a very unlikely and malicious god. Joel will have to sacrifice his beliefs to reach Azalee—and even that may not be enough.

As their fates intertwine, trust is tenuous, promises are broken, and blood is spilled. Azalee and Joel can succumb to the gods’ twisted games...or challenge the fates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773392509

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Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2017 Deidre Huesmann

ISBN: 978-1-77339-250-9

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Audrey Bobak

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Chris, my love, for whom I would do what Azalee does for Joel in this novel.

WARRIOR

A Modern Greek Myth, 3

Deidre Huesmann

Copyright © 2017

Chapter One

Brawl

Waves lapped at the white sand, leaving behind a gentle froth that fizzled into the ground. The moonlight reflected off the clear ocean water as Selene gazed lovingly upon Poseidon’s home. Trees swayed in a cool, salty breeze, adding tenderness to the moment.

Joel sat near the water, his legs folded, as he embraced a petite young woman. She laid her head upon his bronzed shoulder, white hair cascading down his arm as she nuzzled into him. He smiled at the pale lashes resting against her cheeks.

You’ve never looked more beautiful, he murmured.

She snorted, lifting a gaze that glinted like dark rubies in the twinkling night sky. You’re such a romantic.

Is that so awful?

She sighed, a smile curving her lips as she pressed them to his shoulder. After everything we’ve been through? No.

Joel squeezed her closer, his gaze falling to her mouth. He’d only kissed her once before. Now, in the calm aftermath of the battle—

Wait, what battle?

—he felt the moment was perfect. He tilted her head up, loving that her eyes fell closed as she followed his gentle movements. He pressed his lips to hers, and she felt so soft—cool, like a sweet lullaby.

Azalee—

A loud crash startled Joel from his dream—which pained him more than words could say.

He sat up and looked about the tiny room. Where is this? Not the ocean…

Then his memory caught up. The woods. The fight. The blood. The chase. Before all the chaos, he’d spent several days in an underground prison across from—

Deimos.

Joel watched his brother emerge from the adjoining tiny room—the bathroom, he reminded himself of the modern Athenian term—and bolted for a door flush with the wall beside the spare Athenian bed. Without a word, Deimos pulled the handle and flung the door inward, only to catch a tiny pale form as it stumbled into his arms.

Joel peered into the second hotel room. He saw Niribelle, clad in little more than a towel, her feet spread as she glowered at the small figure in Deimos’s grip. Her generous chest heaved, her pale-blue eyes focused on the seemingly frail person.

The person—Cleo—scrambled up. She shoved away from Deimos, her short, jagged black hair flying about her face as she hollered, What the hell is your problem?

My problem? shrieked Niribelle, her face flushed. The color was all the more apparent on her golden skin with her hair shaven off, leaving behind a couple weeks’ worth of downy golden fluff. I told you to leave my things alone!

Why should I? Cleo’s brown eyes burned. You stole from me first. If I want to borrow a hair clip, I will!

Niribelle’s hands flew self-consciously to her scalp. She snarled. That was several years ago. Get over it!

Come here and make me, you lying, conniving, bald-headed bitch!

Niribelle shrieked, diving for Cleo again. This time Joel scrambled from the bed, wrapping his arms around Niribelle and yanking her off Cleo. He was dimly amazed the towel stayed put. It felt flimsy and hugged her body in an almost obscene fashion.

He shook the terrible thoughts from his head. Nini, cut it out!

Deimos pulled Cleo to her feet, his grip tight on her arm. He glared at Joel, his deep-blue eyes scrutinizing. Nice of you to help, baby brother.

Joel opened his mouth to answer, but Niribelle grunted and elbowed him. It hardly hurt, though it did revive the sting left behind by a long slice down his back. He took the hint and let her go.

She stepped aside, glaring at Cleo, and bared her teeth. I won’t say it again—stay out of my bag, and I’ll let you keep both your eyes.

Cleo muttered a few choice curses beneath her breath. Joel didn’t understand, but he was fairly certain he’d heard them before.

With flair, Niribelle whirled and stalked into her hotel’s bathroom, slamming the door as hard as she could.

Joel shook his head and glanced around. The room seemed mostly intact, but for a chair that had been shoved to its side. He assumed that was the source of the noise that woke him up.

Then he blinked. Sitting on one of the beds, her expression eerily serene, was a girl with smooth, pale skin and black hair that puffed like a cloud atop her head. Her gaze settled on Joel, her eyes glittering tourmaline-pink in the morning light.

Were you just sitting there this whole time, Emilia? he asked.

Emilia shrugged. Her hands rested in her lap. I did not want to interrupt. It became interesting.

Behind Joel, Deimos said flatly, Maybe next time, intervene. I thought we were being attacked again.

I sincerely doubt the Illyrians would ambush us in broad daylight, said Emilia with her unflappable calm.

Joel turned to his brother. "That does seem unlikely."

Deimos scowled. Do not underestimate the Kurios, baby brother. We killed two of his men. He’ll be out for blood, now.

"You killed two of his men," said Joel. He tried not to break his brother’s stern gaze, but it was difficult. One of the two dead Illyrians was their blood brother. And Deimos hadn’t hesitated to literally stab him in the back.

That’s not how this works, said Deimos. You picked up Dimitris’s sword. You agreed to be part of this. From now on, the group’s crimes are your crimes—and mine.

A sensation stirred deep within Joel. He tried to ignore it but couldn’t help wondering at the source. It had made itself known just days ago, but had fallen silent in the interim.

Joel crossed his arms, about to argue, before he remembered the girls. He glanced sideways at Emilia, who watched with rising interest, and then Cleo, who stared hard at Deimos.

Cleo, can I speak with my brother alone?

She shook her head. Can it wait? I need to talk to him. Something’s been bothering me.

Joel shifted uneasily. I don’t think—

Yes, it can wait, said Deimos, shooting Joel a dark look. I believe my brother needs time to consider what I’ve said, anyhow.

Joel sighed.

Cleo turned a charming smile on Deimos, her eyes alight with mischief. Good. Then you need to come with me to the bathroom.

Deimos blinked. Excuse me?

Joel tilted his head. She’s the one who made a big deal about the bathrooms being private areas.

Relax, said Cleo, her smile widening. We’ll leave the door open. But this—she gestured at Deimos’s thick stubble—can’t stay anymore. It looks hideous.

Covering his mouth to muffle a laugh, Joel couldn’t help but take amusement from the horrified expression on Deimos’s face.

Defensively, Deimos said, I’ve decided I like it.

Cleo wrinkled her nose. "It’s hideous, and I’ve decided it’s coming off."

It’s my face!

"Yeah, but you only have to wear it. I have to look at it."

Deimos sneered—at least, Joel assumed he did. The golden fur around his mouth was beginning to make it difficult to tell. Perhaps you should find something more attractive to look at.

Cleo huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "I’m trying, but that thing isn’t cooperating very well."

Look, little girl—

"No, you look, she shouted. Joel flinched at the sudden sharp rise in her pitch. Unless you’re in your thirties, you have no business looking like a scruffy old mountain man in the middle of the city. Just because we’re fighting a war doesn’t mean you get to look like a barbarian. She pointed to the men’s bathroom, her nostrils flaring. Now get in there before I break the razor open and cut your potentially pretty face with it!"

Deimos raised an eyebrow. Potentially?

Cleo glared at him, jabbing her finger insistently at the bathroom.

After a tense moment, Deimos sighed. I shall return in a moment, baby brother.

A moment, Cleo muttered as she trailed behind him. "All that rabbit fur plastered on his stupid face, it’s gonna take at least half an hour…"

Uncertain whether to be confused, amused, or irate, Joel shook his head and looked back to Emilia. So, uh…

Emilia smiled pleasantly. Please close the door. I should like to get dressed in the new garments Niribelle so graciously acquired.

Yeah. Sure. Joel fumbled with the handle. Uh, have fun.

Certainly.

After he shut the door, a strange buzzing sounded from the bathroom, quickly followed by a loud thud. Fiery furies, what black magic is that? exclaimed Deimos.

Cleo’s groan echoed from the tiny bathroom. Oh, my God, it’s an electric razor. Sit down!

Joel paused to grab the clothes Niribelle had bought for him, sliding a pair of jeans over his—what were these infernal tiny pants called? Boxers?

He wandered to the window, sliding the curtain open and welcoming Apollo’s sunlight into his face. He touched the scabbed lobe of his left ear, recalling the quartz earring he’d pilfered from his mother to help him travel by night. It seemed like ages ago.

Knowing everything I know now, was it all worth it?

Considering Niribelle’s increasingly secretive nature, he wasn’t certain. Something else was going on, but she remained tight-lipped about whatever was bothering her.

Plus, he had a lot on his own plate. He needed to rescue Azalee from her imprisonment on the island of Mykonos. Not to mention his promise to save Cleo’s sister from the snare of the death god, Thanatos. Then there was the impending war among the gods.

Finally, the fact Joel would have to cast aside his desired philosophy of pacifism if he wanted to save Azalee from her impending fate.

Over the past couple weeks, Emilia had filled in a lot of holes, starting when Joel and Azalee had separated on the Mykonos ship and ending when Emilia—and Cleo—had passed through a gemstone apparition to join him near Athens. Joel knew Azalee was in a place called Mykonos Manor and that she was expected to wed and conceive a child with the so-called Son of Mykonos, Theseus.

Joel had met the man, once. He’d had Joel stabbed.

His hand reflexively went to his side. The wound was mostly healed, but still ached now and then.

The weight of his burdens pressed upon him. He had much to do, and time was short. Joel had to get to the island of Mykonos, but he still had to find a way to save Cleo’s twin sister.

He’d promised both of them. He couldn’t break those promises.

He rested his head against the cool glass, heaving a sigh. Yet here I am, once again, in over my head. And Deimos expects me to … what, exactly? Lead everyone?

The very idea was hilarious. Or would have been, if Joel had the energy to laugh.

He closed his eyes, taking inventory of his injuries. Though his side and ear were largely healed, as was the shallow stab wound to his shoulder Deimos had so lovingly gifted him weeks earlier, the slice down his back still scabbed and bled occasionally. Emilia had bandaged him the night before, and he would need a change before they left. His hand trailed back, finding where the cloth turned rigid beneath dried blood.

His feet ached from weeks of walking. His head throbbed under the weight of his internal pressures. His heart constricted at the thought of Azalee—and worse, not knowing what happened to her.

She was his destiny. He’d spent too much of their initial journey together wandering from his fated path. Over and over, it had come to haunt him.

He didn’t want to stray from the path that led to her anymore. He’d fallen for her, hard. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense he’d grown up with, but Azalee was much more: feisty, determined, and headstrong. All of those things, and yet unbelievably understanding and caring. She’d fought for Niribelle after Niribelle had betrayed her. She’d found a way to reach him through unconventional means, even when they were miles apart.

He loved her.

After all he’d been through, Joel even knew he’d fight—maybe even kill—for a chance to hold her one more time, and hopefully for the rest of their lives.

He clenched his fist and tensed his jaw. He turned away from his translucent reflection in the window. He didn’t want to look at the hardened azurite eyes he hardly recognized anymore.

As he did so, the buzzing in the bathroom ceased. Cleo muttered incoherently, and Deimos remained completely silent. If Joel didn’t know better, he’d have thought she’d slit his brother’s throat.

He doubted it. Joel noticed the way Cleo looked at Deimos: a young woman curious, as though she saw potential in Deimos as a gem enthusiast might see in an uncut diamond. Joel didn’t quite agree, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think Cleo was a good distraction for his brother.

At the very least, Deimos seemed less murderous with her around.

Cleo emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel. She grinned. He looks way better now.

Deimos followed, and Joel had to admit he was impressed. Not only had she cleaned up Deimos’s stubble, she’d done something to his hair so it fell in waves to his chin, rather than straggle about everywhere.

In fact, now that his face was visible, Joel could objectively see his brother’s appeal. Where Joel was tall and broad-shouldered, Deimos was shorter, wiry, and lean. His angular jaw stood out spectacularly, and his blond hair looked healthy without so much dirt, grime, and blood caking it.

Deimos seemed less than convinced in Cleo’s assessment. He kept rubbing a small bit of fur left beneath his lower lip. I do not understand why you left the job unfinished.

Annoyance filtered from her voice. It’s not unfinished. I told you, it’s a style. It’s called a soul patch.

It’s bothersome.

Joel shrugged. I think it looks okay.

Deimos scoffed.

Raking her critical gaze over Joel, Cleo pursed her lips. You need some cleaning up, too.

Joel hesitated, but ultimately complied without argument. He thought she worked much faster with him, using the strange buzzing cutter to sheer the hair on his head, and then a small, strangely sharp implement along his jaw. In the end, Joel felt and looked better than he had in a long while.

He smiled at her once they were finished. Thank you.

She grinned. "De nada. At his blank expression, she clarified, You’re welcome. I think Azalee would prefer you storm the castle looking your best, anyway."

The thought had never occurred to him. I don’t think she’d care.

Cleo rolled her eyes. Women always care. Don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise.

With a shrug, Joel returned to the bedroom to retrieve gray clothing from the shopping bag between the beds. As he pulled the t-shirt over his head, the adjoining door opened and Emilia walked in. She’d changed into an outfit that seemed needlessly revealing: very short jeans, a shirt without sleeves, and small, shiny shoes.

Sit down, she said serenely, pointing to a bed. I’ll change your bandages.

Deimos grinned. And mine?

Cleo glowered at Deimos. Joel could have punched his brother right then. Deimos had no injuries to speak of. He was simply acting like a fool. It’s my fault for forgetting he’s spent intimate time with more than one woman.

Emilia hardly cast Deimos a sideways glance. I would prefer not to touch the man who slept with Niribelle’s mother, thank you.

Cleo’s eyes bulged. Deimos shifted uncomfortably, and Joel covered his face with one hand, pulling down toward his jaw.

As Cleo’s face began to redden, a knock at the hotel door flooded through as a welcome distraction. Joel practically ran for the door, his hand pushing the knob.

Don’t, snapped Deimos.

Before Joel could remove his hand, the door shoved open. He caught a flash of a white mask and golden hair as he leaped back. His first thought as the figure before him unsheathed a dagger was, Protect Cleo.

He spun, but Deimos had already grabbed the girl and thrown her into the adjoining room. Emilia followed without having to be told, and Deimos slammed the door closed again, locking it from their side.

Joel scrambled back over the bed, hearing a faint whoosh of air as the dagger missed him by mere centimeters. His hand dove beneath the mattress where he’d stored the Spartan sword lifted from Dimitris’s body days earlier.

When he looked up, Deimos had the intruder by the arm. His brother slammed the heel of his hand into the intruder’s jaw. A loud clack of teeth resounded through the room. With the enemy momentarily stunned, Deimos snagged the attacker by their shoulder-length white-blonde hair and yanked down. He kicked their feet out from under them.

All of that happened before Joel drew his sword. He looked to the open door, but saw no one else.

Whoever this was, they had come alone.

But why? What about reinforcements?

As he thought that, he was already moving toward the door. He shut and bolted it.

On the floor, Deimos straddled the enemy. He twisted the intruder’s arm, earning a sharp, high-pitched cry as the dagger fell from slender fingers.

Joel stood over them, aiming the sword at the intruder’s head. The weapon felt heavy and awkward in his grasp, but he did his best to keep his expression blank. Inside, he flailed about, unsure what to do or what to think.

Even if he had an inkling of an idea, Deimos appeared to have full control of the situation. He sat atop the intruder, pinning their—her, Joel could finally make sense of a lithe but shapely body—hands above her head.

Deimos looked up to him, his eyes blazing. Idiot, he spat. Don’t open the door for just anyone!

Embarrassment crept up Joel’s neck in a wash of heat. He kneeled to the floor and removed the intruder’s mask.

His heart sank. Zenobia, he whispered.

Deimos blinked rapidly, but then his lips curved in a disturbing smile. Well, well, well, he said softly. What a surprise.

The young woman glared up at them. Her eyes were dark blue and clear, similar to Joel’s. Her full lips pressed together.

Baby sister, said Deimos with mock cheer. It’s been a while.

Joel climbed back to his feet, the sword trembling in his grip. He knew the mask, that of the warrior class when they wanted to remain unknown. An assassin. It was said wearing the mask made a man stronger, and fighting against a man in a mask made the kill swifter. Lack of identity, the warriors purported.

Women were not warriors, though. Not in Illyria. The fact she was here to murder them made his sister’s presence all the more haunting.

The Kurios had sent another sibling. Two weeks ago he’d sent Saoul, and now Zenobia.

Chills flooded Joel’s nerves. Did the Kurios intend to send every single one of the Crete-Spinel children after them until the family line died out?

Zenobia’s eyes flashed as she peered up at Joel. Kill me, she hissed. Or I’ll slit your throat the first chance I get, you disgusting traitors.

Chapter Two

Control

Lady Azalee, you have a visitor.

Azalee blinked groggily. She grimaced, glancing toward the window. Though the curtains were drawn shut, a sliver of sun peeked through the bottom, casting a golden line across the dark, metallic lodestone floor.

Daylight? She was awake during the mornings, but usually by the time the sun rose overhead, she was fast asleep. Being Blistered meant her skin could not withstand more than a few seconds of sunlight before she was terribly burned. For the most part, she avoided it altogether.

Azalee tried to sit up but lost her breath almost immediately. Right… I was stabbed. Furies. She turned her head to look at a blank-faced maid. Long dark hair was bound into a tight bun atop the maid’s crown, with thin braids trailing before her ears and past her shoulders.

The maid tilted her head. Lady Azalee?

Azalee squinted at her. Are you new?

The maid brightened. Why, yes.

Thought so. She pointed at her stomach. I was stabbed. I can’t move. So, if you wouldn’t mind—

Oh! I’m so terribly sorry! Flustered, the maid rushed to her side and rolled her blankets down. Her already pale face blanched at the spot of blood on Azalee’s chiton. I-I don’t—

Azalee stifled a sigh. It’s fine. Just, please, help me sit up.

Yes, my lady.

Unsure which was worse—needing help, or accepting help from someone under Theseus’s thumb—Azalee used her hands and forearms to aid the maid as much as possible. She winced when one of the cuts on her bandaged palms split open again, and quickly hid it beneath the covers. If she flinches at my stomach, she might faint if I’m bleeding freely.

Thanks. Azalee offered a tight grin.

The maid nodded, diverting her eyes. I apologize for not knowing the full extent of your condition.

She waved off the maid’s concern. It’s fine. An unwanted question intruded upon her thoughts. Where’s Theseus?

Our Son of Mykonos is aboard the ship. The maid didn’t look up from the floor. Today our Mother of Mykonos returns from her Athens trip.

Azalee blinked. Despite her pain, a faint smile touched her lips. She