The Heart of War: OF WAR

By Lisa Beth Darling

2023 Readers' Favorite Award Winner!!

 

Within the Heart of Every Warrior Breathes the Soul of a Hero--Even Within The Heart of War.

Get lost in this steamy pulse-pounding thrill ride where around every corner you'll find betrayal, secrets, love, lust, rage, and just possibly, redemption.

Ares God of War and Alena MacLeod share a love that will rock the world from the heights of Olympus to the Celtic moors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Beth Darling
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215104347

Lisa Beth Darling

With her unique perspective on life, Lisa Beth Darling is unafraid to delve into darker places other may fear to tread. In doing so, she masterfully shines glorious light on the stormy events that shape, test, & define human character. Ranging from dark & thrilling to heartwarming & inspirational, Lisa’s stories are rich with secrets, lust, betrayal, and sometimes rage. They may keep you awake into the wee hours of the morning cheering, weeping, and trapped in suspense as her heroes and heroines have their love tested by demons who reside within and without. Lisa Beth Darling is 56 years-old, the mother of two adult daughters, grandmother to two adorable granddaughters, and wife to her husband for 37 years, Roy. She lives and writes in her hometown of New London, CT. Early influences were Stephen King, Mary Higgins Clark, Harold Robins, Jacqueline Susan and VC Andrews. In her spare time she enjoys gardening and photography.

Book preview

Chapter One

Lost At Sea

1

W hat is that smell ? Ares God of War sneered from his Throne of Bones as his dark eyes stared coldly at one of his women. Answer me woman. Her name was Kat yet, even though she’d been with him the last fifteen years and shared his bed each night along with whatever woman or women of his that he desired, Ares almost never called her by her name. He hardly ever called anyone by their names unless they were an Olympian. Ares met Kat one night when he was in Athens; when he walked into a bar looking for a good time and he found it. When he entered, she was in the middle of a very heated bar fight with two men who tried to walk out on their tab.  He watched her jump over the bar with a full bottle of Ouzo in each hand as she went after them, her long legs bare and tanned out in front of her and her long dark hair flying behind her as she bolted over the wood bar.  Now at thirty-eight and Mortal, her days of bar fights were over and her youth swiftly fading away.  A decade and a half in the service of the God of War takes a heavy toll on a woman.

Risking his ire, she spoke cautiously.  My Lord, this is the third time you have asked me that.  She smiled a little bit at him before she continued.  I don't smell anything except the salt air and the fire in the hearth. 

Ares’ upper lip curled into a snarl as he let out an audible growl before leaning forward on his Throne of Bones.  Long before the Olympians bestowed the title The God of War upon Ares, he lorded over All Things Wild and Free, and still did.  The wilderness and all its creatures were his domain.  As such he possessed the keen senses of his animal totem, the wolf—a shape into which he could shift into at will—and the odor was much more acute to him than it was to the Mortals around him.  It smelled...sweet...something oddly rotting with a tinge of honeysuckle underlying the acrid scent of the coming decay.  Something on the island was dying; something he could not identify.  That was most unsettling, as Ares knew every inch of his island, every animal, every rock, every stone, and every tree right down to its moss and lichen.  The scent was altogether unfamiliar, and it disturbed him.  In frustration, Ares rose from his throne to stand at his full height of seven feet. His long wavy raven hair flowed about his broad shoulders and the razor-sharp lines of the whiskers on his darkly handsome face turned upward as smiled with a touch of menace, I’m going for a walk.  You have my dinner on that table when I return, woman. Ares ordered.

Yes, my Lord.

Ares sauntered through the hallowed halls of his empty cave from the throne room to the entrance, where four torches burned as the night began to descend, he passed the guards standing outside and paid them no mind.

The small group of men was standing in the cool evening chatting when their Master walked out of the cave with purpose in his long stride.  Not liking the glare in his Lord's narrowed eyes, Nicco, a strapping young man with dark skin and piercing blue eyes warily ventured, Would you like one of us to accompany you, my Lord?

The scent was much stronger out here, it caught in Ares' nostrils, making them flare.  Swiftly he spun on his leather boot-heels.  Do you smell that?

Nicco took half a step backwards and heard the twins behind him clear their throats.  It seemed Lord Ares was in another one of his foul moods.  Smell what, my Lord?

Turning his ruggedly handsome face upward, Ares took in a huge breath, filling the massive lungs residing in his rippled chest.  It was coming from somewhere by the cliff.  How could they not smell it?  Useless, Ares spat and walked away from his guards.

The cave in which Ares’ resided sat nestled in the base of a mountain upon a high cliff top, overlooking the sea and an array of small islands beyond.  Dusk was descending as Venus twinkled above in a sky filled with color from the deepest purple to the hottest shades of pink.  Standing upon the precipice looking forward to the rolling waters, he realized the smell came not from the ocean but from the shore below.  Casting his curious dark eyes downward, he saw something that he did not recognize lying on his beach.  What has Poseidon washed up upon my shore? Ares asked himself.  Not wanting to take the time to walk all the way down to the shore on the narrow set of steps carved into the cliffside, Ares used his powers and vanished from the precipice and reappeared on the sands below.

Looming over the lump in sand, he saw a soaked length of purple cloth but the lump below it was too big to be cloth alone.  Reaching out with a heavily booted foot, he kicked up the corner of the cloth, the sea wind carried it upward.  It floated away from the lump and flitted off toward the rocks closest to shore.  A woman?  With a flicker of interest, he looked down to see the woman lying on her side in the sand with her head tucked deeply to her chest.

Wondering where she’d come from, Ares turned toward the ocean.  In the two thousand years he had made this island his secluded little home, no one had accidentally washed up upon his shore.  His dark brooding eyes scanned the distance between the island and the far horizon and saw no ship.  No wreckage.  No others on the beach or bodies floating in the water.  He heard no plaintiff cries for help.  Why should he?  The shipping lanes were miles away from his secluded island.  Weeks often went by without so much as a single ship on the horizon.  That was the way Ares liked it.  Quiet.  When he was not off wreaking havoc somewhere, Ares enjoyed his solitude.

Out there tonight, just like everything other night before, there was nothing but the water, the peaceful quiet of the soulless islands scattered around his, and the coming night.  The nearest island to his that held a single soul—actually, a small village of maybe 150 people whose ancestors had lived there since the dawn of time—was over a hundred miles from Ares’ shore.

Turning back to the woman on the beach, he squatted next to her to get his first good look at this new and unexpected arrival in the blazing last lights of day.  At first, he thought her an old woman, with her long gray hair clinging to her wet body.  Hair so gray it was nearly white.  Hag?  Do you hear me hag?  What are you doing on my island?  She did not move or make any sound.

She wore a tattered white blouse, or it had been white; now it was covered with seaweed and torn to near shreds.  Below that she wore a very long dark blue skirt that looked to be made of cotton or maybe linen.  His dark curious eyes took in the sight of her alabaster skin below the dainty blouse, full ripe breasts pushed against the material of both blouse and bra.  Judging by the way those nipples stood at attention, Ares thought she must be very cold.  Between those chilly yet inviting mounds lay a silver necklace.  Picking it up, he looked at it closely.

Perhaps it was a fashion statement of some kind; Mortals were so strange in that regard.  Certainly, the intricately crafted love knot with its willow tree and symbol of Cernunnos in the midst of the trunk could not mean what it once had; no one remembered or worshiped the Old Gods any longer. 

Woman?  Wake up, woman.  He gave her a harsh nudge, but she did not move.  Squatting quietly on the sand with the sea breeze behind him, Ares heard her heart beating, it was slow, but it was strong, maybe even strong enough to sustain her.  Her shallow breathing had a harsh rasp but that was from the water in her lungs.  He saw no wounds, no blood on the wet clothing clinging to her shapely form.

With the heel of his boot, he turned her over onto her back where Ares saw something else of interest; her hands were bound together at the wrists with a thick length of rope.  If she was wrecked, how did she swim to the island?  Her feet were bare, and they were unbound so she could kick—although not very effectively with that skirt.  So where did she come from?  Yet there was no other answer to the riddle other than a shipwreck. Her clothes bore that out as well; there were several holes in them where sea creatures had taken a nibble or two.  Perhaps someone threw her overboard?  The bound hands would suggest that much was true, someone who did not want her to survive but, instead, to drown and spend eternity with Poseidon.

Without much thought, the God of War planted a big knee into her sternum and pushed down hard.  The woman below him gave out a harsh cough as she involuntarily belched up the seawater in her lungs.  Don’t say I never did anything for you, Ares mumbled.  On the sand the woman coughed again, she drew in a harsh breath that sounded painful even to his experienced ears.  Her eyes fluttered open, and he swore they were as gray as her hair.  Woman?  Do you hear me woman? he said in a loud authoritative voice.  Just as quickly as those strange eyes opened, they closed again.

In frustration, Ares sauntered down to the shore and began to call out to the water.  Poseidon!  Poseidon!

Since Ares was banished from Olympus over two hundred years before, Poseidon did not immediately answer his call but instead sent an emissary in the form of a dolphin.  Ares crossed his arms over his broad, lightly haired chest when he saw the creature.  Get Poseidon! the God of War demanded.  I want to know the meaning of this.  With a thick lengthy finger, he pointed behind him at the woman on the shore.  In response to him, the damn dolphin began to chit, chat, click, and clack and....  Ah!  I can't understand you!  Just get him!  I am still an Olympian!  Still a God!  I demand to see my Uncle.

In his kingdom at the bottom of the ocean, the Great Lord Poseidon rolled his watery blue eyes as he gazed into a crystal ball, watching Ares on the shore above as he started to pace back and forth on the sand.  He always was a brat, the King of the Seas huffed.  Ares seemed on about something and it wasn’t like The God of War to call upon The King of the Seas.  Better see what he wants before he throws a fit.

Before Ares’ eyes, the water began to bubble and churn until his Uncle appeared on the back of a great white shark.  What is it, Ares? Poseidon demanded as he floated there on the back of the shark with his golden trident in one hand and golden Crown upon his white head.  The sight of it made Ares want to seethe.

Crossly Ares demanded, Why have you sent this woman to me?

What woman?  What are you babbling about? Poseidon asked impatiently as he looked past his Nephew to the shore.  He pointed off in the same direction with his golden trident when he saw the woman on the sand.  Her?  I don’t know her.

You lie, Ares accused.  She came from your ocean.  What do you want me to do with her?

Nevertheless, Poseidon hadn’t the slightest clue what Ares was talking about.  He could see the woman was wet and indeed nearly drowned, but he did not send her.  I never saw her before.  I swear.  Poseidon held a fist to his heart and then extended it briefly before lowering his arm.  As for what you do with her, if she lives, I imagine you’ll do with her what you do with every Mortal woman you come across; fuck her to death or get her to die for you in some extraordinary manner.  Let me know how it turns out, will you?  In a great churning whirl of water and air, Poseidon returned to his Kingdom Below the Sea.

Ares was very proud of the fact that his reputation held that his was the largest cock ever to grace the face of the Earth on a God or a Man.  However, such a thing did have its drawbacks.  The fullest use of his tool was only to be had with a Goddess, an Olympian like himself or a Goddess of other origins.  They weren’t speaking to him these days.  Therefore, it was a lucky curse that Ares had the ability to control the size of his cock at will, changing the length and even the width to suit his mood or the bitch below him.  It was lucky because it did keep him from literally screwing more than one Mortal woman to death, but not all of them.  A curse because the less of it he was able to use, the less pleasurable the sexual experience was for him, and in turn the more sex he had to have in order to achieve any level of release.  Therefore, he kept his island well stocked with women.

Yet, Mortal women were so frail and fragile, not like Olympian women.  Sex tended to carry Ares away and he easily became overzealous in the throes of passion.  After all, sex was so much like war.  It was a conquest, two sweaty bodies battling it out under the sheets.  Mortal women didn’t always die from internal blunt force trauma.  More often than not, he forgot how frail they were, and he inadvertently snapped their necks.  Although, as of late it seemed Mortal women were becoming even softer than normal; they were unable to keep up with his unusual stamina and had heart attacks in his bed.  Yet, when they went to Hades, they were often smiling.  He had his fill of women back in the cave, seven of them to do anything he pleased at any time he pleased.  What need did he have for this one?

None.

Ares lumbered over to the woman on the sand.  Why should I care what happens to you? he muttered as he hovered over the unconscious woman and found that he did not care about her life.  However, he did care about her sudden appearance on his island.  Where did she come from?  If Poseidon did not send her then perhaps someone else did.  Why?  Chances were, whatever her purpose here—provided she had one—she would not be successful in her weakened condition.  Night was falling; odds were that it would take care of what remained of her.  The God of War transported himself back to the entrance to his cave where he spoke again to Nicco.  There’s a woman down there, keep an eye on her.  If she moves from where she is you come and get me, understand?  Ares swaggered into his cave to find his dinner waiting for him and his women, as always, ready at his command.

2

Around one in the morning, Ares and two of his women were disturbed.  Wake up, my Lord.  Wake up, Nicco said in a hushed whisper as he shook Ares’ large forearm.  The woman, she’s gone from the beach.

One onyx eye rolled open and gazed up at Nicco with displeasure. What? Ares hadn’t been sleeping. In fact, he didn’t really sleep at all, not for hundreds of years had he slept through the night.  He dozed lightly here and there, but Morpheus was never kind to him.

I checked on her not an hour ago, she hadn’t moved an inch, and now she’s gone.  Nicco did not want to incur Ares’ wrath, which was always quite painful, so he had been smart.  I sent Scopas after her, her tracks in the sand; she’s going south toward the other end of the island.

South was not a good direction for her, but it could be for him.  If she went south far enough, she would come upon the densest woods on the island.  The animals there would take care of her.  If not the wolves and bears, then Cerberus or the Golden Hind would come upon her in the dark.  In the morning, he would come upon her bones as the vultures cleaned up what was left of her.  Go.  Ares commanded.

What are your orders?

If you find her keep an eye on her.  Ares pulled the nearest woman, Kat, to him.  Now that he was awake, he was hungry again.  Now go.  As he swung a thick leg over the woman in his bed, she woke up.

Ares?  Katrina asked sleepily.

Shut up, he returned in a deep growl just before he entered her, feeling her squirm below him.  He was Ares and she was not always as mindful of this as perhaps she should be.  Katrina had been with him a long time; he had stretched her out over the years until she was the most fuckable whore among them.  Still unable to take the length of his tool, Katrina was able to accommodate her Lord and Master with an impressive level of skill as he surged in and out of her like a rabid wolf.  Nevertheless, even after fucking both of them for an hour, he was still wide-awake.  The women, however, completely spent slept deeply on either side of him.  He could call for fresh ones, but he had the sneaking suspicion it would do him no good. 

There was a strange woman loose and wandering around his island; Ares could not sleep until she was no longer free to roam about, or she was dead.  Whichever came first didn't matter.  Dressing in a snap of his fingers, into his favorite pair of black battle-hardened leather pants and an accompanying vest covered in sharp metal studs, once more Ares ventured outside into the dark.

The beach below was empty, only two guards stood at the door, the other two having gone off in search of the stranger.  Ares raised that sensitive nose to the air and took in a long breath and the very faintest tinge of honeysuckle rose to him on the wind.  Honeysuckle did not grow on his island; the smell came from the woman.  The underlying scent of decay that had once accompanied the sweet scent was no longer present.

In the stillness of the night, he moved south and followed her scent.

3

The woman on the beach woke up shivering and coughing in the wet sand.  Surrounded by the cold dark of night she didn't know where she was or even how she had gotten here.  Everything about her body hurt, but nothing more so than her chest, which ached and throbbed without mercy.  Her throat was so dry she would gladly drink the saltwater crashing against the shore.  She didn’t know how long she had lain on the chilly sand of this island; she only remembered seeing it off in the distance.  If that was today, yesterday, or even the day before, she couldn’t tell.  She knew that seeing its outline as she bobbed up and down at the mercy of the current was like seeing the Gates of Avalon rise up from the ocean.  As the tide swelled, she’d kicked as hard as she could.  Her bound hands were nearly useless, but she tried to chop through the water in front of her as her tired legs propelled her forward.  When she could kick and chop no longer, the tide swept her to the shore.

Sitting on the beach shivering, she looked around for others.  Anyone else who had survived the wreck, but she saw none.  She called out in a raspy voice that had no strength and a parched throat that protested loudly in agony.

No answer came to her lonely ears.  She had to face the fact that she might be alone on this island.  Turning her tired eyes away from the vast empty sea in front of her, she was able to make out a great white cliff face glowing in the moonlight.  It was very steep and very tall; she could not climb it in the daylight never mind in the dead of night.

She had to find shelter, at least some small place out of the sea breeze where she could rest until her soaked clothing dried.  On tired quivering legs, she stumbled along the shore for what seemed a long way until the cliff subsided and, in the dappled light of the full moon above, her eyes made out an opening leading away from the sand and shore.  It looked like a path to a hill that might lead to a flat patch of land.  Barefoot and hands bound the climb was not quite as easy as she’d hoped and she fell several times, slicing her feet upon sharp rocks and three times becoming entangled in thick patches of briers that ripped her wet, cold skin.

Covered in dirt and leaves, she made it to the top of the hill—a hill that in the light was probably much easier to climb—and did come to a flat patch of land but it was thick with woods.  She had hoped to find light maybe from a house or even a shed.  It seemed she was indeed alone here on this island.  With nowhere to go and no direction home, she started walking back in the same direction in which she’d come.  The forest floor was not kind to her bleeding feet as she stumbled upon rocks and twigs, branches whipped her in the face, and more briers clawed at her ankles and the skirt around them.

She was thirsty, oh so damn thirsty.  Her throat was drier than the desert.  Every breath she took caused her lungs to ache and wheeze.  All she wanted was to find some place, some small, soft, safe place where she could lie down and sleep until the sun came up.  Then she would find food and hopefully a supply of fresh water on this island.  There had to be a stream or small pool of fresh water somewhere.

Her head was pounding, a booming sound that resounded with each step she took.  As she walked, she tried to remember just what happened.  At first, she discovered a terrifying thing; she could not remember her own name.  She stopped walking and stood very still, as she told herself it was ridiculous that she could not recall her very own name!  What type of an idiot didn’t know their own name?

In the quiet of the dark night, she closed her tired gray eyes, tried to take a deep breath, and then got an image in her head.  It was of a young Black girl smiling up at her.  She held out her arms for a hug and cried, Maggie!

Magdalena, the woman muttered to no one.  My name is Magdalena.  That made her feel a little better, a little surer of herself. The girl had been in a refugee camp in Ceres Agar, a dismal and forgotten little part of the world if there ever was one.  A true Hell on Earth.  The fighting between warring tribes never stopped.  Overrun with warlords and opposing factions, each posturing for money, power, diamonds, and food. Public executions, gang rape of women, and the chopping off of limbs were the order of the day and no one was spared no matter how old or how young.  For fun, men with machine guns and machetes nightly barged into tents taking women and girls off into the night.  Some were never seen again.  Maggie had gone there....

(Run there)

several years ago, in order to ...

(escape)

help the refugees.

A deep chill went through her, sinking deep beneath her wet clothes right down to the marrow in her bones.  It made her nipples quickly harden.  She would like to wrap her arms around herself to try to retain her warmth if the rope at her wrists would let her.

Maggie looked down at the rope and wondered why her wrists were bound.  Who bound them?  When?  The more she tried to remember the more violently she shook, the further the iciness sunk into her bones.  Despite that she tried to think, tried to remember her life before the camp, and came up blank.  She tried to think, tried to remember the shipwreck, but there were only small fragments of memory.  Nothing more than out-of-focus snapshots in her head.  How had she left the camp?  When?  Why?  Where was she going?

She couldn’t remember.

The only thing that came to her clearly was the memory of seeing this island on the horizon.

Nearly everything before that was a blur.

Trying not to panic, Maggie told herself that with a little rest, some food, and a lot of water, she would be feeling much better.  She was dehydrated, malnourished, and just plain exhausted.  Everything would come back to her once the shock wore off.

Snap.

The sound of a twig breaking not far from her brought Maggie out of her daze.  She stopped in her tracks; afraid it was a wild animal and yet hoping and praying that it was a person.  Hello? she croaked to the dark.  Is someone there?  Every word was agony as she pushed them through dry vocal chords.  Standing very still and quiet enough to hear her own heart resounding in her chest, straining and wishing with all of her might, she heard nothing but silence in answer to her plea.  Probably just a rabbit or something small passing by.  She began to walk onward holding her bound hands in front of her, searching for obstacles in the dark.  A few feet on and there was rustling in the bushes or trees up ahead; it sounded as though something large were rummaging around over there.  She wanted to call out again, but fear closed her throat.  Then the rummaging got louder, it got closer, she heard...growling.

A bear?

Were there bears here?  Just where in the hell was here anyway?

OH!

Before she knew it, something charged and knocked her to the ground.  It was low and covered with fur.  It growled as its jaws snapped close to her face and she tried to lash out at them with her bound hands.  Maggie connected on the first blow; hitting the thing full force in the jaw.  Throwing it off her body, she scrambled to her feet.  Trying to sprint away now that she was standing, she realized it was not a bear but a wolf that had hunted her down.  The beast was swift; from behind, it pounced and knocked her to the ground once more.  Its sharp claws dug into the soft flesh of her back, shredding it like cheese as they ripped through her shoulder blades and her waist.  Maggie let out a tormented cry as she crashed to her knees beneath the solid weight of the animal.  Get off of me!  Maggie bucked and rolled until the beast jumped from her back.  Grateful to have the weight lifted she began to feel her own blood soak through the wet blouse.  Stay away from me!

Above her the clouds parted, allowing the moonlight to shine down upon the island.  She took in the sight of her demise.  It was not just any wolf; it had a black and gray pelt that was very thick as it lay over toned muscle.  This was no mangy mutt; she thought the damn thing must belong to a gym.  Certainly, it was as bulky and defined as any body builder she’d ever seen.

Yet, it was its eyes that caught her attention the most.  As the creature stared at her, seeming to size her up, its pitch-black eyes glowed red with flames.  What kind of wolf are you? she hissed at it as her bound hands searched the ground for anything she could use as a weapon and fell upon a rather large stone that she did not hesitate to pick up and raise.

The wolf bared its teeth; it seemed to grin at her as it settled back on its haunches, making ready to spring at her.

She had not survived the wreck and days at sea just so she could be dinner for some wild beast.  Well come on then, what are you waiting for!  She wanted the damn thing to strike while the moon was still uncovered so she could see it and hit it.  If it waited much longer and struck in the dark where it had a severe advantage, she was dead for sure.  Come on!

The wolf took her up on her offer.  It leapt at her with its mouth open and claws pointed at her.  She swung out at it and missed; the stone fell out of her hands.  The wolf knocked her to the ground for the last time, clamped its teeth around her throat, and held her down.  Feeling the warm thickness of its saliva and taking in the strange smoky scent of its breath, she groped around for the stone that had betrayed her.  Her hands seized upon it as the jaws around her throat started applying pressure.  Any second those sharp fangs would bite through her flesh, spilling her blood all over the ground.  Turning sharply to the side, going in the direction of the bite, Maggie hit it on the side of the head with the heavy stone as hard as she could.  With a yelp of what sounded like surprise mixed with pain, it rolled off her, backed up, shook its head, and made ready to strike again.  With the stone in her hand thick with the blood of the wolf, Maggie scrambled to her feet, feeling the blood dripping from the small wounds at her throat.  For a fleeting moment, she prayed the beast wasn’t a werewolf.  Perhaps it infected her with some horrible disease that would have her baying at the moon.

It was not a werewolf.  It was something...more.

In a brilliant flash of red light, the wolf turned into a man.  A handsome man as strong and brawny as the wolf he had been but a moment before.  You’re a ballsy bitch, you know that?  You hit me!  He held a hand to the wound at his head and came away with a palm covered in Ichor.  No one strikes me and gets away with it.

Holding her bound trembling hands to her sore wounded throat Maggie could not believe her eyes.  "Who-what... the hell are you?" 

"What am I?  I am Ares.  Who the hell are you?  Standing here with her in the moonlight those gray eyes of her almost seemed to glow.  What are you?"

Ares?  She asked in a cracked whisper of stunned disbelief as she looked up, up, and further upward to his face.  Afraid to look him in the eye, her gaze quickly wandered down his frame.  He was a brute.  Just look at those arms—thicker than small tree stumps— and that chest—as wide as a twin bed.  She would not want to come up against him in a dark alley.  God of War, Ares?  Olympus, Ares?

I see you’ve heard of me, he said with a sly grin and drew the dagger from his vest as began taking slow steps toward her.  Now that I have told you my name, I expect you will do the same, woman.  How did you get to my island?  Why are you here?

Maggie backed up, one step, then two.  You’re not real; you’re a fable, a myth.  Yet, she was already starting to feel that might not be true.  It was in the way he held himself.  That cocky, confident, self-assured stance and those Godly good looks that led her to believe that even if he was lying, he thought he was telling the truth.  Maybe he was some insane magician living on this isolated island.

Do those feel like myths to you? Ares countered as he pointed at her bleeding flesh.  He watched as she tried to reach the wounds on her shoulder blade.  Did I make them with these nails?  He held up his neatly manicured hand to show her the short fingernails upon each long digit.  Do you think they came from the claws of a wolf?  Shall I inflict more to convince you?  The God of War grinned as the moonlight shone off the metal of the blade and the jewels at the hilt of the dagger in his large hand.

Maggie didn’t hear him, didn’t listen.  Couldn’t listen.  What he was saying just didn’t make any sense, except...Greece, she stuttered, not to him but herself.

Yes, Greece, Ares agreed proudly, It’s a far cry from the Celtic Lands, is it not?

His intimidating voice was beginning to fade away from her ears even as she answered him.  Those pale gray eyes turned up to meet his dark brooding stare.  Celtic?  I was in Africa.

Africa?  Hmm?  Ares stroked the goatee on his chin.  She didn’t look African, she didn’t speak with that accent, either.  Ares traveled the world far and wide and if he had to say where this one was from, he would pick a small region in a country known as America and the city of Boston.  What on Earth were you doing in Africa, woman?

The refugee camp and the smiling ebony girl flashed through her mind.

She had been there.  Yes, she had.  That was real.  But this...was this real? 

Who are you?  How did you get here?  What was the name of your ship?  Tell me now!

What was the name of the ship?  How did it wreck?

Who sent you here?  Ares asked in a voice rapidly from going from cold to curious as he watched her eyes glaze over.

This is a dream...a nightmare...it’s not real.

Of course, it wasn’t real.  Of course, it was a dream.  A hallucination or even some type of delusion brought on by all she’d suffered these last few days.  That could cause anyone to hallucinate.  Couldn’t it?

Perhaps she was still in the ocean.  Perhaps she had drowned long ago.

(Perhaps this was her punishment for having run away from her duties.)

Everything crashed down upon her.  Before she knew it, the black night went as grey as the hair on her lovely head.  Maggie was out before she hit the ground.

Ares looked down at her as she fainted.  He could have caught her easily, but instead let her collapse to the ground as he sighed and rubbed his wounded head.  The gash would heal within a few moments, but still it was here now and that did not please him.  Ares could not remember the last time a Mortal had drawn his Ichor. Yet, she had almost gotten the better of him even in her weakened state.  For this reason, she bore watching or killing.

It would be easy to drag the sharp blade across her throat, merciful even. She would never feel it; she would simply stay asleep for eternity.  She would not bother him any longer. 

He would not solve the riddle of where she’d come from or who she was.

She had clocked him in the head with a rock and drawn his Ichor.

Such spunk.  Ares was always a great admirer of that particular quality.

Hovering over her with the dagger in his hand, Ares made his decision.  Women, he huffed as he cut her bonds free before tossing her limp body over his brawny shoulder and taking her back to the cave.

Chapter Two

Warm & Dry

1

Ares came upon the entrance to his cave only to find the majority of his guards standing around, chatting and smoking rather than hunting down the stranger as he instructed.  Ares frowned on both activities.  He enjoyed a good cigar now and then as most mortal men did but cigarettes disgusted him, as did their putrid scent. 

Standing there with his underlings, Nicco saw a large shape emerge in the darkness. Instantly he knew it was Ares. Tossing the glowing cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel, he smiled and tried to sound casual when he spoke with mild surprise, My Lord.

Emerging into the full sight of his Captain of the Guard, Ares smiled warmly in greeting, Nicco, do me a favor will you, Nicco?

Anything, my Lord. What is it?

In the morning remind me to kill each and every one of you, hmm?  Ares happily took in the sight of Nicco’s eyes growing wide in surprise as he took a step back.  All of you, you couldn’t find this one woman?  He pointed to the rather shapely ass draped over his brawny shoulder.  "Why do I keep any of you around?  I said it before, and I say it again; you’re useless.  Swiftly spinning on his heels Ares strutted through the halls of his cave with the strange woman slung over his shoulder bellowing for his favorite woman to come and help him.  Young One!  Come now, woman!"

It was not long before her bare feet were rushing down the steps from the floor above. What is it, my Lord? Onya asked as she stared at the dirt floor.

Looking at her, Ares smiled to himself. She was always so sweet, so tacit and ready to please.  Are you blind, woman? he asked playfully as he put his load down upon the finely carved wooden table in his throne room. 

The throne room was his favorite room in the cave, well after his bedroom and the spa in the basement.  Ares spent most of his time in this room lounging upon his Throne of Bones by the gigantic hearth.  Take care of her.  Wandering over to his throne of bones, Ares settled to stare at the sleeping woman possessed of hair so white it was nearly silver. The sight of it intrigued him.  She’s soaked to the skin. Take off her clothes before she catches a chill.

Onya, who was no more than 22 years old and the youngest female in Ares’ stable, looked from her Lord to the new arrival splayed out on the table and back again. Quietly she thought of the stranger's modesty and wondered if, perhaps, there was a chance she would not want Ares gawking at her in all of her glory. Tentatively she ventured, Would you like me to take her to one of the other rooms, my Lord?

Deeply Ares snickered as he stared down at her from his Throne of Bones with smoldering eyes.  By far, Onya was the most beautiful woman in his stable.  The others were pretty, but she was a true beauty with auburn hair hanging to her slender waist, sparkling emerald eyes, the palest flesh, and she was petite as well.  When Ares stood next to her, Onya rose to no more than his hip, which made her the perfect height.  Yet those attributes did not deter the God of War when he spoke, Where did I get you from again, hmm? he chided with a snort and then openly began to mock her.  Oh, that’s right; I found you eating out of a dumpster in a back alley after your parents threw you out for sleeping with your uncle.  So, what do you say...you don’t make me sorry I saved your life, hmm?  Just do it.

Just before her sixteenth birthday, Onya turned up pregnant.  She wept as she told her mother what her Uncle Teddy had done to her that long weekend her parents had been away in Aspen.

Yet, Teddy was her father’s favorite brother. When confronted, Teddy insisted it had been Onya who came on to him.  How could he possibly resist?  After all, she was so beautiful, young, supple and tempting. 

Her father took his brother’s side; her family labeled her a tramp and threw her away like yesterday’s garbage.  Out on the streets of Los Angeles, it wasn’t long before she lost the baby. Sadly, until this day, she thought it a blessing.  She couldn’t take care of herself out there in the concrete jungle; how would she ever take care of an infant? 

Onya spent many months on the mean streets of LA, selling her body for food, sleeping in doorways and alleys or indulging in the luxury of a homeless shelter when she could find room. She had been beaten, robbed, raped, and several times left for dead.  It seemed to her that the life given her was nothing more than one long nightmare.

Then, one night, as she was scrounging around in a dumpster behind a donut shop, a handsome stranger appeared out of thin air. Although he was physically intimidating, he spoke to her kindly. He offered her food. Not garbage but, instead, in his hands appeared a silver tray upon which a freshly cooked steak steamed next to an open baked potato slathered with butter, sour cream, cheese, and bacon. Next to that was a pile of green beans. A thick slice of buttered bread lay on its own plate along with a heaping salad drenched in garlic dressing in its own bowl.

The man laid it at her feet then disappeared before her eyes.

Over the next few weeks, he came back several times until he won her trust. Eventually, Onya came here to live with him and the others inhabiting this island. 

Although her time here had been a bit rocky, Onya never looked back. Instead, she was always grateful to Ares for rescuing her. Of course not, my Lord.  The young woman tucked long strands of auburn hair behind her small ears as she bent down over the woman and unbuttoned the tattered blouse.  Beneath it, was a plain white bra equally tattered with one strap held together by... a safety pin?  Rolling the woman onto her side, the first thing she noticed was the back of her blouse was soaked with blood.  The second thing was the sight of fresh gouges running along her shoulder blades.  Did one of the wolves get to her? she gasped as she turned around to look at Ares.

Yes, this one, he returned and pointed to himself but offered no further explanation.

Why did he attack her and then bring her back here?  She’s parched, my Lord.  Her lips are so dry they’re cracked.  Should I get her water?

Not yet.

She is very cold, my Lord.

The night was chilly, and the ocean water was not exactly warm this time of year.  It was doubtless that Poseidon’s Ocean dropped the woman’s core temperature drastically.  Without really thinking about it, Ares waved his hand in front of the hearth.  The dying fire sprang to life with a great roaring rush that howled through the empty cavern.

What happened to her wrists? Onya asked in shock as she took in the sight of the ugly wounds circling the woman’s skin.  How long do you think she was out there, my Lord?  Days?

Ares put a hand to his temple.  All this chatter, you’re giving me a headache, woman.  I asked you to do a simple thing for me, so be quiet and go about your work.  Onya was sweet but she loved to analyze everything.  Ares supposed that was one of the treasures of youth, endless curiosity.  If it was not for her beauty and the fact that, small as she was, she was built like the proverbial brick shit house, Ares might not be so patient with her.  Yes, days, two or three, I would think.

Trying not to talk anymore and thinking mainly about her work, Onya slid her hands under the woman’s body to unbutton and then unzip the rather long and old-fashioned looking skirt; she pulled it down over the woman’s hips only to find a strange gold belt there.  The young woman let out a rush of air at the sight.  What is this?  It says something, but I can’t make it out.  Although the gold glittered, it still looked old, and she had never seen anything like it.

Young people, how easily they forgot things or never learned them to begin with.  It’s a chastity belt, dear Onya.  So, she doesn’t lie with anyone she isn’t supposed to.  He leaned forward on his throne as he looked past his young servant to the woman lying on the stone.  God of War or not, Ares abhorred the use of chastity belts; if a man could not trust his woman, then she should not be his woman.  This line of thinking was probably the reason that Ares never got married; women simply could not be trusted.  Did I tell you to stop?

Of course, he had not.  Onya continued taking the skirt down over the woman’s long and very shapely legs.  Calluses and cuts marred her knees, some deep and in need of attention.  Onya thought that perhaps the woman bounced around on errant rocks during her time in the ocean. 

Overlooking the scene, Ares wondered who put the torturous device on her and why.  Was she promiscuous?  On the other hand, was someone saving her for something?  If so, why so long?  Whoever had put the wretched device on her did it many years ago and possibly when she was quite young.  The unforgiving gold had deformed her hips, which should have been full and round and yet were more akin to the hips of a teenage boy.  Trapped behind the constraint they could not grow and fill out as they should have.  The man who put that on her may have done so to his own detriment if he hoped to breed with her. 

Below the biting edges of cold gold were scars.  Some were old and, Ares supposed, they were from where she had grown, and the metal continually cut into her flesh as it refused to let her body expand.  Others were hideous, thick, deep welts marring her inner thighs and her lower waist where the glittering gold touched the skin.  To his practiced eye, these scars did not appear very old.  They were perhaps as recent as the last few months, certainly no more than a year.  To him it appeared that someone tried to rip the hideous belt from her.  They tried to yank it down her body only to have it slice into her tender skin, leaving those nasty scarred welts behind.  When that didn’t work, what?  Had they tried to burn it?  To melt it?  Perhaps they had, as there was a band of seared flesh at her upper waist.

Recently, someone had done their damnedest to gain access to her and failed miserably.

I should get her a gown.  Not that there was much here on the island that resembled a gown; Ares kept his women in little fur bikinis rather than flowing dresses.  He liked easy ready access to his women at all times and gowns got in his way.  Onya didn’t think the new arrival would be fond of fur bikinis.

You’ll get her a gown when I say you get her a gown.  Take the rest of it off.

My Lord....

Are you deaf as well as blind, woman?

No, my Lord, Onya muttered.  Sorry about this.  Keeping mindful of the fresh and bleeding wounds between the shoulders of the sleeping woman, Onya very gingerly unhooked the bra and then removed it.  With her work done, Onya stepped back from the table to look at the woman now lay before them naked except for the golden belt at her waist running between her legs. I have no key for this, my Lord.  In fact, she stuttered as she took in the strange contraption, I don’t think it opens with a key.  There’s no lock. 

I am not blind; I can see that for myself.  Ares was ready to get a more intimate look at his new guest. Now, you may go get her something to wear. 

That was good news to Onya's ears, but she thought again of the stranger's modesty. She grabbed the nearest animal skin—a bear hide lying by the fire—she draped it over the unconscious woman to cover her from the prying eyes of the God of War.  Turning back to him, she took in the displeased expression on his face and the shadow of disbelief in his eyes. Rather than cower, Onya held out the tattered wet clothing to him and asked, What shall I do with these?

Burn them.  Ares said, but then quickly changed his mind.  No, wait. Give them to me first.  He watched as Onya handed over the garments, bowed to him, as she made to leave but he spoke again, Bring water and towels to clean her, get the salve and bandages for her wounds.

Onya wondered again why he attacked her only to bandage her up later but again thought it good news as she smiled for him and made her way out of the throne room.

Ares did not have much need of human medicine but those who served him did.  As such, he had a large supply of everything from feminine products to over-the-counter pain relievers, prescription pain relievers (those he kept locked up), even cough and cold medicines.  The God of War took his job seriously.  These men and women were in his charge, they were here to serve him, and he in turn took care of them as best he could. 

The material of her clothing was far from the finest in the world.  Turning the tattered blouse inside out, Ares looked for a label that might indicate where she purchased these items.  No tags.  No maker’s label.  No washing instructions.  Not even a tag with the size on it.  Upon closer inspection, he thought the cloth was hand sewn.  If she made these clothes for herself, why make something so constricting?  Ares tossed them into the hearth; the fire gave out a snake-like hiss as it consumed the wet cloth.

Slithering off his throne, Ares loomed over her for a closer look.  Onya, so sweet, he thought to himself as he looked down and saw that the girl placed the skin over the woman with the fur side down.  Ares preferred to sleep with the skin next to his flesh.  Pulling back the soft hide, he took in the sight of her naked body.

When he first encountered her, Ares thought of her as an old hag but after his encounter with her in his woods and looking at her now, he could see that was not true.  Her face was worn and haggard from days of exposure to the sun and the harsh ocean, but with a few days' rest and some food she would be quite beautiful.  Her body was slender, almost willowy; he imagined that when she walked, she was very graceful.  Her arms were strong and toned, as was the rest of her body.  As far as he could see she was very well maintained.

Ares slowly walked past her sleeping body to stand at her feet and take her in from this view.  The soles of her feet and her knees were callused.  The taut stomach muscles and strong calves were not the well-sculpted muscles of someone who spent hours upon hours preening in a gym, but someone who spent hours and hours working in the hot sun.  Whoever she was and wherever she came from she worked hard, and she was no slacker.

Taking in a deep breath, she reeked of brine, seaweed and sand, yet under all of that was still the faintest scent of honeysuckle.  The earlier scent of decay that had alerted him to her presence was swiftly fading away.  Ares stood there wondering if she was a mortal woman.  She looked it but then again, to the untrained eye, he looked like any other mortal man—more or less.

Out of curiosity, he picked up one of her bare feet and moved it to the side so that her legs opened slightly.  He wanted to see just how cruel the owner of the chastity belt was and let out a huff of disgust.  Very cruel, he muttered thoughtfully as he stroked the beard on his chin.  The holes in the chastity belt that allowed the exit of urine and solid waste were covered with pricks, sharp little jagged pieces of metal meant to prevent any male entry.  Ares knew that every time the woman moved, walked, slept, sat—tried to stay afloat in the water—or did anything at all, she was mercilessly poked in a very tender area by the sharp edges. 

The belt itself looked very familiar, especially with its simplicity of design.  It was two ‘U’ shaped bands of gold, one encircling her waist and the other running through her legs.  Most interesting was that, like the chain around her neck, the middle of the belt was etched with the same Celtic love knot.  In the middle of the knot, like her necklace, was a tall weeping willow tree.  Over the tree read these words, I Await Thee.  The reason Onya could not read it was that it was written in Gaelic, a language that was long dead and almost assuredly forgotten by the outside world.  Above the words, in the center of the belt on the band, was the same pair of horns as her necklace.

Ares still found it difficult to believe Cernunnos might have anything to do with the woman before him.  Hell, Ares didn’t even know if that Old Celt was still wandering the moors.  Perhaps the woman was part of some cult dedicated to the worship of the old bastard.  Curiousier and Curiousier.  If nothing else, she presented him with something to occupy his mind for a little while.  Boredom was a true problem on the island for someone like him.  He spent much time in the mortal places of planet Earth, although not as much as he once had; this world had little use for him and those like him any longer.  As far as Ares was concerned, the feeling was mutual.

If Cernunnos was involved, then chances were that she wasn't merely a Mortal woman.  If she weren’t human, what was she?  She was far too large to be a Faery; her ears were not pointed so she was not an Elf.  Certainly, she was not a dwarven woman. 

Perhaps she was a Fey.  Even though it had been hundreds upon hundreds of years since he'd run into a Fey, it seemed the most likely answer. Yet if she were, then Ares wanted to know what Fey labored so hard and long in the sun. No Fey woman that he ever met had as much as a single callous, whereas this woman had many.  Instead of working, they flitted about deep in the forests, dancing naked in the rain, and drumming up playful trouble for passersby.

If she were Fey and Zeus found out she was on the island there would be hell to pay. Celts and Olympians were like oil and water. Zeus would demand that she be brought to Olympus—which could work out quite well for him—in hopes that she would be able to answer questions regarding the bloody and very untimely death of Artemis.

Under all of that, there was something charmingly familiar about her. It perplexed him and Ares never liked feeling uncertain of anything.

Who are you, woman? he wondered aloud and picked up the medallion on its fine silver chain.  Her slender fingers began to move like willow branches in the wind.  What dangers have you brought to my shore?  Those hands kept waving delicately in the air, as though she were trying to tread water.  Ares took one of her hands in his as he leaned in close to her. The ever so faint but highly intoxicating scent of honeysuckle nearly made him quiver with heady anticipation.  The hand was just as calloused as the soles of her feet.  Looking down he turned it over in his palm to see the thick layers of skin.  Even more than the belt, the wounds at her wrists bothered him.  The marks left from the tightly bound rope were deep and festering.  He marveled at how she’d managed to stay alive in the water with everything against her. 

Someone threw this woman into the sea meaning for her to drown. Of that, he was positive. The question was, why?  Looming over her, he wondered what crime she'd committed to deserve such harsh punishment.  There were a million reasons to kill someone, but you did not have to let them linger. For the most part, he did not.  When Ares killed, he did it swiftly.  Well, unless it was someone he didn’t like or who brought him a great amount of trouble.  Then Ares liked to take his time and enjoy each scream of pain and plea for mercy that came from his enemy’s lips.

You’re not in the ocean any longer, woman.  You can stop swimming now.  Ares tried to soothe the sleeping woman, telling himself the answers to his questions would wait until morning.  For now, she was exhausted and in need of rest.

And water of the non-salted variety.  Onya was quite right about that.  What kind of a host would he be if he didn’t give it to her?

Holding out his empty hand a crystal goblet of cold water appeared in his palm.  Slipping his free hand under her shoulders to sit her up part way in the crook of his arm he felt the blood from the wounds he had laid on her back seep over his skin as he put the rim of the chalice to her lips.  Drink this.  Tipping the cup upward the water spilled over her, past her lips, down her chin.  Open your mouth, he encouraged and pried her lips apart.  When he tipped the goblet again the water went between her parched lips and then down her throat in small gulps, but then she began to take greedily from the cup.  Slow down, woman, you’ll make yourself ill.

At his words, her eyes fluttered open.  They were large and as hazy and gray as a stormy sea.  Ares pulled the cup away as he believed it appeared she wanted to say something to him, but she did not speak.  Instead, she reached up and around his head, her fingers entwining thick locks of raven hair.  She pulled him down to her to kiss him.  Her cool passionate lips pressed to his then parted ever so slightly and the tip of her tongue slipped into Ares’ mouth.  What had almost been a quiver just a few moments earlier turned into a shiver that racked his massive frame head to toe as he kissed back, taken by this most delightful surprise.  I love you, she cooed as her lips pulled away and those stormy eyes began to close.

I beg your pardon?