Not only did the Sumerian gods “arrive” from the sky, in a similar story to the Tuatha Dé Danaan now that she thought of it, but they spent a lot of time creating, altering, and competing over the humans in their charge.

  She’d never liked Enlil in any of those stories, liked him even less now that she knew he had been as real as he was evil. But she was rather fond of his brother, Enki. He was the “god” who’d saved humanity from the massive flood his brother caused when he’d decided to wipe the slate clean and destroy the population of Earth. How much of that myth was true?

  She thought about what Myrddin had said about the Sauros. They followed only one Archon and the book told her that Archon was Enlil. Was he here now, in this time? Trying to stop them from fulfilling their prophecy so he could finish where he left off?

  “Where is Enlil now?” Would Áine know that? It couldn’t hurt to ask, she shrugged. And she really needed all the information she could get.

  Enlil is where he has been for nearly five thousand years.

  Imprisoned by his brother for his sins

  In an inescapable darkness

  Where every day is a hundred years

  All the time in the world for regret.

  “Whew.” Her breath huffed out on a confused sigh. Now she was lost. If the Sauros only followed Enlil, but he was trapped in “inescapable darkness”, then their actions just weren’t adding up. Either Myrddin and Áine’s book were wrong…or Enlil had somehow escaped.

  She shivered. She needed to think about something else or she wouldn’t be able to sleep for the nightmares. She’d never liked scary movies, they were more up Sheridan’s alley. Give her a romantic comedy, even an action adventure any day over monsters or serial killers hiding in abandoned campgrounds.

  Temptation reared its head. She hesitated for a moment, looking guiltily toward the door before leaning her chin in her hands and asking, “What is the difference between a werewolf and a Lycan?” Áine’s talkative book immediately replied.

  Werewolves are a natural evolution of the Therian species:

  Shifters,

  Part animal and part human,

  They live a relatively short life span

  Of three to five hundred years,

  Having both amazing healing capacity

  And the heightened instincts of their specific animal spirit.

  Lycans are faster healers,

  Harder to kill, nearly immortal.

  Cursed.

  “Holy Hannah.” Her stomach clenched as the last word appeared. “Wait. What do you mean? You can’t just say ‘Lycans are cursed’. Why? How?” She waited impatiently as the writing appeared, too slowly in her opinion, on the following page.

  Lycans were created by Zeus as his punishment

  For the blasphemous actions of King Lycaon of Arcadia.

  Lycaon was favored of Zeus

  Because he faithfully honored the god {see Archon} and so was protected,

  Though he was well known for being an evil and sadistic man,

  And much blood was shed under the banner of Zeus Lycaeus,

  Zeus the Wolf.

  When Lycaon found his wife had given birth to a son

  Which was not his, but the progeny of the god he had worshipped,

  He planned his revenge.

  During a feast to honor Zeus,

  Lycaon sacrificed the babe Nyctimus

  Attempting to feed him to his own father.

  When Zeus found out, he was enraged

  He cursed all the men of Arcadia that very night

  To become the animals they’d shown themselves to be.

  Cursed to kill the things they loved.

  Cursed for all time.

  “I remember that story. And it’s true? I always thought it was a little harsh. Cursing everyone because of one psycho king? Geesh. And I guess all the stories about Zeus having his hands in everybody’s cookie jar have some basis in fact.”

  She rolled onto her back and thought about Damon. Arkadios. His last name made sense now. Damon “of Arcadia”. “That’s insane.” She muttered, rolling back over to glance at the book once more. “That was over three thousand years ago.”

  “Three thousand, four hundred and sixty-six, to be exact.” Meru screeched and leapt to her feet on the bed. She turned to find Damon standing beside the balcony door, arms folded casually as he leaned against the wall.

  Meru swallowed audibly, holding a hand to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. “You scared me.”

  He raised one dark brow, his eyes cool. He straightened and walked over to the open book at the edge of the bed, reading the script that had appeared for her on the page.

  “That is some inheritance Áine left for you.”

  She tilted her head, curious. “Did you know her?”

  “I met her once or twice.” He acknowledged. “Sheridan takes after her. Except for her smile. She had a beautiful smile. Kind.” He pierced her with a meaningful glance. “You have her smile.”

  Blushing at the praise, it took her a moment to notice how his eyes continued to be drawn to the pages below. “So you were there?” She gestured toward the story, taking a step closer to him, drawing his eyes back to her.

  “Yes.” He raked his hands through his hair, his only show of agitation. “I was there. Of course I was there. I was one of the King’s fabled ‘fifty sons’. Illegitimate son of a slave but still…a son.”

  Shock hit her hard. The Lycaon of myth was a spiteful, ferocious little man without honor. The polar opposite of the proud warrior who stood defensively before her.

  “That …man was your father?”

  Damon’s hand slashed through the air.

  “I did not say that. I said I was his son.” Her heart bled for the anguish she heard in those simple words. He sat down beside the book, his back to her. It was only natural to kneel on the bed behind him and place her hand soothingly on his shoulder.

  He had come here tonight because he’d had no choice. His obsession for her had only strengthened since this afternoon. He’d tasted heaven and he wanted…needed more.

  The recon at Lily’s house had only confirmed their original theory. He’d sniffed out the lingering presence of several Sauros and faint traces of the other two again.

  Theron and Kyros. What in the name of Hades were they doing there? He’d hoped to find some of the Dark still loitering nearby, to question them if he could. But, no such luck.

  For thousands of years, though still formidable, their enemies had been for the most part predictable.

  The weakness of the Dark, whatever form they took, had always been arrogance. They believed they were on the side of right and power, believed they couldn’t lose, making it easy to draw them out. But this…this was baffling.

  Or maybe it was him. He couldn’t seem to think clearly, worry, confusion and desire all warring with each other inside of him. All because of one tiny woman. Something dark and sinister was brewing on the wind. Myrddin’s reactions, this prophecy all pointed to a scenario more dangerous than any the Fianna had faced since their formation. He had to be alert, on his toes to lead his men through this new challenge. And still, all he could think about when he returned was finding Meru. He found himself at her balcony doors again. He simply had no choice.

  When he’d come in and realized what she was reading, he knew there was something else he had no choice but to do. He had to tell her the truth about what he was. Had to give her the freedom to reject him. He only hoped he could survive it when she did.

  Chapter Seven

  Damon began to tell her about the last day of his humanity and the memories flooded in, swamping him with images and emotions he had sealed away long ago.

  He had seen twenty summers of backbreaking work, fought battles he didn’t believe in and watched his mother age far too rapidly before his eyes.

  Being the son of King Lycaon had brought him only suffering. He was determined that he and his mother would no longer suffer under the madman’s yoke.

  He walked on nimble feet down the large, airy hallways of his father’s grand home, impatient to share his plan. His mother would be caring for the queen, as she had cared for the one who’d come before. The same servile job she’d had since she’d been stolen from her homeland. That is, he thought bitterly, when she wasn’t being forced to share the king’s bed.

  The villa was in an uproar. Servants nervously rushing about, warriors standing in tight circles, tension and concern etched on their battle-scarred features.

  It was unusual, he thought to himself as he walked past. The annual full moon celebration to honor Zeus Lycaeus, called The Feast of the Wolf, was usually a time of great revelry. The only time that the people of Arcadia were allowed to join the warriors and their king in drinking, dancing, and sacrificing to the ever bloodthirsty god.

  It was also the perfect time to take his mother away from this dark, wretched place. He couldn’t contain his smile of satisfaction, his mind turning inward once more as he made his plans.

  “Kyros, my brother, do you smell that?”

  “I do, Theron. What is that foul stench? It smells like rotting meat and dung.”

  “Indeed? All I smell is bastard.”

  He looked up to find the two eldest sons from the king’s long-dead first wife standing arrogantly before him. In all these years, he had never understood the animosity they directed at him. It wasn’t as if he were the only illegitimate child the king had sired. You couldn’t throw a rock in Arcadia without hitting a product of Lycaon’s fertile seed.

  Regardless of that well-known fact, the pair had sought from early childhood to make his life more difficult.

  They could not beat him in a fair fight. His mother came from the strong warrior stock of Eire, the good green land. Though his coloring left no doubt as to his paternity, her blood ensured that he was larger and stronger by far than the both of them put together.

  So they sought their vengeance in other ways. Arranging it so that he was always chosen for the vilest labors. Having him beaten or whipped for each imagined slight or failure. Worst of all were the threatening taunts and dark insinuations pertaining to the treatment of his mother at their father’s hands.

  When he made a move to walk past them, Theron, the heir to his father’s throne, stepped directly in his path. He stood several inches shorter than Damon, his muscles lean and wiry, his greasy hair hanging in his small, dark eyes.

  Laying a hand on Theron could mean his death. He was too close to freedom to react rashly. He looked over his half brother’s shoulder as the man pushed angrily closer, until he could feel his harsh breath on his face.

  “Oh, how I wish it was your mother suffering that whore queen’s fate tonight, and you that mewling babe Nyctimus.”

  Damon’s gaze jerked up in confusion and Kyros, who’d been watching the byplay, began to laugh. He looked nearly identical to Theron, except for the thickening waistline that already spoke of royal overindulgence.

  “That is too rich. The bastard has been too busy, up to his neck in animal waste, to know what goes on around him this night.”

  Kyros, ever the vicious gossip, filled him in on the discovery of the true sire of the queen’s newborn child, as well as their father’s volatile reaction.

  “The faithless queen is, this very day, being sent to our warriors on the border. Given to them as a gift for their years of service. To be used by all and then sacrificed to the gods.”

  Damon paled. Theron leaned back to watch, obviously enjoying the moment.

  “And the child?”

  Kyros smiled, licking his lips grotesquely. “Nyctimus? Why, he is still here. In the kitchen last I saw him. Sliced and diced and seasoned to perfection for tonight’s guest of honor.”

  Damon could not hold in his shout of surprised horror. “An innocent babe? The child of Zeus, no less? You have slaughtered the son of your god and you stand there laughing? Do you not fear His retribution?”

  “We did nothing but watch the just and righteous actions of a true warrior and your Lord King!” Theron spit angrily. “How dare you, a filthy slave not good enough to breathe our air, deign to question him?”

  Damon attempted to pull his outrage back in, overwhelmed by what he had heard. He looked stonily at Kyros. “Where is my mother?”

  “She’s being readied for tonight’s celebration feast. Amazingly, she has been chosen to see to the King’s pleasure. I’d personally be surprised if she lived through the night, with the mood our father is in this day.”

  He stepped forward quickly, only to be held back by several warriors who had moved to his side with Theron’s nod.

  “Patience, slave. You’ll be able to see her tonight, as will all the peasants. We are all equal at The Feast of the Wolf, after all.” And with a sneering laugh, he turned as the men pulled Damon out to the dusty yard beyond.

  He looked in frustration at the high walls that kept his mother from him. She had been a warrior once, from a line of warriors, but her will had been beaten down over the years. He knew she did not have enough fight left to resist the king’s violent advances.

  A decision was made in that moment. He would return for her and take her away this night, but first he needed to right a horrifying wrong.

  Making his way to the temple via the shadows, he did his best not to be seen. The people wandering by paid him no mind anyway. All thoughts were focused on the coming eve. No one had any idea of the nightmarish occurrences that had taken place within the king’s walls.

  Inside, the temple was empty and forbidding. He moved, swift and silent, to the hidden alcove he had watched the holy men enter so many times in the past.

  He tried to quell his surprise that Zeus hadn’t already arrived from his mountaintop home on Olympus, raining fire and death upon Lycaon for his grievous crimes. He hadn’t come here to question a god, merely to right one unforgivable wrong. He could do no less.

  The alcove hid a life-size statue of the father of the gods, Zeus himself. Damon went unerringly to the smoky orb in the figure’s lowered left hand, touching it and calling Zeus’ name. When he was younger and curious, he would peek behind the curtain as the priests sought advice or aid. He never had the nerve to find out what happened beyond this point. But this was an emergency.

  At his call, the orb shone with a blazing light. Damon saw a flash from the corner of his eyes and then He was there. The young peasant kneeled in the presence of the handsomely bearded god.

  “It seems Arcadia is impatient for my arrival.” The booming voice greeted Damon cheerfully. His chin was raised by rough, surprisingly solid fingertips, the shining man smiling in recognition.

  “You’re the son of the painted warrior. That beauteous slave girl Lycaon is ever obsessed with.” He chuckled as he straightened his robes impatiently.

  “I cannot tell you how many times that man has asked for her devotion. But as you are no doubt aware, not even I can control the will of the heart. It truly rules us all.”

  Damon could not equate the man Zeus was describing, the besotted romantic, with the vicious murderer he knew his sire to be. He was simultaneously flooded with the inconceivable knowledge that the god standing jovially before him appeared to have no idea that his child had been killed, his lover sent to die. How could that be?

  Bowing low before him, Damon relayed the news about Nyctimus and the queen, as well as King Lycaon’s dastardly plans for the coming feast. The silence was deafening.

  Damon looked up to see a rage unlike any he’d beheld before. Zeus looked at him, his strange eyes glowing with golden fire.

  “Arcadia will pay.” His threat hovered in the stale air of the temple as the god disappeared in a burst of light.

  Damon stood, for a moment unsure if he had done the right thing. His mind flashed back to a scene only two days prior. The small, sweet-faced Nyctimus was being rocked in his own mother’s arms.

  “He has a great destiny ahead of him,” she had crooned at the happy baby confidently. She’d had no idea it would arrive so quickly. Or that it would be covered in blood. No one, especially an innocent, deserved that end.

  He rushed quickly toward his room in the slave’s quarters, eager to gather the trade goods he had painstakingly hoarded in anticipation of this day. He would take his mother back to her homeland. They would finally be free.

  That was the last thought he had before feeling a bone shattering pain against his temple. Through the roaring in his ear drums, he heard Theron’s wicked laugh. And then…nothing.

  When his eyes had opened again, at first it seemed he was trapped in a nightmare. He was tied against a wooden pillar in the king’s great hall, where the slaves who were of no more use or prisoners of war were usually tied to be mocked and ridiculed before being taken out to the altar stone and sacrificed to Zeus.

  There was blood dripping down his face. He almost missed the piercing screams around him due to the throbbing pain in his head.

  He blinked away the sweat and blood from his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. His imagination had never fashioned a nightmare this terrible. Men writhing on the floor, screaming in agony with no apparent cause. Women frozen in terror beside them. And above them all was Zeus. He hovered over the tortured masses of twisting flesh, wrath incarnate. His body, a beacon of fury, the storm of lightning and judgment from which there could be no escape.

  “Arcadia, for your crimes you will not have an easy death.” His voiced echoed over the wailing masses.

  “Instead, I give to you a gift. The banner of war you so easily wave, the ravenous wolf that fills those near and far with terror and revulsion…wear it with pride for all eternity.”

  The obvious agony of the men around Damon increased and he, as well, began to feel a rippling, burning sensation whipping through his flesh.

  “The name Lycaon, Lycan, will be forever the brand of an evil that all of mankind will hunt and seek to destroy. Named for your cowardly dog of a king!”

 

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