Red Demon (2 page)

And so it was that for three sweltering August days this courageous, stubborn king fought alongside his crimson-cloaked warriors. Leonidas made no distinctions among them. All were soldiers, equal in battle, and all would drink from the cup of death as the gods decreed. Beside him, his senior captain, Ajax Petrakos, led charge after charge. Together they blocked the pass, warring with swords, shields, and eventually nothing but their bare hands.

The king and his soldiers never relented, never backed down, and, on the third day, when the burning sun began to slide behind the mountains that marked the pass, only a handful of Spartans remained standing. It was then that the final moments came, and one by one the last of these Spartan warriors, inseparable in life, fell together in death. With their passing the battle was lost, but their Spartan duty was fulfilled.

Captain Petrakos was the first to awaken facing the River Styx, that boundary between mortal life and the mystery beyond. Next his servant Kassandros materialized beside him, the two linked together in death as they had been in life. One at a time, other Spartans appeared out of the mist: Ajax’s brothers, Kalias and Aristos; then Nikos and his fellow warrior Straton. And finally their beloved King Leonidas, battered, broken, and mutilated from battle, yet standing tall among their ranks. But an unexpected being also emerged from the mist to stand beside their king. One beyond the warriors’ imaginings. Before them stood a towering golden god wearing a proud smile upon his face. It was none other than Ares, the lord of all Spartan soldiers, their god of war.

Ares had come to present an offer, one final choice, as the seven warriors stood at this place between life and death. They could lay down their swords and move on to Elysium and the afterlife that awaited them, or they could turn back to the world, take up their arms once more, and become immortal protectors of mankind for eternity.

They would fight every form of evil that threatened humanity, becoming ageless battlers of demons and fighters of wars. They would serve under Ares, in the name of mankind. With the deity’s offer, these warriors could ensure safety for their families, for Sparta, and for the sons and daughters of Sparta for centuries to come. In their immortal form, each man would possess abilities akin to those of the gods. They would be stronger than before and in the heat of battle could assume the form of hawks, with the flight, lethality, and grace of these warrior birds. They would become dark angels, saviors of the night.

The will of warriors was in their blood and in their souls, and they knew in their hearts that it was a noble quest. But it was a noble quest for a capricious god. Still, they would have followed their king to the ends of the earth, to Hades itself if he asked it of them. And when they looked into his wise eyes, they knew his decision had already been made.

Leonidas did not beseech them; the choice lay with each man alone. But these were men born and bred to fight for the glory of war. Their duty, honor, and love for one another bound the warriors in unspoken agreement. One by one, each of the seven men drank from the River Styx, binding their immortality and their vow.

There was no time for second thoughts and no place for regrets. The seven Spartans, now the immortal protectors of all mankind, turned away from what might have been and bowed down before the voice of war.

M
aybe Super Mario Cart would’ve been a better starting point. Or perhaps Pirates vs. Ninjas Dodgeball. Anything else, Ari decided, would’ve made a less frustrating introduction to the world of Wii than Dance Dance trating introduction to the world of Wii than Dance Dance Revolution.

Especially for King Leonidas, Ari’s immortal commander, who happened to be well over twenty-five hundred years old, and a gamer virgin until tonight.

Ari was about to suggest a change to his newbie pupil when the Old Man glared at the flat screen, releasing a shocking string of obscenities. The ordinarily quiet Spartan might have been facing a legion of bloodthirsty Persians; the aggression in his dark eyes was that fierce.

“Uh, sir?” Ari ventured, struggling to tune out the game’s tinny disco music. “This is supposed to be entertainment. Not warfare.”

Leonidas didn’t acknowledge him, only narrowed his eyes when loud booing began pouring forth from the television set. Oh, gods above, this wasn’t going to be pretty. Nobody, not even an electronic device,
booed
King Leonidas of Sparta.

Ari decided distraction was in order. “It’s like battle drills, sir. Fancy footwork; that’s all.”

Leonidas barely grunted in reply, and Ari began reaching for the Wii remote his king still held in a viselike grip. “Let’s try a slower song.”

“
No
,” Leonidas answered in a low growl, drawing the word out like a slow peal of thunder—and Ari burst out in loud, admittedly disrespectful, laughter.

He just couldn’t help himself; there was such raw pride and fierce determination in the way the Old Man said it. So, hell yeah, Ari laughed, and so did Nikos from his position at the bar. And when grumpy Nik got rolling, it was such an unexpected outburst that even solemn Kalias joined the action. Which was really saying something because Ari’s eldest brother wasn’t exactly a blinding ray of sunshine himself.

It was a real
Give a Pig a Pancake
moment, to quote the children’s book—which Ari actually owned, ’cause he liked kids’ humor—pure and basic. All the brotherhood knew the book, too, because the day Ari had bought it, he’d followed them around reading from the thing, claiming that the pig made him think of the scrappiest of them all, Straton. Or, really, that the pig reminded him of their whole immortal brotherhood—if one did something, the rest of the cadre invariably got in on the action.

So, watching the lot of them begin to lose it in the face of their king’s disintegrating Wii composure, he just couldn’t help blurting out, “You know, if you give a king a pancake . . .”

Which most decidedly did
not
help the situation.

Neither did the wine they’d all imbibed during dinner a few hours earlier.

Tonight marked two months since they’d defeated Ares at the River Styx—as well as the fact that they’d not heard from the bastard god ever since—so they’d laughed. Drunk uncut red wine from goblets. Celebrated their liberation from eternal servitude to Ares. Gotten uncharacteristically giddy, tossing back quite a few of those overflowing goblets.

Everyone, that was, except Leonidas, who’d seemed as reserved as always, maybe even more so. Ari suddenly wondered whether his king’s current fury with the flat screen had little to do with dancing or electronic games, but instead signaled something much more serious.

He approached Leo again, gentler this time. “Sir,” Ari tried, “really, I know you said you
like
Donna Summer and all, but this is a little advanced for a beginner. Maybe we should try something under a hundred beats per minute.”

“Aristos,” Leo replied, “are you intimating that I’m too
old
to maneuver within the confines of this modern gymnasium?”

“This isn’t the Agoge training ground, sir. Nobody’s running sprints or wrestling nude.”

Ajax cut in. “I might, if Shay’d ever get back from the store.”

Leonidas ignored the other warrior, still attempting the movements. “You find me too ancient minded to keep pace in this game the rest of you have mastered?”

“Not at all, sir.” Ari gave his king a solemn bow of respect. “I’m just saying that the people who created this game are perverse little fuckers who enjoy giving humans migraine headaches and vicious eyestrain. Our prank is up, my lord.” Ari lowered his voice in a confessional tone. “None of us know how to make this damned machine work.”

Their commander stopped dead at that, staring at him without blinking, and would have undoubtedly continued to do so for an indefinite amount of time, except that the house phone rang over on the bar.

“Someone’s calling,” Ari announced in an overly bright voice, thanking the Highest God above that he’d been saved a dressing-down for insubordination.

He instantly regretted that he’d ever considered this particular caller his savior. In fact, the woman on the other end of the line was more like a messenger straight from Hades itself.

 

“Cecilia,” Ari mumbled into the phone, “I’ve already told you. Plenty of times now. I’m not coming.”

She released a long feminine sigh of frustration. The woman was a perfect Southern lady, even when annoyed. “Then put Emma on the line,” she said. “Perhaps my daughter can knock some sense into that thick head of yours. And if she can’t, then maybe River will. You do still listen to my
son-in-law
, don’t you?”

River. Consummate warrior. Shape-shifter extraordinaire. The best pal he’d ever had, in any century. And, as of very recently, husband to Emma Lowery, a human medium who heard voices from beyond the grave—sometimes the source of those words was even heaven itself. It was a talent she’d inherited from her mother, the same woman who currently sniffed her delicate but unmistakable irritation on the other end of the telephone line.

For weeks now Cecilia had been calling, urging him to visit her brownstone in downtown Savannah. She had a message for him, she claimed, from a dead woman; not such an outrageous assertion, considering Cecilia’s abilities. It was the identity of said dead woman that troubled him greatly.

He clenched his teeth, counting silently to ten in ancient Greek, then replied, “Emma’s not down here.”

“Down
where
, Aristos? Hades? Because surely you must be in hell right now, what with the way you’re ignoring poor Juliana’s spirit.”

He groaned. “Nothing pitiful or poor about that woman, dead or alive.” He visualized Juliana’s deep red hair, the way the auburn hue had once shimmered and changed color when reflected in the candlelight, almost as if it had a life of its own. Now, more than a hundred years later, she remained the most vital, strong woman he’d ever known. “Trust me; nothing about Juliana ever needed my pity.”

“She suffers, Ari. Because you refuse to come, refuse to let me share her message, she is in torment. Doesn’t that matter to you? You once told me you loved her more than any woman you’d ever known. If that’s true, how could you keep her in such agony?”

“I never said that I
still
love her.” He swallowed, rubbing a hand over his chest. His heart felt as if it might explode, it was beating so rapidly. He swallowed again and whispered, “I loved her, and she died. End of story. Has been for a very, very long time.”

“True love never dies, Ari. Neither does the human spirit.” She laughed gently, knowingly. “But you’re already well aware of that fact.”

He pressed his eyes shut, wincing at the verbal blow. No, despite his ridiculous assertions, his love for Juliana had definitely never died . . . nor had his anger at the why and
how
of that death. A throbbing pain began at his temples, accompanied by a tight burning sensation much like the one in his chest. Oh, his deep, tormented love for Juliana was very much alive; after all, when one has roamed the earth for more than two thousand years, what are a mere hundred of them in the overall scheme of things?

“Her love for you is as vibrant as it ever was. Surely you feel that now . . . every time I call.”

Ari stalked to the far side of the small kitchenette. If any situation in his life had ever called for privacy, it was definitely his current distress over Juliana. No wonder he’d never told River or any of his other Spartan brothers about her. He couldn’t have handled the ball busting they’d have dished out—not about her.

He faced the pine-paneled wall of the kitchenette, studying the swirled grains of the wood, how they seemed like eerie faces staring out at him. The thought forced him to look away.

“You hear all kinds of voices, Cecilia,” he answered. “You might even be channeling some demon who wants to infiltrate our camp, or some other spirit, or—”

“God himself?” she supplied demurely. Which could be true; Cecilia was descended from the oracles of Delphi, as were Emma and his own brother’s wife, Shay Angel. That line of women definitely heard the words of the Highest God and translated them when required.

Ari forced a laugh that he didn’t feel inside. “I doubt
He
would claim to be a dead society woman from Victorian-era Savannah, don’t you?”

“You don’t dare to believe.”

“Oh, I believe, Cecilia,” he said, thinking of all that he’d observed while hanging around Shay and Emma and Cecilia herself. Not to mention the centuries he’d lived, the supernatural battles he’d waged. He definitely, truly believed. That wasn’t the problem in this situation.

“I know exactly what you Daughters of Delphi are capable of. And I know that Juliana was your great-aunt, so I have no doubt that she could somehow revive her spirit long enough to conjure something, anything, for me.”

“You’re afraid. Of her, your feelings . . . of what she might say.” Cecilia released a disappointed-sounding sigh. “And here I thought Spartans were the bravest men to ever roam the earth.”

Oh, no she didn’t
, he thought, and was preparing an appropriate verbal takedown when she spoke in a lower, more intense voice than she’d ever used with him before. And the hair on the back of his neck instantly stood at attention in response.

“She gave me proof,” Cecilia said.

His palms began to sweat. “What do you . . . ?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm his racing thoughts. “You can’t possibly have proof. She’s been dead since 1893, Cecilia.”

“You of all people shouldn’t argue about the perversities of immortality and the beyond, Aristos Petrakos.”

She had him there, and they both knew it. She continued. “Did you not die yourself once? More than two thousand years ago?”