Shadows on the Aegean (58 page)

Chloe stared at the wall. What did little boys do? Fishing? Not here. Basketball? Not hardly. Nintendo? Chloe laughed at herself.
She was getting loopy.

Two boys, maybe? Doing what? Chloe began to sketch in another body, then teasingly drew his arm extended toward the nose of
the other. Take that, she thought. It seemed familiar, as though her hands knew exactly what to do, and how.

Eyes narrowed, she picked up her brush and began to paint. “You can be Cheftu,” she told one sketched boy. He had almond-shaped
eyes and winged brows. Not quite Cheftu, but close enough for the funny papers. With rapid strokes she gave her “boy” a boxing
glove. Now her boy was nailing Cheftu’s boy’s nose, right on target. “That is for not following me,” she said to the painting.

“I dared not draw the attention.”

Chloe whirled around, lost her footing, and fell against the wall. Cheftu stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame as though
he’d been there for hours.

He was so gorgeous, Chloe thought. He’d made an art of adapting. His kilt was more subdued than those of most Aztlantu, and
his clan pendant lay in the center of his chest. The funny disk he always wore around his waist moved a little with his breathing.
Black hair fell over his shoulders, the elaborate braiding in of the extensions woven with gold thread. His skin seemed a
bit paler than usual, but it should, because he spent all his days inside. Kohl ringed his eyes, making them look even lighter,
and his expression was unreadable. They just stared at one another.

“I do not get the benefit of a glove,” he said with a smile. “That seems rather unfair.”

“Who said life is fair?”

“Touché.” It was particularly incongruous to hear the French coming out of his ancient-styled body. Chloe turned back to the
painting, inking in her boy’s eyes. “This is hardly the welcome I had hoped for,” Cheftu said from beside her.

Chloe jumped, painting one eyeball slightly askew. “Then maybe you should have showed up yesterday,” she said archly.

He laced his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back, gently, but with no question of who was in control. “I could not.
So now we have time to recoup,
oui, ma chère?”

Looking into his eyes, she tried to see his thoughts, his feelings. He was holding something back, she sensed. “Let go of
me.”

He released her and she knelt down, mixing turquoise paint in a clay bowl.

“I have found the holes in the brain, the sole symptom of this plague,” Cheftu said, his tone clipped. “Thank you for inquiring.”

Chloe stirred the
mafkat
powder and water with a dowel, her lips pressed together. “Congratulations.” She rose, her paintbrush laden with turquoise
paint.

“I have had strange … feelings recently. I am out of sorts,” Cheftu said. “The Aztlantu are an odd people. They care little
for human life, would sacrifice anything for sensation.”

“You don’t make sense,” Chloe said, testing the texture of the paint on the back of her hand.

“Merde
, Chloe! I miss you! I need your decency, your humor!” He turned her around, turquoise paint spattering them both, brilliant
against his crimson-and-saffron kilt. It also flecked her painting.

“Dammit, Cheftu! I’ve worked for hours on this painting, and if you think you can just wander in whenever you feel like it,
then ruin my painting and expect me to fall into your—”

He gripped her around the jaw and kissed her hard. Chloe pushed him away, spattering paint on them both. “You’re ruining my
work,” she hissed. Cheftu glared, pulled both of her wrists behind her, and snatched the paintbrush.

“You have become so Aztlantu,” he said. “Dancing half-naked in the court, the inheritor to Kela-Ileana.” She struggled and
he moved his grasp up her arms, holding her still and arching her back. “Do you want to bed Phoebus?”

Chloe hissed in response and refused to admit his grasp hurt. She forgot it hurt when he began painting her nipples with the
paintbrush. The tiny hairs of the brush tickled, and she felt herself growing tighter, hotter. “Do you wish Dion were holding
you, Phoebus painting your body?” He was angry, his eyes betrayed his hurt.

“It, wasn’t what you think.”

He began to paint a design on her breast, moving it up toward her esophagus and down close to where her jacket was loosely
fastened. Chloe couldn’t tell what he was painting from her angle; all she could see was the swell of her breasts, a pale
gold against the brilliant turquoise. Hieroglyphs. He’d painted her with hieroglyphs.

Chloe struggled again and Cheftu yanked her closer, his hard grip unyielding. He held the paintbrush in his teeth and slid
his hand beneath the waistband of her dress. Pressing his mouth to hers, the tangy flavor of the paint between them, he drew
Chloe’s tongue into the jail the paintbrush made of his mouth. “I am very angry, Chloe,” he said against her lips.

A ripping sound filled the room, and Chloe screeched in outrage, struggling against him. He pulled her to him, making her
kicking ineffectual. Chloe was dizzy, flooded with mixed emotions, and … well … hungry for him.

Cheftu walked her backward, against the wall, and Chloe twisted, trying to get away, though not as wholeheartedly as before.
He might be angry, but she knew he was also turned on. He ripped a ruffle off her skirt with one hand, and Chloe felt her
knees weaken. With quick movements he tied her wrists behind her and laughed while she strained. Now she was hopping mad.

Until he dropped to his haunches, the paintbrush forgotten as he dipped both hands in the paint and massaged it into her skin.
It was thick, gloppy, and so cool it made her shiver. Cheftu treated it like lotion, rubbing the pigment deep; she looked
as though she were swirled in ocean waves from the waist down.

Chloe was trembling, barely able to stand. Cheftu’s touch was magic, and it was unspeakably erotic to see herself transformed
with color and pattern. She had
become
art. Leaning her head against the wall, she concentrated on sensation. The cool paint gained her body’s heat. The places
where it was heavily applied felt solid and thick, versus the parts barely washed with color, a coating so light it felt like
cobwebs on her skin. Cheftu picked up her foot, rubbing in the paint, stroking his fingers between her toes, slowly, the sucking
and slurping of the paint reminiscent of …

“What flavor?” he asked hoarsely. Chloe slowly slid down the wall, her knees over his shoulders, sitting on his thighs. She
blinked and inhaled as he painted her face with the most eloquent of touches. The paint had thickened and felt luxuriously
smooth. “What flavor, my faithless madame?”

Baskin-Robbins, she thought, they haven’t invented this flavor yet! She groaned as he touched her intimately, the visions
behind her closed eyes waves of blue and lapis and turquoise rising higher and higher, straining to crest. Cheftu whispered
words against her lips, suggestions and sensations, stoking the fire, making her as hot as the blue center of a flame, until
she was consumed.

T
HE BLACK, CAVERNOUS CHAMBER WAS ECHOINGLY EMPTY
. Torches affixed to the walls cast an almost daylike brightness, the different heights dispelling shadow. The Council stood
on the first balcony, where the nobles of Aztlan had stood merely days ago.

The final test had come.

Phoebus stood, forcing the trembling throughout his body to stop. He’d bested the Apis bull, proved his worth in the pyramid,
survived the Labyrinth; now the final test. He must choose to do what benefited the many but hurt the few. The fertility of
the fields must be assured.

The king must die.

I will stand here in nineteen summers, he thought. I will look in the face of my son and know I must kill or be killed. He
dared not think beyond that, beyond the ritual. He was Olimpi, he would be victorious.

It was silent.

He raised his gaze and looked around him, not daring to move his head. Niko leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed.
Next to Niko stood Phoebus’ triton, the prongs polished and sharpened, ready to pierce skin. Phoebus looked away. His body
smelled rank, fear in his sweat. His bowels were loose, and he felt nauseated. Thank Apis that Eumelos would not one day do
this. Better an unloved son to destroy him.

The crash of wood against stone reverberated throughout the chamber as the double doors opened. Phoebus’ palms were wet, and
he unlocked his knees. Zelos walked through the door, Spiralmaster trailing behind, Dion holding the Golden Bull’s triton.

Zelos didn’t look as though he were past his prime, Phoebus thought with a rush of pride. He was still the tallest man in
Aztlan, and his fine blond hair floated over his shoulders, though streaks of white were visible. His body was tight, trim,
golden skinned, and the dozens of offspring from a wealth of nymphs attested to his virility.

The blue eyes that both Phoebus and Eumelos had inherited were pale and sad. The new Minos motioned both contenders forward.
Phoebus stepped to his father, trying to delay the sunrise, trying not to drag his feet and humiliate his clan.

Only once had the tradition not been fulfilled. Golden Bull Kronos had defeated his son and ruled for thirty-eight summers.
By the end of his reign he was weak, puny, and the fields were wasted. Zelos had won the battle easily and partaken of the
sacrifice, though very little power had been left in Kronos.

Pateeras’
hands gripped his forearms, and Zelos smiled. “You are worthy, my golden son,” he said. His voice was thick, and his expression
was resigned. “Still, the clan and the empire demand our best in this battle. You have proved your mind to be sound, your
reflexes to be fast and sure, your intellect to be superb, and now you must prove your will and your obedience are without
question.”

Phoebus shook his head in agreement.

“Afterward, you must prove your self-control. No man can lead where he has not walked. Aztlan is experiencing pangs—birth
pangs, I hope—of a new, glorious generation—” Zelos’ voice broke. “I regret I will not see your rule.”

Phoebus’ grip grew tighter.

“Fight me now, Phoebus. Show me that my pride is not misplaced. I will not have it whispered that
Hreesos
Zelos was an easy victory.”

“I hear you have bested almost all the Mariners,” Phoebus said with a smile. “I shake in my sandals.”

Zelos laughed, a lonely, desperate sound. “Do your duty by Ileana,” he said.

Rage, carefully banked, filled Phoebus. “I shall,
Pateeras
. I shall do well by Ileana.”

His father looked at him, searching his gaze. He then looked at their linked arms, hands clenching tightly to each other,
just below the elbow. Golden Bull Zelos straightened to his full height, saluted his son and heir, and waited for Phoebus
to do the same.

It was too fast! Phoebus thought. Nay, this could not be it! But he had turned on his heel and Niko was handing him his triton,
his gaze turned inward. A sense of isolation pounded in on him, and Phoebus feared he couldn’t go through with it. He’d lost
Irmentis, he’d lost his youth—and now his father?

He turned again and walked back to the floor. Zelos, the triton held loosely in both hands, stood easily on the balls of his
feet. His dignity was awesome, even here, fighting the last of his life’s battles.

A serpent was thrown onto the sand, signifying the start of the final battle. Spring versus winter, youth versus age, will
against will.

Phoebus turned in a small circle, watching Zelos’ triton, uncannily aware of the swishing sound of their bare feet in the
sand. A low hiss gained his attention, and he leapt back an eyeblink before the horned viper struck out at him.

His hands were wet, his grip on the triton tight. Zelos was closer, and Phoebus dodged his first strike, parried his second,
and ducked the third. What would happen if no one won? It was an impossible thought that died at birth. Only one man would
leave this arena. His father would not be shamed.

Zelos attacked again, and Phoebus rolled beneath the tines, grabbing his triton before Zelos turned. If he didn’t kill Zelos,
he would never be allowed to punish Ileana. The thought of Ileana broken and begging—pleading, her lovely face distorted,
her aging body revealed—filled Phoebus with a rush of pleasure.

He jabbed at Zelos, not an attack, just a show of engagement. His father smiled, and Phoebus knew he would kill him and feast,
as generations of golden-haired and blue-eyed men had done before him.

He would make Ileana suffer.

Another serpent was thrown onto the sand. Two to avoid, while attacking Zelos. Phoebus struck out, the contact with Zelos’
triton sending shock waves up his arm, jarring his bones into his teeth. He opened his mouth, releasing the pressure on his
jaw, and moved sideways.

They clashed again, high, then lower; closer, farther away. The sound was almost rhythmic, and Phoebus virtually danced in
the arena, running and dodging and striking. Zelos was skilled, but not fast, and Phoebus realized that at thirty-eight summers
his father was old and weary. Phoebus moved in closer.