The Heart of War (2 page)

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 of this one?

None.

Ares lumbered over to the woman on the sand. “What 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 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 she 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. Finally turning her view away from the vast empty sea in front of her, she was able to make out a great cliff face in the glow of 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 dark, 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 lay 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. In spite of 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?

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 a 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 ground. It was low and covered with fur. It growled as it 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!”