Midnight Medusa (2 page)

Her kidnapper used the weight of his body to keep her subdued on the floor of the van while he pushed his bleeding fingers from her mouth and replaced them with a gag. The heart-thumping ride in the darkness gave Renata time to conceive of every possible way he might kill her, and she didn’t even realize they had arrived at the airport until they were dragging her onto the charter jet.

It wasn’t until after the plane had taken off that her kidnapper finally spoke to her again. “I’m going to take the gag out of your mouth, but you mustn’t scream. No one who could help you would hear it anyway, and if you scream you will only frighten the pilot and endanger the mortals.”

Renata feared he was a Serbian thug sent to ensure she never testified about the war crimes she had witnessed. But her captor looked Greek and—what had he said? Mortals? What madness was this? Even so, Renata felt safer with this madman than she did with those chillingly sane soldiers in her past, so she nodded her head in agreement.

It was only now that he was so close, that she looked at his face and startled. “Wait, I know you…Detective…”

Why couldn’t she remember his name?

“Ah,” he said, narrowing his dark, terrifying eyes. “So you’ve met my brother.”

His brother? Yes, Renata could see it now. The chiseled cheekbones and the lines of his jaw were the same, but whereas the detective sported stubble and a messy mane, her captor’s dark hair was short and slicked away from his clean-shaven face. They were twins.

“
Who
are you?” Renata demanded.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t remember unless I permitted it, but for now you may call me Damon.” He dismissed two of the goons with a single look, as if he were used to being obeyed. His men retreated to the back of the plane and closed the curtains. When they were finally alone, he said, “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be, Renata.”

So, he knew her name.

Now that her fear was subsiding, anger rose to take its place. “I don’t know why you’ve taken me, but I want to go home. Right now.”

“And where exactly is your home?” Damon asked.

She knew where home was. Home was her studio, with Scylla. So why did she pause in answering the question? “Why do you want to know? Where are you taking me?” she asked, resurgent dread choking her words. She couldn’t go back to Bosnia. She wouldn’t go back. Not now, not ever.

“I’m taking you somewhere my brother and the war gods can’t find you,” he said, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. Then he took a crystal decanter from the nearby minibar, poured two glasses, and handed one of them to her. “I must remember my manners.”

Renata reflected that it was exceedingly
unmannerly
to abduct a woman from an art gallery. But she’d learned from her therapist that deranged men needed to feel validated, so she took the glass warily and tried to earn his trust. “So you think you’re a god—a war god—like your brother. And there are
others?”

His sensual lips curved into a sardonic smile. “Don’t try to manage me, young lady,” he said, though he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was. “I’m not a psychotic or a sociopath and as long as you do everything I tell you, you have nothing to fear.”

Renata needed a stiff drink, and since her captor was confidently sipping from his glass, she decided the drink he’d given her from the same decanter probably wasn’t poisoned. She took a mouthful, and swirled the unfamiliar spirit over her tongue. It bolstered her. It made her feel warm, all the way to her toes. But she was still angry. “Why have you kidnapped me?”

“Because your art is dangerous,” he said. “I can’t allow anyone to use you. When I learned that my aunt was seeking you out, I knew I had to take you before she did.”

“Your
aunt?”
Renata asked, remembering the business card and sketch she’d tucked into her bra. The detective had been unusual and his aunt more so, but neither of them had seemed deranged. Did they know about Damon’s mental illness?

“Do you mean Ms. Kokkinos? The patroness at the art exhibit? She’s your aunt?”

“Ms. Kokkinos? Is that what she’s calling herself these days?” The plane was now above the clouds and Damon seemed to relax. “In Greek, Kokkinos means red. Red like blood. Red like battle lust. It’s fitting, I suppose, because my aunt is the gray-eyed daughter of Zeus.”

Renata tried, in vain, to keep the incredulity off her face. “I’m sorry—she’s
what?”

He drained his glass and set it aside. “She wants you to sculpt for her, doesn’t she?”

Renata didn’t have to answer. “Look, I don’t want to be involved in your family squabbles. If you don’t want me to sculpt for her, just take me home, and I’ll refuse her commission.”

“As if that were possible,” Damon said, straightening the crease of his expensive dress pants with a slow languid motion. “She won’t let you refuse her, Renata. You’re her
aegis.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Renata snapped.

“Don’t you know your Greek mythology?” he asked, arching his brows. “Not all of it is myth.”

Suddenly, Renata tried to stifle a yawn, without success. He certainly wasn’t boring her, so why was she so tired? “Did you put a sleeping pill in my drink?”

He scowled and a little turbulence shook the plane. “No, Renata. You’re probably sleepy because you were up long after midnight last night after setting your serpent on one of my men.”

So he’d sent the would-be kidnapper to snatch her from her studio. And when the first attempt had failed, he’d returned to do the job himself. “I didn’t set Scylla on anyone,” she whispered sleepily, “But if I could have, I would have.”

“Oh, you would have, certainly,” Damon said.

Renata bit her lower lip, wondering what had become of Scylla and her prey, but she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to ask. As it was, Renata’s eyes were drooping and her limbs felt weak.

“Come,” Damon said, reaching across and unbuckling her seatbelt. In the sweep of the motion, his fingers brushed the tops of her thighs and Renata felt herself grow warm. “Come lay down on the couch, Renata. You can put your head in my lap and rest. We have a few hours before the pilot will flash the seatbelt light again.”

“I’m certainly
not
putting my head in your lap,” Renata snarled.

“Oh, I imagine you’ll put your head wherever I tell you to,” he said.

As if at his command, she felt inexplicably pliant. “Why? If it wasn’t a sleeping potion, what was in that drink?”

“It was laced with ambrosia. It’s a…restorative,” he said, guiding her to the couch and drawing a blanket around her shoulders as she slipped off to sleep.

Damon stroked her curls as she slept, twining his fingers in her magnificent tangle of dark locks. It’d been a long time since he’d last seen Renata, longer still since he’d touched a mortal woman, even chastely, and now he couldn’t resist the silken sensation of her hair.

She was so beautiful, he couldn’t help but want her. From the elegant arch of her eyebrows to the Slavic planes of her face, she was perfect in every way. He hadn’t expected that. He’d been sure her powers would have made her ugly—at the very least, he’d been sure the explosion would have left her with hideous scars.

After all, he’d been there that day alongside the war gods, goading the warriors to fight. But war had changed greatly since the old days; modern warfare had surprised him. It was just as brutal, but colder, more efficient, and utterly inglorious. There were no more challenges between brave Hector and fierce Achilles. It was all war machines now.

The dishonor of modern warfare changed him—changed his very nature—perhaps even before that fateful chariot ride in Bosnia. He hadn’t known the soldiers would launch grenades at civilian homes. He hadn’t known that the terror he inspired would give excuse to explode the little girl’s house. He hadn’t known how these weapons could tear at the flesh and spray body parts across neatly tended gardens.

That day years ago, Renata had been playing in front of the house with a jump rope, and had turned away from the blast just in time. Still, the flames had lashed at her back, throwing her to the ground and melting the dress from her body. A hand landed beside her, severed and slimy with gore. It had been a child’s hand—her little brother’s hand—and seeing it, she’d screamed that terrible scream. Her scream had been so bottomless, he couldn’t have gorged upon it even if he’d wanted to.

He’d known then what she would become.

But Renata wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman grown and what was he to do with her? He could secret her away, but she was smarter than he’d hoped. Once he told her what she was, how long would it be until she discovered her power and wanted to use it? When that happened, she would fight him with more than the token resistance. And what then? Would he have to chain her to some faraway mountain and set fearsome monsters to guard her? Would he be forced to hurt her? To kill her?

No. For now, they’d have to keep moving and he’d have to keep her with him always. One moment of inattention and she’d run; one moment of weakness and the war gods could snatch her away.

They wanted to use Renata to create more conflict—more horror for their appetites. But what Damon feared most was that they wouldn’t have to use her—that deep down, Renata was angry enough to wreak destruction on her own.

Renata woke to the piercing cries of seabirds and the desolate scent of salt water. Opening her eyes, she found herself in a canopied bed, propped up on downy pillows and nestled beneath a cool white comforter. Pulling away the canopy netting, she took in the simple surroundings of a beach house. Shuttered doors were thrown open to allow a breeze and beyond them stretched a stone patio upon which her captor appeared to be taking his morning coffee.

Damon—who was bent over a newspaper—was wearing a linen shirt open at the collar. The stark white fabric set off his tan and made him look like a bronzed god. Of course, she remembered that Damon thought he actually
was
some kind of god. At least he dressed the part.

“Come have breakfast, Renata,” he said before she could find an avenue of escape. So, in her rumpled green dress, Renata padded towards him on bare feet, squinting in the sunlight. He motioned her towards the bowl of fruit on the table and said, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I’d be more comfortable if you took me home,” Renata replied, tucking errant curls behind her ears and folding her arms in front of herself like an armor breastplate. “When the police catch you, you can say goodbye to this cushy lifestyle, you know. They don’t have breakfast service in prison.”

He seemed amused by her hostility. Then, leaning back into the patio chair, he studied her. “Ah, Renata, that presumes that the police could catch me. It presumes your kidnapping would ever go to trial. It even presumes that you’d want to see me brought to
justice,
instead of taking revenge yourself.”

Something about his words took a vague and disturbing shape, much the same way dark outlines of her sculptures formed in her mind before she had even carved them free of the stone. Something about what he’d said made her bitter, angry…furious. “I know from personal experience that there’s no justice in this world.”

“Perhaps there would be justice if people were brave enough to tell their stories.”

He could only be talking about her unwillingness to testify before the War Crimes Tribunal. Maybe he was a thug sent to silence her after all, but if so, then why was she still alive? Perhaps it was these thoughts of mortality that made her, quite suddenly, ravenously hungry. “Is it safe to eat these grapes? Or are they also laced with something?”

“Sometimes a grape is just a grape,” Damon said, looking out over the cobalt waters.

“Where are we?” Renata asked, taking a seat across from him and popping a few grapes into her mouth.

“I’m not going to tell you where we are, because if you ever managed to escape and get to a phone, you’d be able to tell someone where to find you.”

Yes, yes, she would. The first chance she had, she’d call the authorities. Then she’d fish out the business card secreted in her bra and call Ms. Kokkinos and warn her that her nephew was dangerously unhinged.

“You know, I like your brother better,” she said, searching the table for utensils. Maybe if she could get a fork or a knife…

Damon looked disappointed. “Are you looking for something with which to stab me?”

Unfortunately, he’d only served fruit and pastries. There wasn’t a weapon in sight, so Renata saw no point in denying it. “Yes, and I should warn you, my therapist says I have unresolved anger issues.”

“Oh, I know you do.”

Absently, Damon put the newspaper down on the table. Renata snatched it up and found an article about her kidnapping on the inside page of the
New York Times.
Renata had to admit that this was higher billing than she’d ever received for her art shows, but she gaped at date on the masthead. “It’s been three days! You kidnapped me three days ago? Have I been asleep that long?”

“The precise passage of time isn’t my strong suit,” Damon admitted, momentarily losing the smugness from his expression as he folded his hands. “But the effects of even a tiny bit of ambrosia can be unpredictable.”

Renata stared at his folded hands, the clean fingernails and the unblemished skin. For a moment, a sudden, unbidden thought came to her. She wondered what it would feel like to have those hands seizing her again, and what it would feel like if clutching turned to soft caresses. Then she gasped and covered her mouth.

“Renata, what’s wrong?”

“I bit your hand,” she rasped. “When you kidnapped me, I bit your hand and broke the skin. I drew blood, I know I did. I tasted it in my mouth. But there’s not a mark on you. Not a scratch.”

“That was days ago,” he said dismissively.

Renata feared she was losing her mind now, but if there was anything she understood it was wounds. “There should be a scab. A bruise at the least!”

“I heal quickly,” he said, finishing his coffee.

Renata breathed slowly, in and out, her eyes widening with apprehension. “What
are
you?”

“A son of Ares,” he said, pausing as if to let it sink in.

Renata tried to match it to the names of any Bosnian separatist groups she’d heard of, but could not. She looked into those dark mesmerizing eyes and realized that he was not toying with her. He believed it.

But did she? “You’re really a god?” she asked tentatively.

“Not as you think of them,” he said. “But neither am I a mortal man.”

“What are you, then?” she asked.

“A son of Ares,” he repeated, slightly exasperated, then, perhaps sensing that answer wasn’t going to suffice, he attempted an explanation. “A long time ago, my twin brother and I drove my father’s chariot whenever and wherever war came to a land and people called upon the ancient gods. My brother instills panic; I inspire terror.”

He lifted his chin in defiance, as if to challenge anyone who might doubt him, looking halfway torn between pride and shame; and though she couldn’t accept the truth of what he was saying, she knew he wasn’t lying. “Terror?”

“Yes. I inspire it and I feed off of it,” he said.

Renata wasn’t able to hide her distaste, but she had to ask, “You said that was a long time ago. You’re not driving your…your father’s chariot anymore?”

“My family and I have had a…falling out,” he explained. “It’s a very complicated matter that has set off a series of struggles around the world, but let it suffice to say that we no longer see eye to eye.”

Son of Ares.
Could it be true? “So the Olympians are real. When there’s thunder, it’s Zeus? When there’s love, it’s Aphrodite?”

As the seafoam inched its way up the sand towards the patio where they shared breakfast, he shook his head. “Certainly not as you’ve read about them. There are old gods of all kinds. Greek, Norse, Hindu, Meso-American…the list goes on. But most of the old gods no longer hold any power.”

Renata was forced to ask, “Why not?”

He folded his napkin and sat back in his chair. “Because the forces that they fed upon and the people that called them are dispersed. But war is powerfully present in every age, and in some places where war comes, the people still call upon the war gods—the oldest immortals—even if they don’t always know our names. And when they call, we answer.”

Renata knew with sudden certainty that Bosnia was such a place. A meeting of Greeks, Russians and Macedonians, Slavs and Gypsies, Christians and Muslims, Serbs, Bosniaks and Croats. How many old gods had been called upon in the war of her childhood? Lost in thought, Renata watched the ocean waves lap against the shore.

“Are you looking for Poseidon?” Damon asked, pulling her back from the memories that haunted her. “You won’t find him today, but this island is lovely and the water is warm, so why don’t you take a swim?”

It was an abrupt change of subject, as if he couldn’t bear to speak of such things a moment longer. Truthfully, Renata needed a few moments to gather her wits too. She looked down at the dress she’d been sleeping in for three days and wanted to be rid of it. “As an immortal, can you conjure up a swimsuit for me out of thin air? Do you have that power?”

“No,” he said. “But I can make it so that you’re not the slightest bit afraid. I can consume your fears—make you so fearless, you’ll happily strip naked and step into the sea.”

Renata shivered. The sun-warmed patio stones were toasty beneath her feet and the day was warm, but still, Renata shivered. Whether it was the way he spoke to her, the hungry look on his face, or the words he spoke, she couldn’t say. But neither could she help wondering what it would be like to swim naked, to no longer be self-conscious about the scars on her back, to be unafraid to let a man see her completely and utterly exposed.

Still, Renata was confused. “You said you and your brother
instilled
panic and terror…”

Damon leaned forward over the table until his face was inches from hers. Then with great deliberation, he pursed his lips as if he might kiss her. Instead, he blew a soft breath upon her face and it stirred happier memories inside her. She smelled jasmine, the scent of her mother’s perfume, and she felt the tension loosen in her shoulders. The thought that she was being held captive against her will seemed far away, unimportant. Instead she felt she was only the guest of an impossibly handsome man at his beach house retreat.

“I can terrify,” Damon told her with sad eyes. “But I can also take some of it away.”

His face was still inches from hers, and she wondered what he had done to her that she so wanted to kiss him. More than that, she wanted to reach out with the fingers of a sculptress and trace the lines of his mouth. Would his lips feel smooth like marble, rough as granite, or soft like her own? “But why would a Son of Ares want anything to do with
me?”

Too late, Renata realized she’d spoken the question aloud. But Damon didn’t look surprised by it. “Because, Renata,” he said, simply. “You’re a gorgon.”