Poisoned Kisses (3 page)

I
n the small guest room above Hecate’s shop, Kyra tossed and turned with fever, shivering under a pile of blankets. A beaded curtain separated her sickbed from the kitchen, where Hecate was tending to a teakettle. It shamed Kyra to have her former mistress care for her like a lowly nursemaid, but the hydra’s blood had left her as helpless as an infant.

Hecate came into the room bearing a tray and sighed before pouring the dandelion tea. “Drink this. I used to brew so many magic potions we’d have our pick of them, but it’s the best I can do for now. If only you’d let me call Ares—”

Kyra shook her head. Daddy was the last person she wanted to see in her weakened state. Hecate pressed the matter, anyway. “Ambrosia would restore you.”

Ambrosia
. Precious ambrosia. The scarcest resource in the world. A large dose of it as a child had given Kyra immortality in the first place, and she had her father to thank for that. He kept a secret store of the stuff, but not even for the elixir of
immortal life would Kyra want to be indebted to a war god. Not even her father. Perhaps especially not him.

“I don’t need ambrosia. I’m getting better on my own.” Kyra’s words were belied by the fact that she could barely hold her own cup. A little tea slopped over the rim and Hecate had to wipe it away with a napkin. Then the old woman settled into an antique rocking chair with a threadbare cushion and Kyra’s weak flicker of inner torchlight revealed that the goddess was decidedly cross. “I didn’t know Marco Kaisaris’s blood could kill me.”

“Of course you knew! You just didn’t want to admit it to yourself because now that angels are popular, you have a death wish.”

Kyra hung her head. “No, I just wanted to do something good again—something important.”

Hecate swirled a golden spoon in the ancient teacup—one of a thousand treasures she’d hoarded in her cluttered shop over the years. “Did you really think that
killing
Marco Kaisaris would make the world a better place?”

“A little, yeah,” Kyra cracked.

Hecate took a sip from her cup. “Killing is your father’s way.”

Kyra hated to be compared to Ares. She might be his daughter, she might have tried to serve him once, but that was only because she’d wanted to forge a relationship with her only living parent; she’d never been one of his bloodthirsty gang. Unlike her other war-born siblings, she’d never ridden with Daddy into battle; she’d only been there to guide the souls of the dead afterward. How dare Hecate pretend otherwise?

But then, it wasn’t Hecate’s role to guide the dead anymore, was it?
She’d
given up her divine responsibilities long ago.
She’d
never comforted the shades of today’s murdered children, their skulls fractured by Marco Kaisaris’s bullets. Kyra had. She was only trying to rid the world of a monster.

As if reading her thoughts, Hecate’s lips tightened. “Kyra,
why can’t you settle into your life? I’ve released you—you’re no longer my minion. Yes, you’re a
lampade,
but you don’t
have
to guide the dead anymore. You don’t
belong
in the world the same way you once did. None of us do. I hoped you’d use your freedom to find some happiness, but instead you’re off chasing monsters! Do you do these things to get attention?”

Maybe. A little. “I went after Marco Kaisaris because
you
once told me I was destined to destroy a hydra, remember?”

Hecate sputtered, as if some old memory were taking shape. “I said you’d
conquer
one, not
kill
him! When Hercules vanquished the hydra of his age, he used a torch to do it. You’re a torchbearer, Kyra. You have a gift. You can illuminate the truth of a human heart, find the wounds and sear them closed—”

“No,” Kyra said bitterly. “I’ll never do that again and you know why.”

It’d been a long time since they’d spoken of Kyra’s mother and Hecate’s sad eyes showed understanding. “Kyra, that was so long ago. You were such a young nymph and unsure of your powers. You didn’t mean to—”

“Condemn my own mother to a life of madness?” Kyra finished, furling her lip at the familiar but bitter taste of the dandelion tea. “I wanted to heal her, but she only saw Ares in me. It doesn’t matter what I
meant
to do. It only matters that she was a mortal with only a few years of life to enjoy and I robbed her of them.”

“You’ve seen her shade since then…you know she forgives you.”

But Kyra had never forgiven herself. She’d wielded her torch in her mother’s soul, trying to cauterize the wounds her father had left—and instead burned new ones there. Even after all these years, whenever she visited her mother in the underworld, there was an awkwardness between them. Perhaps it would’ve been awkward, anyway. After all, Kyra’s mother had been born in a world of togas, grand temples and state
worship; she couldn’t understand the realities of the modern world in which Kyra would live
forever
. She’d become, for Kyra, a shade in truth. A beautiful stranger.

“I won’t use my torch that way again,” Kyra insisted. “Marco Kaisaris sides with the war gods every time he sells a gun so he deserves to be destroyed, but he doesn’t deserve to live as a raving lunatic. It’s kinder to kill him.”

“That’s the bloodlust in you. Perhaps you really are your father’s daughter.”

It wasn’t fair that Hecate knew exactly how to shame her.
Fine,
Kyra thought. Maybe she could just chain Marco Kaisaris in some dungeon, hide him away, so that none of the war gods could harness his powers. Maybe keeping the man at her mercy was the humane thing to do. Still, the thought of shackles on those strong wrists brought an unexpectedly uncomfortable sensation to Kyra’s stomach. “Hecate, if I promise not to kill him, will you help me find Marco Kaisaris again?”

“Beware the obsessive nature of nymphs,” Hecate warned. “I don’t want you anywhere near this man. He’s a danger to you!”

In more ways than one. Most nymphs just had to worry about broken hearts, but just
touching
Marco’s blood had felled her. What if the poison got into her bloodstream? Into an open wound? If Kyra were wise, she’d never come into contact with this mortal man again. But then he might fall into her father’s hands and if Kyra had to live forever, there had to be some meaning to it. Otherwise, she was a power without purpose. She had to find some point to her long life other than the bloodlust Ares said she was born to.

Besides, she and the hydra had unfinished business between them. More than just his poison had gotten under her skin. His kiss, his touch, his voice…oh, that voice. “I’ll be more careful this time,” Kyra promised. “Help me find him. I know
you can still work some magic and you don’t need a crystal ball to do it.”

As one of Hecate’s black hounds settled at her feet, the older woman took on the more imperious stare of her gloried past. “I don’t want to risk your father’s wrath. Think of Ares, won’t you?”

“I
am.
If I don’t find the hydra before Daddy does, imagine the damage he’ll do. He could use hydra blood to poison whole armies. Whole countries!”

The ancient goddess had always been a benefactress of mankind. She didn’t relish human suffering. Kyra knew she’d relent, and she did. “You’d have to get on a plane—I know how much you dislike flying.” Kyra
hated
flying. Nonetheless, she was determined. “I’ll manage.”

“Very well.” Hecate sighed. “You’ll find the hydra in the New World. He’s on his way home, because he’s about to lose someone very dear to him indeed.”

Niagara Falls in winter, with its thundering gray river, was gloomy as the Styx. Kyra watched the netherworld entrance of mist below the tumbling water of the falls, and waved to the receding shade that had been Marco’s father. Kyra hadn’t killed him, but she’d guided the stubborn old man a little ways when he died. Giving him some light between the threshold of this life and the next had seemed like the least Kyra could do. She even let him see her as a sweet
angel,
because it seemed to comfort him.

He spoke of his estranged son, how heartbroken he’d been to lose Marco to a world of weapons and war. Kyra didn’t add to his burden by telling him that Marco had become a monster in truth and that she planned to cage him for the greater good. She’d built a dungeon to contain him. Now she just had to find a way to lure him there.

Of course, Kyra couldn’t just put on a sexy outfit and pick
up the hydra in a random nightclub again. He’d be wary of strangers now, and twice as dangerous.

Fading so that none of the mortals could see her, Kyra made her way to the funeral home. That’s where inspiration struck. Marco’s ex-girlfriend made only a brief appearance—just long enough to express her condolences to the family. Long enough for Kyra to study her face and memorize its shape.

Ashlynn Brown wasn’t the sort of woman that Kyra would’ve expected to find in Marco’s past. The hydra was a fierce warrior; she’d discovered that from painful firsthand experience. So how had he ever cared for someone so delicate? With doe eyes and fawn hair, the woman looked as if she were ready to bolt at the first sign of unpleasantness. It’d be tricky to impersonate such a meek woman, but it was the best idea Kyra had.

Kyra waited until Ashlynn left, then took on her appearance, right down to the prim black dress. The soft eyes, the rosy skin, and the wavy hair that could not seem to commit to being either light or dark. She even disguised her peridot choker as Ashlynn’s classic string of pearls.

The hydra might
trust
Ashlynn. He might go home with Kyra if she looked like Ashlynn. Then she could lock him up in the basement dungeon she’d built and Daddy would never find him.

Marco knew that funerals were for the living, so the least he owed his family was to show up wearing the face his mother recognized. Consequently, he eschewed all disguises and made his way down the funeral home’s hallway in a dark suit and overcoat, bracing for the inevitable reunion; he just didn’t expect it to be with Ashlynn Brown.

His ex was sitting on a polished wood bench by herself. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and she still dressed like a society girl, but there
was
something different about her, if only he could put his finger on it. Perhaps it was
the confident tilt of her shoulders and the alluring smile. Or maybe it was the way she looked at him like he was some kind of hard candy she wanted to suck.
No
. That was the look the angel of death in Naples had given him, just before she tried to kill him. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Ashlynn stood to greet him, a bouquet in her hands. “So sorry about your father.”

If they’d been anywhere else, he’d have brushed past her without a word. Ashlynn Brown belonged to another part of his life. Another life entirely. Still, it was his father’s funeral, and she’d been good enough to come, so he fumbled for a polite reply. All he came up with was, “Asphodel?”

Ashlynn seemed to suddenly remember the white lilies in her hand. “Oh! They’re for your father. I’m told it’s an old Greek tradition.”

“Very old.” In one of her saner moments, his mother told him that ancient Greeks used to plant asphodel on the graves of their ancestors to nourish them in the underworld. But Ashlynn had never been interested in his family’s ethnic heritage, so this was an entirely unexpected gesture. “Thank you…”

“Can we go for coffee, Marco? After, I mean?”

It was a spectacularly bad idea. The funeral dredged up enough bad feelings without adding a trip down memory lane to the equation. He’d only come to pay his respects and comfort his mother; then he planned to leave the country. There was a storm coming, and he had a jet waiting under an assumed identity in Toronto. But in spite of everything, the way Ashlynn looked at him, the way she seemed to look
into
him, made it hard to refuse.

Damn it.
He was
over
Ashlynn Brown. He hadn’t thought of her for years. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually been in love with her when they were engaged, so why should he feel a pull toward her now? After all this time, he couldn’t imagine what
they’d even have to say to each other, but bless her shallow little heart, Ashlynn might be the only person from his past still willing to speak to him.

“Sure, why not?” he found himself saying.

H
is father’s casket was white. An oddly fitting color. White was stark and cold, intolerant of any blemish. Just like his father had been. And yet, Marco didn’t resent the old man. His father had fled from war-torn Cyprus with his wife and child in tow. He’d lived a difficult life, and Marco hadn’t made things any easier.
I’m sorry,
Marco thought, reaching out to touch the dead man’s cold hand. But his father couldn’t give him forgiveness now; he wasn’t really here.

Grief tightened in Marco’s chest. It hurt so badly, he stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. Just then, his sister, Lori, marched to his side, and after ten years, the first words his sister spoke to him face-to-face were, “You shouldn’t be here.”

She’d lost weight; her face had become all sharp angles, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. He supposed he hadn’t made her life any easier, either. “Lori, can we not do this now? It’s a funeral.”

“He didn’t want to see you even when he knew he was
dying,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Why would he want you here now?”

Marco had resolved not to fight with Lori today, so he clenched his teeth instead.

“Unless…” His sister’s tone lightened with hope. “Have you given up…what you do?”

“I can’t,” he ground out. “I’ve told you before, there are people whose lives depend on me.”

His sister sniffled. “Then why are you here?”

“Because he was my father, too,” Marco said, desperate for a cigarette.

His sister softened and turned into his arms with a sob. He kissed the top of her head, but the tenderness of their reunion was broken the moment she felt his holster. “You’re wearing a
gun?
” Lori whispered furiously. “Don’t you know everyone’s watching you?”

Marco had been in such a grief-stricken stupor he’d hardly noticed the other mourners. Now he realized there was a staring crowd. Were they waiting for him to cry? Or were they watching him because of his notoriety? Even if people didn’t know exactly what Marco did for a living, there were rumors. “Bet he’s in the mob,” he thought he heard someone whisper, and he had to restrain a dark and bitter laugh. Their imaginations just weren’t fertile enough.

As the wind outside rattled the funeral-home windows, every eye seemed to settle on the expensive sunglasses that dangled from the pocket of his tailored suit. Every glance felt like judgment, except for one. Ashlynn was there, like some kind of beacon in the midst of a sea storm. As if she had some kind of innate understanding of his mourning. And when their eyes met briefly across the crowd, it unexpectedly steadied him. At least, until he saw his mother sitting by herself. “Ma?”

“Oh, Marco, I’ve been waiting
hours
to see the doctor,”
his mother said in Greek. “Can’t you speak to a nurse about moving up my appointment?”

She didn’t know where she was. Maybe she didn’t even know her husband was dead. Marco tried to smile, tried not to alarm her, but he couldn’t make himself do it. “How are you feeling, Ma?”

“I’m so sad,” his mother said, her scarred cheeks drooping. “I’m always so sad.”

When he was a boy, she used to say, “I left my smile in Cyprus.” He never understood until he was a soldier. Until he saw for himself how ethnic fighting splintered communities, broke nations and stole the happiness of the survivors. Now, from her wheelchair, his mother reached for his hand. “It’s so dark Marco. It’s black as night.”

But it wasn’t. The darkness was inside his mother’s mind, and Marco felt it creeping into his own. “I’m sorry about Dad.”

“I’m frightened,” his mother said, her voice rising in terror. “I’m frightened. I can’t find my way!” She lifted her hands, clawing at her face as she retreated back into that shadowy place of madness.

Marco caught his mother’s wrists and called for Lori, but Ashlynn got there first. She stooped down and gently took his mother’s hands from his. “It’s not that dark, Mrs. Kaisaris. If you just look at me, I’ll guide you.”

Marco wanted to push Ashlynn away. This was none of her business and she should stay out of it. But his mother stopped struggling. “Oh, the light,” his mother murmured and in that moment, Marco thought he saw something flicker over the old woman’s scarred features. Something like…
grace
. “But you’re—you’re not Ashlynn, dear.”

“Of course she’s Ashlynn,” Marco said.

As a teenager, his ex had always been polite about his mother’s illness, but shied away from her, as if madness were contagious. Now, Ashlynn let his mother grip her hands like
they were a lifeline, and didn’t pull away even when the older woman’s nails dug into her skin. “Ma, let Ashlynn go,” he said quietly. “You’re hurting her.”

“It’s all right,” Ashlynn said. “She’s hurting worse than I am.”

Lori pushed forward with a bottle of pills and his mother’s nurse in tow. “Both of you get away from her,” his sister said, glaring at Marco as if he’d caused his mother’s outburst. Ironically, it was the one damned thing he didn’t feel guilty about today.

“You’re okay now, aren’t you, Ma?” Marco asked. “I’m right here with you.”

“Please,” Lori said, acidly. “She doesn’t even know who you are. On the days she remembers you, she tells the doctors that her son was a soldier, a
peacekeeper.
And you know what breaks my heart, Marco? She sounds proud. Ma’s mind is so far gone she doesn’t have any idea that you’ve become some kind of mercenary.”

He shouldn’t have this argument. Not now. Not again. Not here where everyone was listening. But being home again was opening every old wound. “I’m not a
mercenary,
” he hissed, voice low. “It’s not like I sell weapons to the highest bidder. I
choose sides
in the world.”

Lori just shook her head, angry tears in her eyes. “But nobody elected you to choose sides, Marco.”

“The people we
elected
are doing a shitty job of it!” Marco wanted to slam something. He wanted to kick over chairs, or crash the floral displays to the floor. It was only Ashlynn’s hand on his arm that calmed him and gave him the presence of mind to fish a check from his coat pocket. “Here, take it.”

That’s when Lori realized it was a check. “I don’t want your money,” Lori snapped.

Marco took a deep breath. “Funerals are expensive.
You can’t afford it with the house, and mom, and the restaurant—”

“Your money is
blood money,
Marco. I think you should go.”

And, for once, his sister was right.