South of Surrender (Hearts of the Anemoi) (11 page)

She paused in the middle of the staircase and smiled down at him. “Yeah?”

“After your nap, I was wondering…how are you with a pair of scissors?”

Chapter Eleven

Chrysander could only hope that the god he was about to visit would offer the help he needed.

Passing over his father’s ancestral citadel in Aeolia—yet again devoid of his energy signature—Chrys soared in over the Aegean Sea. The island of Lemnos, now a part of modern-day Greece, took shape in the distance. It was the part-time residence of Hephaestus, god of metallurgy, technology, and craftsmanship. He was the blacksmith to the gods, the maker of all of Olympus’s finest equipment and weaponry, and the father of manufacturing and industry. If anyone could help Chrys with Laney’s roof, it was Hephaestus. In fact, there was no one more
over
qualified to help.

Only potential snag? He was the estranged son of Zeus and Hera, Olympus’s royal and most holy couple—and signers of Eurus’s death warrant. Chrys was hoping the “estranged” part would cover his butt.

Coming in over the flat expanse of island, Chrys spotted tell-tale plumes of smoke in the distance, where the land turned rougher and more mountainous. Triumph roared through him. Hephaestus’s forge, and the smoke, confirmed he was here rather than at his more impressive palace and workshop on Olympus. He’d taken a chance coming here. Now he just hoped that luck held out.

The god’s compound wound around the base of a mountain. Chrys materialized in a traditional tunic a moderate distance from an ornate iron gate and made his approach on foot. Armored guards blocked his passage.

“I am Notos, Supreme God of the South Wind and Summer and Cardinal Anemoi. I humbly seek council with your master.”

“You are received,” the guards said in unison. They clicked heels and pivoted, creating a space through which he could pass. The gates seemingly opened automatically.

Hephaestus’s power radiated from the forge, making it clear where Chrys would find him. The workshop was a huge complex of buildings and workspaces mostly hidden behind a sprawling villa. A smith’s hammer clanked out a steady beat near the tall, pyramidal furnace stack that sat at one end. And that’s where he found Hephaestus, bent over his anvil.

Chrys took a knee and bowed his head.

Several minutes later, the hammering stopped. “Notos. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I request a favor, my lord.”

“Of course you do. Well, rise and let’s hear it, then.” His tone was gruff, but his grey eyes shone with curiosity when Chrys met his gaze.

“I need to right a wrong, and I was hoping you could spare a few of your artisans to assist me. It would be the work of no more than a few days.” Chrys explained the nature of the project.

“And why should I do this for you?” Hephaestus limped around his anvil and eased his hunched frame down onto a bench.

Chrys made sure not to stare at the god’s gnarled hands and twisted feet, for which he’d often been ridiculed and shunned. Being Zeus’s son offered him no protection in that regard. After all, Zeus had exiled him from Olympus for the very same reason. Or so it was rumored. Far as Chrys was concerned though, the dude was totally badass with a hammer, anvil, and a pair of tongs, so more power to him. “It will help me protect someone in danger. And I know there is no one more qualified to help.”

“Bah! Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Notos. Who is in danger?”

“A human. A woman. I crashed through her roof, and she braved a fierce storm to tend to me, despite the fact she cannot see.”

Hephaestus’s head tilted. “She’s blind?” He stroked his dark beard.

“Nearly so, yes,” he said, hope flaring. Hook, line, and—

“Hmph.” Hephaestus rose, a movement that took obvious effort, and retrieved his hammer. Spinning it in his hand, he said, “And what does all this have to do with the death sentence on your eastern brother’s head I’ve been hearing about?”

Tread carefully.
“Nothing and everything,” he hedged.

The god chuckled. “Oh, this is juicy, isn’t it?” He picked up a poker, one end a scorching red, and hobbled toward Chrys. “The Anemoi golden boy. Isn’t that what they say? His father’s perfect son. Perfect face. Perfect body. Has his pick of the women. And the men.” He tilted the business end of the poker close.

Chrys didn’t flinch. At this point, what was one more scar? He grabbed the neck of his tunic and wrenched it apart. “I was far from perfect even before all this,” he said of the multitude of marks carved into his skin. “But to make the point.”

Hephaestus’s gaze scanned over the remnants of Chrys’s injuries. The one above his right pec, where he’d been skewered by the lightning, remained an angry red, the skin a twisted, ruined landscape.

The god plunged the poker into a barrel of water, setting off a sharp hiss as the red-hot end submerged.

He turned away, his steps slow and halting as he returned to his anvil. He dropped the hammer on top and continued toward the back wall, where tools of every manner hung in a long row. “I can give you two men for three days. And whatever materials you need, they will supply.” Chrys resisted a fist pump. From his pocket, Hephaestus produced a ring of keys. After a moment of searching, he opened a drawer on a hidden cabinet.

“Thank you. That’s incredibly generous.”

He selected an item and slammed the drawer. “Yes, it is. But this is even more so.”

Chrys traversed the distance between them, wanting to save him the trouble of crossing the workshop again. “My lord?”

From his large fist, he released a small object bound on a leather cord. A charm? “For your blind human,” he said. He spun the larger object in his hand, then offered it, handle out. Chrys wrapped his hand around the fine grip. A dagger. The blade was fierce and gleamed in the firelight of the forge. “For you, to protect against whoever has done this to you.” He gestured to Chrys’s still bare chest. “These should even the odds a bit. The pieces are made of infernal iron, excavated from the pits of Tartarus by the damned.”

Stunned, and hope flaring more than it had in weeks, Chrys cut his gaze to the god.

“If it breaks the skin, this iron is poisonous to a god. A strike of the blade will incapacitate. A hit to the heart will kill. When worn against the skin, the amulet will protect the wearer and serve as a temporary ward against divine power. Use them wisely.”

…

Chrysander circled in on Laney’s farm, making sure Seth was gone before he materialized. The only life forms besides Laney’s belonged to her animals. He entered her living room and shifted into his corporeal form. His gaze immediately found Laney, asleep on the couch. Finn lay curled in a ball at her feet. He lifted his head, gave a few half-hearted tail wags, then rolled onto his side.

Her heat drew him closer.

The silky sprawl of Laney’s ebony hair, the porcelain smoothness of her skin kissed with a hit of pink on her cheeks and nose, the red rose of her lips. Absolutely beautiful. His gaze scanned down. He drank in the swell of her chest, his mind unhelpfully supplying the image of her lace-cupped breasts when he’d healed her burn. Lower, her legs stretched out, bandages surrounding her left shin. Sooner or later, he was going to heal her there, too. The desire to do so burned in his gut.

So much he couldn’t make right. This, he could.

Standing next to the couch, the urge to touch her made Chrys curl his fingers into a fist. How odd, for him. Yet… He gave in and reached out, stroked his knuckles over her cheek. She turned into his touch, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

Chrys eased onto his knees. He dragged a fingertip over her bottom lip. So soft. The scent of warm oranges drew him in. He leaned down, coming closer, closer. He pressed his lips to her forehead. Lingered.

Laney sucked in a breath, her head tilting back until her body was in a full-out stretch. “Mmm, Chrys,” she mumbled.

He pulled away and smiled. Still asleep. Could she be dreaming of him?

Her lips dropped open and her body moved sinuously against the soft cushions. She moaned quietly.

The sound wrapped itself around Chrys’s cock, had him wanting to trap her body against the couch with his.

“Laney,” he said. “Wake up.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Laney?” A strand of white hair caught his attention. Looking more closely, he realized it wasn’t hair, but a wire that led to an ear piece. He tugged it from her ear and pressed his lips in close. “Miss Summerlyn, it’s time to wake up.”

She gasped and flew half into a sitting position.

“Hey, hey.” He chuckled. “It’s me.”

“Shit,” she said, pressing her hand against her chest. “You suck. Stop doing that.” She flopped back against the pillow and tossed a hand over her head. “What time is it?”

“About six.”

“I was having the strangest dream.”

“Strange, huh? You said
my
name.”

She shook her head, as if the strands of the dream still clung tight. “I only remember this man who glowed like you and said he was giving me the gift of sight. But even after he gave it to me, I still couldn’t see.”

Chrys nodded, the dream making him wonder… “Do you wish for your sight back?” When she hesitated, he wanted to kick himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay.” She sat up higher against the pillow and played with the hem of her shorts for a minute. “You know. I used to. When my vision first started going and I was bumping into things and getting lost in places I’d known my whole life, I definitely wished it wasn’t happening to me. When you get news like that, it’s just like going through the whole grieving process.” She shrugged. “But after a while, you adjust, because, what’s your choice? To fight something you can’t change forever?”

The words hit closer to home than Chrys ever would’ve expected. Fighting something he couldn’t change was
exactly
what he’d been doing. Not just this summer, but for as long as he could remember. The more he realized she’d accomplished something he’d long failed to do, the more pride in her roared through him.

“Are you always this brave?” he asked.

Her eyes went wide. “God, I don’t know. I didn’t feel brave while I was in the middle of it.”

He imagined her coming out in the storm that night to take care of a creature that had fallen through her roof. “Well, I think you are.” She fidgeted under his gaze, and he took mercy on her and changed the topic. “Still up for a trip?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears and turned toward him. “Where?”

“My nephew’s house in Fairfax.”

Both brows reached for her hairline. “Fairfax, Virginia? That’s almost three hours from here. Maybe more, depending on traffic.”

This trip wouldn’t involve cars. Or traffic. Or their physical bodies. This wasn’t a part of himself he usually shared with his human consorts, though, so he wasn’t sure how much to explain. “It won’t take that long, I promise.”

“You never know what the bridge traffic will be.” She swung her legs to the floor, her thigh brushing against the outside of his hip. “I so rarely go anywhere. And I’d like to meet your nephew. So…okay.” She twisted her fingers together. “Is he an Anemoi, too?”

“No. Owen’s a snow god. Demigod, now. He’s my oldest brother’s son.”

“Snow god. Right.” Laney shook her head. “And will your brothers be there?”

“Two of them.”

She frowned. “Not the one you fought with, though?”

“No.” The thought of her and Eurus in the same room again, especially now, was like ice crawling down his spine.

“Okay. Do I have time to shower?”

“Uh.” Bare skin. Streaming water. Hot steam. The images shot arousal hard and fast through his body. “No problem.”

She tilted her head. “You sure?”

His erection strained against his jeans and demanded he volunteer to wash her back. “Yeah.”

“‘Kay.” She stood and crossed the room. Finn jumped down and followed her.

Chrys tugged himself up onto the couch and fell back against the cushion, which smelled of her summery scent and still held her warmth. Groaning, he adjusted himself, but his mind remained hyper-aware of the fact that, just down the hall, she was getting naked. The whine of the plumbing sounded out from the back of the house.

Now she’s naked
and
wet
.

For fuck’s sake.

He was just on edge. Focused as he’d been all summer on the situation with Eurus, he hadn’t allowed himself the usual opportunities to release some of the heat and energy his godhood generated at the height of his season. It was part of the reason the weather had been so volatile. But next to the problem of his brother’s imminent death, dipping his wick hadn’t seemed a priority.

That’s not what these feelings for Laney are about.

Sure it is
.

Really, dipshit? Then why are you so compelled to touch her all the damn time?

Chrys shoved off the couch. Great. Now the voices in his head were arguing with each other.

At loose ends and far too wound up to do anything but pace, Chrys wandered around her space. He was careful not to disturb anything—he didn’t want to move something from its careful placement. Horse figurines filled a corner cabinet in the living room. Pictures lined the big mantle. A much younger Laney with Sappho. Laney with a group of kids. Several with an older, white-haired man. None of or with people that looked to be her parents’ ages. None with men she appeared to be close to. He frowned. Except for one on the end of her and Seth sitting on top of a fence rail, arms around one another, heads tilted close.

“Hey, Chrys?” she called from her room.

He stepped to the head of the hallway. And was immediately awash in her scent, made more potent from the warmth and dampness of her skin and hair. Oh, fuck. “Yeah?”

Dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, she dropped her gaze and shifted her feet. “Do you think you could, um, help me with the bandages? I can do it, but you could do it faster.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I just figured—”

Chrys was in motion, the offer to touch, to help, to ease too much to resist. “Of course.” He stopped in front of her, and the heat rolling off her brought his cock back to life. “I have a better idea, though.”

She tilted her head back. “What’s that?”