And thus had begun the curse of her people, as Stryker had made a bargain with an Atlantean goddess to save his family from his father’s curse.
“Apollo had a Greek mistress that caused his Apollite lover-queen to become jealous, as she felt betrayed by him because her own son had died. Or so she thought … The queen didn’t know that her son had lived because Apollo had spared him. That Stryker had been taken from her womb so that he could be safely raised by his father in Greece, with a surrogate mother. So when Apollo fathered another son with his Greek whore, she sent out her soldiers to murder Apollo’s mistress and child. Only the Apollite queen didn’t have the backbone to stand by her decree. Rather, she told them to make it appear as if an animal had ravaged them—as if a god couldn’t figure out the truth. Tells you exactly what kind of moron my grandmother was, and I shudder over the fact that I share genes with that brainiac.”
Medea growled and rolled her eyes over the nature of people’s jealous idiocy. “Anyway, in anger over their murders, Apollo cursed not only Stryker’s real queenly mother and her soldiers who’d actually done the deed, but every single member of the race he’d created—my people, including my father and mother because he totally forgot that they shared her blood—to die at the age of his mistress. We were given the fangs of an animal and forced to seek our only sustenance from each other’s blood, as no other food could nourish us ever again. We are banned from the sunlight Apollo’s known for so that he will never have to endure the sight of one of us again. And if that wasn’t enough punishment, on our twenty-seventh birthday we wither away and decay into dust in the most painful way you can imagine.”
“That’s horrible!” she breathed.
“It is, indeed.” More so because she was Apollo’s own grandchild—his very flesh and blood—and the rotten bastard had spared none of them his wrath. Not her. Not Urian or any of his brothers or other sister.
Nor Stryker, Apollo’s own son.
All of them had been damned by the god’s anger for something they’d had no part in or any ability to stop. They hadn’t even lived in Atlantis at the time the queen had done it.
How Medea hated Apollo for his vindictive cruelty.
For that matter, they all did. For a god of prophecy, he’d proved very short-sighted, indeed.
“I’m so sorry, Medea.”
She shrugged. “I got over it. Besides, I was six when he cursed us. I barely remember life before that day.”
“You don’t eat food?”
She shook her head.
Brogan fell silent for a moment. “But if you were to die at twenty-seven and you’re not a Daimon now, how is it that you’re still alive?”
“A bargain my mother made for my life.”
Sadness turned Brogan’s eyes a vivid purple. “Tell me of a mother who so loves her child. Is she beautiful? Wondrous?”
Medea nodded. “Beyond words.” She pulled the locket from her neck and held it out to Brogan so that she could see the picture she had of her mother. “Her name is Zephyra.”
“Like the wind?”
“Yes. Her eyes are black now, but when I was a girl, they were a most vivid, breathtaking green.”
Brogan fingered the photo with a sad smile tugging at the edges of her lips. “You admire her.”
“She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known. And I love her for it.”
Closing the locket, she handed it back to Medea. “She looks like you.”
“Thank you. But I think she’s a lot more beautiful.” Medea returned it to her neck. “What of your mother?”
A tear fell down her cheek. “My mother sold me to the Black Crom when I was ten and three. If she ever loved me, she never once showed it.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wiping at her cheek, she drew a ragged breath. “It’s not so bad. She sold my siblings to much worse. At least I had Sight. Had I been born without anything, my fate would have been…” She winced as if she couldn’t bring herself to say more about it.
“What exactly is the Black Crom?” Medea asked, trying to distract her from the horror that lingered in the back of those lavender eyes.
“A headless Death Rider who seeks the souls of the damned or the cursed.”
Medea jumped at Falcyn’s voice in her ear.
“A kerling can sing to them to offer up a sacrifice before battle. Or summon them for a particular victim.”
“Can,” Brogan said, lifting her chin defiantly. There was something about her, fiery and brave. “But I don’t. I hate the Crom. He springs from Annwn to claim the souls of his victims with a whip made from the bony spines of cowards. He rides a pale horse with luminescent eyes that can incinerate the guilty and innocent alike should they happen upon him and stare into them. None are safe in his path. To the very pit with him and his insanity. I’ve no use for the likes of that beast. You’ve no idea what it’s like to live in its shadow. Subject to its pitiless whims.”
Though she’d just met her, Medea felt horrible for the woman. “Can you be freed?”
She shook her head. “Not even death can free me, as I am bound to him for all eternity. What’s done is done. I only want to be released from this realm so that I’m no longer used by the d?kkálfar for their schemes where he’s concerned.”
“Used how?” There was no missing the suspicion in Falcyn’s tone.
“They can bargain with the Crom for my services, and when they do so, I have no choice except to give them whatever it is they’ve contracted for. I’ve no say whatsoever in the matter.”
Medea grimaced at the nightmare she described. “Will that change once you leave here?”
“It will weaken their hold over me. Aye.”
Suddenly, Brogan stopped moving.
Medea became instantly nervous at a look she was starting to recognize. “Is something wrong?”
“We’re approaching the porch,” she whispered.
“Is that bad?”
She didn’t answer the question except to say, “The Crom is here.”
5
“So that’s a Crom.…” Medea felt her jaw go slack as she caught sight of the massive glowing horseman. At first, he appeared headless. Until she realized that his head was formed by mist at the end of the spiny whip he wielded as he rode. The white horse was giant in size … almost as large as a Mack truck. An awful stench of sulfur permeated the cavern, choking her and sticking in her throat as if it had been created from thorns.
Even more disconcerting, the baying horse made the sound of twenty echoing beasts. And its hooves were thunderous—like an approaching train. The sounds reverberated through her, rattling her very bones.
“I won’t do it!” Brogan shouted. “I refuse you!”
The horse reared as the Crom cracked its whip in the air. Fire shot out from the whip’s tip as more thunder echoed.
Unfazed and with fists clenched at her sides, Brogan stood stubbornly between them and the Crom. “Beat me all you like. I will not give you that power. Not again! Not over my newfound friends!”
“What’s going on?” Medea asked.