14. Nat

14

Nat

girls’ day out? Butterfly knife

“I look …”

“Fucking awful,” Meda finishes, saving any negative thoughts from swirling around my head. If her feet could make any noise, I guarantee I’d hear them tapping a hole in the carpet. “How do you normally do it?”

How do I normally curl my hair?

I meet her scowl with one of my own. “I don’t. I’m a warrior, not a pageant queen.”

I’d hardly finished showering when the Blackguard’s master thief snuck into my room and started dumping tiny zippered bags onto the bed. Products and tools and creams and oils tumbling out.

That’d been hours ago.

Hours spent prepping and peeling and priming and prodding.

Miserable hours.

Fighting. Rolling in the dirt, drenched by rain, I’d felt better than I had in days, weeks. A bit like myself.

I’d felt so good with Sin I’d had to threaten him should my restraint fail.

And now …

I rub at the twin pockets of red on my cheeks as Meda curses and pries yet another curler from my hair. In unison, we watch the shiny brown tendril flop into a lone bent wave.

Her lips press together, and her shoulders deflate. “Can Furies do magic?”

“If I had magic, I’d teach Cerberus to brush her teeth, not wish for curly hair. So it’s straight. Who cares?”

“Males.” She cranks the iron up to max heat. “Males about their prizes. They want us to be something impossible, an unnatural force of nature as a display to our deference for them, and the occult magic of being female. They want curled black hair straight and glossy, and they want straight brown hair in impossible huge waves.”

I frown. “I do not bend for males.”

She laughs without smiling and removes the other dozen rollers. “Tonight you must.”

Standing beside the mirror, she pinches my chin to face me, her piercing amber eyes rival the bronze of Megaera’s shield. Her aura is a milky black, thick and gooey and encasing her small frame. “In my experience, it helps to remind yourself of the absurdity of it and claw deeper. Laugh when things aren’t funny, gasp before the punchline, maybe even flirt with someone you detest.”

“Tell me you’ve never done this.”

Another short, harsh laugh. “You’d be surprised what some of us have done,” she murmurs, words taking on a wistful quality.

I try to imagine the sole female honored by the late king, changing herself to meet the desires of a male.

In her metal studded boots, the oversized t-shirts and addiction to sweatpants, she delivers fuck you, I’m doing what I want energy in an extremely Erinyes manner.

Though instead of stabbing you, she seems more inclined to steal your identity.

Her reflection meets mine. A rueful smile settles on her lips. “I knew all their rules. The etiquette, the dances, the way to laugh just so at their insipid jokes. I became one of them, inside and out.”

“I fear I should’ve prepared differently.”

Like instead of spending yesterday training and running and gorging on Zeke’s homemade breadsticks, I should’ve deep dived fake it ’til you make it sorority pledge initiations.

“We’ll just have to put it up,” she decides, gathering my hair in her hands.

I grab her wrist. “Don’t. It’s—” I stop, admit sourly. “I don’t like it up.”

“It’ll look better with the dress.”

I reach for a nearby knife. “I said no.” I reach for a nearby knife.

“Fine. Jeez, you psycho,” Meda grumbles, tossing a length of satin at my lap. “Put this on or you’ll be late.”

I rush to change in the bathroom, feeling guilty for being so harsh when all she’s done is help. As I slip into the red pin thin straps of the dress, I call out, “I look like a warrior. You don’t.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

I pop my head through the door. “No, I mean, you’re gorgeous, and a warrior on top of it. I am only a warrior. Built and bred to be one. My hair, it … it’s the only thing that’s not a warrior’s.”

Amber eyes soften. “We always want what we can’t have. I’d do nasty, violent things for legs as long as yours.”

“Maybe we’re no better than the males.”

“No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “We are. Definitely. You know they just assumed I’d be the one to doll you up? As if I had hair and nails training while they were in strategy sessions.” She threads a sparkly bottle to me through the gap in the door. “We are so much better than them. Slather this on your legs and arms.”

It’s an oil. Wildflower scented, and it shimmers over my skin. I twirl in the mirror, watching it sparkle and wonder if dolled up isn’t the right phrase for it.

Dolls are cute and innocent. They giggle and host tea parties in oversized ruffles and bonnets.

I look more inclined to poison your tea than serve it with sugar, and for once, it’s not my doing.

Meda’s painted me to rival one of Jason’s Sirens, deadly and mesmerizing.

Pinks and tan powders enhance the softness of my face, giving the illusion of a dimension on my round face.

Two sweeping lines of Lapis blue cascade across my eyelids, ending in fantastic sinister points, and my lips are painted with a matte red deeper and richer than mortal blood.

At home, my battle armor is gleaming gold, strategically outfitted with impenetrable chunks of topaz at the heart, elbows, and throat.

It’s not a popular choice.

Gold is weak, dents and draws the eye, and despite its flaws, I adore it. The shine of it in the river’s surface as I tear through souls.

This dress has me considering a change.

Liquid silver that licks along my skin, outlining every firm muscle in my stomach, my thighs. The blunt cut across my chest mimics a breastplate that may be considered fierce if it weren’t for the thigh high split running up my legs and the excess drape of the skirts pooled at my ankles.

“It’s possible,” I say, hiking up the material, and stomping out of the bathroom, “That for the first time since the birth of chaos, a male is actually right. You’re good at this.”

Meda’s smug expression is identical to what I would expect on Sin, and I get the vague impression anyone exalted by the Great King could manage such confidence.

“Of course I am,” she says, fingers rooting through my nightstand. “The thing is, they shouldn’t have assumed in the first place just because I’m a female. I don’t assume they cry at the end of Miracle just because they’re males. I play it and shine a flashlight on them during the credits to be sure there’s not a dry eye.”

“Naturally.”

“Then mock them mercilessly,” she adds wryly. “You should try it when you get home. Nothing tips the scales of masculinity like an immortal sob fest.”

“All Erinyes are female.”

She makes a low, thirsty sound in her chest. “Take me with you. I’m begging.”

The first immortal to actually long to visit the Underworld.

Though she’s not exactly immortal, is she?

Born mortal, granted powers and longevity in exchange for her loyalty.

I tuck my hair over my shoulders, a last nod in the mirror, and step out for inspection. “It’s great,” I tell her, “But it’s also a lot of triple-A batteries.”

Another sharp laugh as she slams the drawer shut. “I bet—holy fuckers I’m good.”

I give her a fun little spin, the sound of fabric whispering against my skin like the soft hiss of a simmering fire. “Is it on backwards?” I ask, watching the silver shine. “Because it’s hard to tell. There’s no tag.”

“I cut it out.”

The rumbling admission puts an immediate stop to my twirl.

Sin’s lips are drawn into a half-smirk, amethyst eyes dancing with mischief as he soaks in every inch of me. His elbow are pressed into the doorjamb, body lean and relaxed, head ducked to keep from hitting the frame. The stance exudes confidence and power, as if he knows just how he looks in black.

Like a God.

A vision of darkness and allure that sets my pulse racing.

He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored leather that clings to his muscular frame. The onyx blend of the jacket is only made darker by the swirl of his aura and the thick tattoo poking from behind his burgundy undershirt. At his waist, his belt is buckled with a flat silver design, but the telltale signs of loaded sheaths tip it at an angle.

Armed.

The realization sends a flutter through me as my gaze travels down to his long, powerful legs encased in perfectly taut leather pants that taper elegantly to his ankles. Gleaming boots, polished to a mirror shine, complete the look of a male who exudes raw masculine power, only tempered by sleek sophistication.

Yet it’s his eyes that truly captivate me—those piercing, intelligent eyes that seem to see straight into my immortal soul.

They shine like tumbled purple garnet, deep color alight with a wicked gleam of humor and seduction.

Heat creeps up my neck.

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, slicing apart the insane urge to smooth my hair and twirl for him.

His attention roves up and down my body, a swallow working in his throat. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, darling.”

“Then you should’ve given me pants.”

“And force the rest of us to suffer?” he teases, “Not very altruistic. Aren’t your thoughts supposed to be pure as snow?”

Meda snort-laughs, and under her breath I catch, what gave you that idea?

There’s Erinyes in her blood.

Has to be.

At least a drop.

I firm my lip. “Ridding the realm of you only has upsides.”

It’s the truth.

Isn’t it?

“My dear Nymph,” Sin taunts, extending a bejeweled hand toward me. “Your chariot awaits.”

The soft, pliable, completely unfamiliar and alien part of me imagines slipping her fingers into his and being whisked away.

The mere thought of compliance makes me rebel twice as hard.

I want to squirm. I want to stomp. I want to rip the towels off the hooks and fashion a robe the virgins of Apollo would consider prudish.

“Why must you take me?” I ask, avoiding his hand. “Drake’s as much male as you. He can be my escort.”

“Yeah, Sin,” Meda taunts, fluffing my hair to lie over my shoulders. “Who’d want you ?”

She receives a flash of teeth from Sin, while I’m delivered a relentless smirk. “It’s cliché, darling, to pick the silent brooder over worldly charmer guaranteed to satisfy.”

Meda rolls into a ball of laughter.

I glare at the both of them, pick up my skirts, stomp to the main living room and shout, “Drake!”

“Oh yes,” Sin coos, hot on my trail. “Let’s get Drake in here, shall we? Then he can explain why he shudders at the mere concept of touching you.”

It hurts to hear.

But I find good in the insult.

A reminder that Sin believes me to be abhorrent, a menace, a beast.

That the admiration on the hillside—that was for his sake, for our partnership.

“Perfect. I don’t want to be touched.”

“And I don’t want to be grabbed and admired and begged for, but we’ve both got beds to lie in, haven’t we? Hurry up.”

He picks up a pair of shoes by the door and sticks them out to me with a cheeky grin.

I stare at the ridiculous clownish stilettos in disbelief. Where did Meda even find these monstrosities?

Theia searched once. Heels in a size eleven, extra wide.

Don’t exist.

I hold them at arm’s length, afraid they might grow snakes like Hermes’ caduceus. Drag a disdainful eye to Sin. “Yes, you’re making such a sacrifice in your fighting leathers.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes dropping to my lips. “Fucking leathers, actually. No buttons, just zips. There’s something so erotic about the catch of teeth, don’t you think?”

“Of course you have a biting fetish.”

“You started it, dove.”

I gesture toward Lev who’s posted at the kitchen island making a sandwich out of half a chicken, hair in gnarly braids down his back. “What about him? He can escort me.”

The mob boss jerks up in surprise. “Uh …”

“It has to be me,” Sin interrupts, knocking my fingers from the strap of the heels and taking my ankle in his grip, planting my extended leg on the wall.

“Such balance,” he murmurs, securing the strap with practiced ease. “Are you flexible as well?”

“I could kill you four ways right now.”

“Hard to believe you’ve got a weapon strapped under there.”

“I am the weapon.”

His eyes light up, sweeping over my face. A smile tugs at his mouth, and he releases my leg abruptly and I struggle to maintain my balance on the tiny point of the heel, teetering.

He catches me.

It’s humiliating.

He smells decadent.

The same rich scent as one of Theia’s man candles. It’d have some ludicrous name. Black Cask Study. Stormy Night War. Starless Park.

His fingertips run along my arms, my waist, down to my knee, grasping and lifting it to slot over his hip. “No, you’re not,” he whispers fiercely. “Not tonight at least. Tonight, you are mine, and I am your weapon. Tonight, you will be the envy of every creature, and until we locate the Phoenix—”

“Theia,” I correct, meeting his intense stare.

He tightens his grip on me to near bruising. “Until then, you will be nothing more than a body to be enjoyed. The only reason your mouth should open is to inspire fantasy or serve as an invitation.”

I thrash at the swell of heat and interest and craving building in my veins. “I should’ve killed you with Oberlin.”

His lips curl. “Can’t say you didn’t try, sweetheart.”

We hang there in a moment of open hostility, his hands warm and wide on my bare leg and the small of my back, his breath faintly smelling of mulled wine on my cheek.

It shouldn’t entice.

It doesn’t.

But I am intrigued.

Dozens of what ifs jamming into my thoughts. What if I leaned forward? What if I threatened him again, what if I wanted wine too?

“What about Atlas?” I ask, less demanding, more pleading. “Or the mortal, he’s handsome enough.”

Sin’s jaw clenches at the mention of the other males.

“It has to be him,” Atlas says from behind us. “Though I’m flattered by the suggestion.” The Blackguard leader doesn’t smile, he doesn’t emote, midnight blue eyes scanning over Sin, who hasn’t ceased clutching me. One onyx brow lifts. “You two getting along?”

My vehement “no” comes at the same time as Sin’s adamant “Yes.”

We glare.

Neither of us letting go.

Atlas’s words filter between us like a cooling balm. “Sin is best suited for this mission.”

“Because he’s a whore?” I guess.

It’s as good as detonation.

Sin drops my leg, steps back, and I push off him in turn, staggering to balance.

“No,” Atlas says slowly. “Because he’s charming and refined and, as he likes to remind us, comes from a higher echelon of living.” At this, the Blackguard smooths a palm down his pristine lapel. “He also knows how the wealthy interact. He puts people at ease, and can open them up to suggestion, which will help you find Theia faster.”

I must look unconvinced because Atlas adds, “He’s also the only member of my team to volunteer.”

Because no one else wants to be with me.

“We won’t be long,” Sin assures, taking my elbow in a tight, cold grip and hauling us through the front door.

The evening air is muggy, and the folds of my dress are quick to cling at my hips and waist.

We walk between ten feet and ten miles, I can’t be sure.

I’m distracted.

We’ve caught the end of the sunset.

We walk toward it, side by side, never touching, like Icarus to the sun, washing our bodies in the showers of purple and pink. The light makes my dress a prism of luscious colors. Turns sidewalks into slides, and trees into cotton candy.

Gradually, the streetlights snap on, yellow zapping away the fantasy.

After mentally adding the colors to my DNA, I look to the male beside me, study the rare hardness on his face.

“Done?” he asks.

A faint sensation of fingers dust my spine and I shiver as Sin turns me, sidestepping to remain on the street side of the sidewalk. After a moment of retracing our steps, I cast him another look. “Did we pass it?”

“Yes.” His hand stays on me, not hovering, not quite holding.

“And now we’re late?”

“There exist worse fates.”

“Is this all a joke to you?” I snap, frustrated by his nonchalance. “What if Theia leaves early? What if the Argos find the place? This isn’t a game, there are lives at stake.”

His hand drifts away and dives into his pocket. “I am well aware of what is at stake. You deserve to see the sunset before you face down an army.”

He snarls it at me as if it’s an undeniable truth, same as he did when he cleaned the gash in my foot, and shoved his shirt on my goose-bumped skin.

As if I deserve it.

I don’t.

I don’t deserve any comfort while Theia’s locked away.

Especially not from him.

“I won’t protect you if shit hits the fan,” I warn, all too ready to cut apart this alliance and return my body to equilibrium, to good and evil.

“Understood, darling.”

“Good,” I rasp, annoyed at his ease.

“Great.”

“Excellent.”

“ Fantastic .”

We stop outside the blue and white doors, stare.

My stomach knots.

“One last thing,” he says, his hand cupping my cheek. I tense, about to strike, but he catches my arm and unveils a gloriously deviant smile. “You belong to me tonight, Nat. And if anyone dares to lay a finger on what’s mine, I’ll—”

“Break that finger?” I drawl.

“No Bloodspiller. Nothing so easily healed.” Hades, his low, murmuring voice is obscene. “If you’re approached and I’m otherwise occupied, you tell them you’re the Blackguard's, understood?”

Liquid heat drives into my stomach at the primal rumble in his voice.

I brush it aside. “They’ll think I’m your dog chew.”

“No,” he says, cocking his head. “They’ll think you must be fucking marvelous to have captured my attention.”

He bends over me, a wall of heat and spice, eyes unmoving from my mouth. “Say it.”

“I’m fucking marvelous.”

A chuckle. Low, cocky. “Say ‘I’m with the Blackguard’.” My lips part and he yanks me closer. “Without the revulsion, dear. Diakonos or not, anyone with me is well cared for and pleased to the point of existentialism.”

“You’re dis—” He shakes my arm, and my breath hitches. “I’m … with the … Blackguard,” I say through clenched teeth..

A sly grin as he pulls away. “It’ll get easier.” He smirks. “Eventually.”

It strikes an odd chord in my body. The potential of spending more time with Sin and his seduction.

And it occurs to me, I didn’t even flinch when I saw his aura gleam under the sunset.