Medusa, A Love Story (Loves of Olympus 1)

Medusa took a steadying breath. Her heart would survive, if Ariston did. “You will protect them? Promise me you will keep my husband safe.”

He inclined his head, his cold hand tightened about hers. “And you will carry out your part of our bargain.”

She nodded once. She would not beg. She would not cower or tremble. She would be strong now.

“This is your fate.” His voice wasn’t harsh or angry. He spoke to her with the same cajoling tones one might use with a child. “Come with me now.”

Medusa turned to him, meeting his eyes. “I will honor our bargain, Poseidon. But I ask you a kindness.”

“You ask for more?” His eyebrow arched higher, but he waited.

“Let this be done in darkness… so that I might bear it more easily.”

Poseidon’s smile twisted, the muscle of his jaw tightening. “I could take on his form, Medusa, for you.”

“No, no. I beg of you.” She feared she would cry then.

His eyes narrowed as he lifted his hand and covered her eyes. Darkness found her, though she no longer felt his hand upon her. She blinked, for her vision was dark and cloudy. She jumped as his breath stirred the hair at her ear.

He whispered, “Then I will close your eyes, and keep them closed until I am done.”

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Ariston felt the thrust of the sword, piercing his skin to bury itself in his chest. The blade was cold, slicing cleanly. The spurt of heat that followed, running down his chest, was his own blood. He grabbed for the sword’s hilt, but his combatant was faster. He pulled back, tearing the wound wide as the serrated edges came free. White-hot pain blinded him, but he fought through it.

His strength must hold.

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He must focus. His attacker would lift his blade again, Ariston was certain. And before he could wield his vile sword again, Ariston must overcome him and end this. He steadied himself.

His foes black eyes widened.

Ariston sneered, goading the man. “It will take more than your blade to kill me.”

As the Persian raised his sword arm, Ariston reached for him.

He grabbed the man about the waist and ran, slamming his opponent into the mast with the last of his waning strength. His attacker’s head bounced off the mast, the rewarding thunk jarring his bones. Ariston slid his short sword into the man, relaxing his hold only when the Persian went limp against him.

He waited, too weak to stand. No new sword bit into him, no fist gouged, or spear pierced. With no one left to fight, he felt the depth of his injuries. The wound on his arm was deep, bleeding freely. His chest wound made breathing difficult, but he did not linger over it.

He fought upright, swaying as he propped himself against the mast for support. He stared at the man he’d killed, and then shifted slowly to assess the rest on the ship. What he saw amazed him.

The rain, the thick sheets of freezing rain stopped, the wind died. The sun attempted to break through grey clouds, its rays shooting shafts of light onto the calming waters and the pitching deck of his ship.

The sight that greeted him, bathed in pools of white hot sunlight, was grim. The deck was littered with the dead and wounded. Some were Ekdromoi, but most were Persians. He shifted, but could not find the strength to push himself from the mast supporting him.

His lungs seemed to constrict and he drew a shallow breath. It did little to help, and he gasped.

A cry went up, catching his attention. He was not alone as he watched the sky. The grey-black cloud towering over them parted to the blue sky beyond. The tossing waves that had made defense secondary to staying afloat now rolled steadily beneath the ship.

The Persians lost the wind.

The closest Persian ship, whose men had swung aboard his own, dropped suddenly. The sea seemed to yawn, opening wide to ensnare the Persian vessel, before the water rose over the ship, pulling it beneath the water’s surface and out of sight.

He heard the cheers of his men.

“Poseidon is merciful,” one said.

“He’s come to our aid,” another declared.