Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

“Yes, and fat lot of good that did him!”

“But he got through—”

“Only to be eaten by Rakshasas.” He looked disgusted. “The mighty Apollo taken down by filthy scavengers—”

“But he got through,” I ground out. “That’s the point—”

“No, the point is that we need some of those so-called Tears. Now, do you have them or not?”

“Yes!”

Rosier blinked, as if surprised that I’d yell at him.

Adra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If the barrier is weak enough for your acolytes to shift Ares through, why haven’t they already done so?”

“Maybe they don’t have enough strength yet. There’s five of them, but their ability to access the power is limited—”

“Unless they find some Tears to boost it.”

I nodded.

“We will find your acolytes,” he told me abruptly. “If they remain within our reach.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Pythia. Just return from this errand of yours quickly. Unless I am much mistaken, we have a war to fight.”

Chapter Fourteen

My epic journey fifteen hundred years back in time ended on something cool and wet, with stars spinning wildly overhead. For about a second, until I collapsed. And was treated to the sight of a dozen pissed-off faces circling me in a merry-go-round of annoyance.

Or maybe that was just one, because they all wore Rosier’s sneer.

He really did look like Pritkin sometimes, I thought vaguely, and then I passed out.

I came around what I guessed was a while later, since the sun was now shining in my eyes. It was intermittent, though, like it was flirting with a bunch of clouds. I finally realized that it wasn’t clouds but ancient demon ass, and I wasn’t flirting with it so much as rhythmically smashing into it. It seemed that Rosier had decided to act like his son for once, too, and had thrown me over his shoulder.

I bounced along what did not appear to be a road so much as a rock-strewn hillside, and thought about throwing up. But breakfast had been a while ago, and it decided it liked things where it was. So it and I continued to jolt along, because the many things Rosier got others to do for him must have included hauling around half-unconscious women.

’Cause he sucked at it.

Fortunately, I was only awake occasionally over the next few hours; either that or the head lothario of the incubus clan wasn’t in nearly as good shape as his son. Because the next time I opened my eyes, he was struggling through some marshy field and cussing up a storm. And then later panting across some sort of hill. And then finally dropping me at the edge of a wooded area, with all the care of a guy hauling a bag of sand.

And then cursing some more, because he appeared to have lost a shoe.

It was dark again, so I watched the stars through my lashes and vaguely wondered what some ancient Celt would think, coming across a half-decomposed Ferragamo in a week or three.

I decided I didn’t care.

The cursing finally slowed down, and I risked turning my head to the side. And was greeted by the unlikely sight of a usually elegant demon lord furiously rubbing two sticks together.

I blinked, but the image remained the same. And—bonus—it was mostly steady. I decided to try offering an observation.

“You could always just use magic.”

My voice cracked alarmingly, but the idea got through. Because a malevolent green eye stared at me through a fall of sweaty blond hair. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

The stick rubbing recommenced.