Eirikr’s eyes widened.
“I vow on the river Styx. Greer Vespian is now free, and on Olympus.”
6
DEADLY SHORES
Why Athena couldn’t just bring him to Olympus was anyone’s guess. When pressed, she said something about the fact that he, unlike Greer, happened to have a body. Travel to and from Olympus was still heavily warded.
That, or she simply didn’t want to.
“How come you’re here, if the wards are so strong?”
“I,” the goddess said, batting Ariadne’s long lashes, “am lounging in Demeter’s garden, eating delicious grapes. You’re seeing but a fraction of my spirit, child.”
The fraction of spirit before his eyes was stronger than most creatures he’d faced. Now that he’d accepted that he was in the presence of an Olympian, rather than victim to one of Ariadne’s tricks, he noticed the differences. Athena didn’t flirt or try to manipulate him. She treated him exactly like what she called him: a child under her care. Eirikr grimaced. If every Olympian Enlightened was this powerful, he hoped his journey wouldn’t cross paths with any of them.
So, naturally, the goddess informed him that she’d drop him off at one of the portals leading to the Underworld, where he’d have to go for a chat with good old Hades.
Eirikr had been free for less than a full day, and it felt like a century already.
London was nothing like the stinking port he remembered, though some landmarks had survived the ages. The Tower, for one. Westminster Abbey.
The last time he’d been here, the humans were merrily slaughtering each other based on which color of rose they preferred. He wouldn’t have been against a bit of sightseeing, if he’d had more time, but Greer’s clock was ticking.
Later. He was free now. He had all the time for visiting every monument, every city, every wonder of the world, even those lost or forsaken, when Greer was at his side.
The city was bright at night, lit up by streetlamps on every corner. This late, back in the day, the only humans awake would have been drunkards, prostitutes, or witches. By the looks of it, not much had changed.
Eirikr only took one detour, seeing an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss.
He was old enough to keep his thirst under control. Hell, he’d gone decades, if not centuries without a single drop of blood. He could last a day. But the summons had taken its toll, and when he caught a young vampire awkwardly using his power to make a scantily dressed teenager follow him down a dark alley, he couldn’t help himself.
Eirikr pinned the idiot’s face to the neon-bright window of the corner shop behind him and smiled at its would-be victim. “Run along, lass,” he said. His compulsion charm being considerably stronger than the baby vamp’s, the human was scurrying as fast as her five-inch heels could carry her by the time he plunged his fangs into the vampire’s neck.
He grimaced. Young, weak blood was foul. Still, fresh blood flooded his system, feeding his body as much as his mind, sharpening his senses.
He could have killed the youngling. Once upon a time, he would have.
“Does your clan allow attacks on mortals?”
The vampire squirmed, trembling with fear. “I don’t have a clan.”
Figured. “A maker, then?”
The vampire shook his head. “Someone turned me in a club last month. Please. I’m so hungry.”
Eirikr grunted under his breath. He didn’t have time for this. Not today. Not at any point this week. “Head to the closest witch clan you can reach and ask for asylum. They’ll call a clan for you. This is your last chance. If I ever catch you again, I’ll free your head from your miserable neck.”
He was gone before the vampire finished could gather his thoughts.
Once he was done with the idiot, Eirikr kept to the shadows as much as he could and raced to the embankment. The portal under the bridge wasn’t unknown to him. He’s taken it to reach Oldcrest faster, or to appear in another corner of the world. He’d never known it could take him to another world.
As the goddess had advised him, he focused on the shores of a red river, repeating its name over and over in his mind, until the portal stopped struggling against his directions. Before his eyes, he watched the brick blur and disappear, an archway materializing with a view of the most perverse rendition of a lakeside beach he’d ever seen.
Pebbles, a calm current running down a stream, and in the distance, the handsome grounds of a castle. It should have fitted every requirement for a fairy-tale landscape, yet no one would have thought to take a romantic picnic here.
The stones on the shores were pitch black and smoking like embers. The dark river whispered songs and curses in so many enchanting voices, it was easy to want to wade in. The castle was made of polished dark stone, and beyond, it must have been either dawn or sunset—Eirikr couldn’t tell. The sky exploded in strands of gold and red, angrier, stronger than it ever was on Earth. The air itself seemed to want to choke the breath out of his lungs.
His portal had opened up right in front of the riverbank, and the boat docked there was entirely crafted out of charred bones.
Eirikr frowned, confused by what he saw. There was no line of souls and no boatman awaiting him—just the boat he needed to get across. It felt too easy. Too easy was often synonymous with “a trap.”
“Charon,” he called. He was met by silence over the shore, other than the melodies of the tortured souls beckoning him closer. “Charon!”
Nothing. The boatman was nowhere to be seen.
Trap or not, Eirikr didn’t have time to lose.
Ignoring his sense of smell, which confirmed that the bones were mostly covered in rotten flesh, human and otherwise, he climbed aboard. How hard could it be to ferry himself? If a three-thousand-year-old man could do it, Eirikr should be able to work it out.
Eirikr had hardly left the shore behind him when he could hear that the faintest of sounds coming from the water was growing stronger, vibrating around him.
He was a two-thousand-year-old vampire. In his lifetime, before being turned, he’d known plenty of paranormal temptations. He simply had to tune these out. He did his best to ignore the river entirely, singing the words of an old song over and over in his own mind as he stared straight ahead at the immortal shore.
7
THE PATHS
Greer woke confused, not remembering going to sleep at all.
She was still in darkness, but it felt different. For one, she was lying down, her body spread out in a way that should have been impossible in her cylindrical prison.
Secondly, there was some air all around her, not just far above in the distance. Real air, laden with the scent of the woods in the spring, but so much sweeter. Stronger.
She sat up, noticing how different she felt. Stronger. She’d been in so much pain her entire body had felt like one huge bruise, and now only the faintest memory of the pain remained. She was fine.
Tentatively, she got to her feet. Her eyes had been accustomed to true darkness, but here she could see enough to discern walls around her. The room was a large circle, and unless she was mistaken, there seemed to be a door on the far end.
Hands before her to feel any obstacle on the way, she walked slowly to the dim source of light.