Blackhearted Betrayal (6 page)

She smiled at the dubious look I gave it, gesturing to the matching garment she wore. “That old saying
when in Rome
had its origins even earlier than most etymologists would believe. Many of the Deities adopted the
Roman gods’ style of dress for formal ceremony. So do we when meeting with them.”

Mom gave me another
mom
look as she finished draping her toga with expert tucks and folds. My brow furrowed. Where the heck had she learned to wear a
toga
? Granted, she was around a century and a half old, but
still
…She opened her mouth to speak—more like nag—but I rolled my eyes and allowed the Megaera to start wrapping the white fabric around me in an even more expert manner than my mother’s. Once
that
was done with, we slipped on flimsy gold sandals with straps that wound halfway up our legs. Good thing there were no mirrors nearby because I didn’t want to see how ridiculous I must have looked decked out
à la Caesar
. I’d made it through college without ever once getting roped into a toga party for more than one good reason.
Not
a good look for me.

I had to admit, though, that both Mom and the Megaera looked regal in their Roman getup. They’d also refreshed their hairstyles. The Megaera’s braided buns had been jazzed up with colorful beads, and Mom had shifted her hair from its typical simple style into an updo that would have done any Greek goddess proud. My fingers touched my own charcoal locks hanging loose in humidity-inspired waves, but I straightened my spine in sheer stubbornness. The Deities could damned well take me the way
they
created me, or not at all. I’d jumped through more than enough hoops for one day.

Not that I would ever be stupid enough to say that out loud.

My au naturel hairdo—or lack thereof—must have passed muster because the Megaera guided us from the bathing chamber, down an empty hallway, and into a
room that could have been copied directly from the Palladium’s Conclave, the imposing chamber that hosted the meetings for the Sisterhood’s voting council of the same name. Of course, this was a
much
smaller version, but all the elements were there: ornate marble floor and walls as white as our togas, a solid mahogany table in the center of the room, and the same overwhelming sense of grandeur that grabbed you by the throat and made you feel about six inches tall.

One unexpected element caught my attention: a golden chalice resting atop the table on the end nearest to us. It was to that spot the Megaera led us. She took the chalice into her hands and held it toward us.

“The ancients spoke of ambrosia, the nectar of the gods that granted them their immortality. This is the ambrosia they spoke of, though our forebears were only partially correct. Ambrosia is the drink of the gods only in that it contains the essence of true immortality—or rather, a portion of it—and comes from the Deities themselves. For three days you will become as true demigoddesses with the senses the immortals possess. You will feel, hear, and most importantly,
see
the world as they do, allowing you to commune with them as you would not otherwise be able to do.”

My breath hitched at the enormity of her words. Furies were called demigoddesses by many—even ourselves—but it was more a figurative title than literal, seeing as how we could be killed like any other arcane. If what the Megaera was saying meant what I thought it did …

“And yes, for a time you will truly
be
as the Deities are—immune to death’s touch. But be warned: The Deities exact a high price from those to whom they grant
this gift—and it is finite. The effects will wear off three days after you partake of the ambrosia, and you will become as weak as a babe for some time afterward. A final caution: While you two will be divine for that period of time, those you care for
will not be
. Never forget this. Your enemies will not.”

I clenched my fists at her warning. As high an honor as the Deities were granting, she was right. Whatever job they had in mind for us to do, it would undoubtedly suck big-time, and since I was sure it involved the turmoil in the Sisterhood and my grandmother, our enemies could easily get to us through our loved ones. Then again, that was just about par for my course.

“Do you understand?”

Mom and I nodded. “We do.”

“So be it. Let us drink, and so doing, become as our Makers for a time.”

She took an unladylike swig from the chalice, turned it slightly, and held it to Mom’s lips. Mom took a matching gulp but didn’t react with quite so much savoir faire. Her eyes watered, and she staggered back a step, a dark red liquid dribbling from her chin and splashing onto the pristine white of her toga. Funny, I’d always pictured ambrosia as looking more like honey than blood. I watched as the crimson drop burrowed into the fabric, but to my shock, it didn’t stain it as I expected. Instead, the ambrosia was absorbed into the garment, which briefly glowed with a silvery sheen before fading to duller white once more. I blinked but didn’t have time to wonder exactly what that meant because the Megaera rotated the chalice again and pressed the surprisingly warm metal to my mouth. I stared into the dark red liquid that swirled much
like the butterflies stirring inside my stomach, bracing myself; not that it helped a whole heck of a lot. I reacted even more violently than Mom when molten fire burned its way across my tongue, down my throat, and into my belly, drowning every one of those butterflies in incandescent heat. My eyes flooded with tears that ran down my cheeks in torrents as coughs racked my body hard enough that I saw stars. I didn’t merely stumble, either. I fell flat on my ass on cold white marble and convulsed.

Mom barked a terrified question I barely heard, although I did catch the Megaera’s response more clearly. “She is not an Elder so of
course
it affects her more!”

Several moments passed while I oozed every ounce of spare moisture from my body and coughed up both my lungs. The ambrosia tasted like nothing I’d ever experienced and didn’t think I’d ever want to experience again. It didn’t hurt—exactly—just saturated every fiber of my being in a pulse-pounding rush that took my breath away. Almost literally, since I went several minutes unable to take in a bit of oxygen and yet didn’t notice its lack until the coughing subsided and I could finally
think
again.

Mom reached down to help me stand, and my mouth dropped open when I noticed a familiar silvery light dancing across her skin. For that matter, the glow shimmered along her toga again, too. My gaze flew to the Megaera, who glowed even more brightly than Mom.
Because she’s ingested ambrosia more than once?
Then I noticed something even more disconcerting: Eerie silver light edged itself around both of their glowing emerald eyes.

I managed to stumble to my feet with Mom’s help,
noticing that silvery light now played across my skin as well—and, I assumed, also rimmed my eyes. The fire inside began cooling somewhat but not entirely. As much as the bath moments ago had energized me, it paled in comparison to the vitality buzzing inside my blood and bones. I felt jazzed, pumped up, buzzed—like being drunk without any of the downsides. It felt like I could take on the world with both hands tied behind my back and one eye closed, injured knee and all. My eyes widened as realization kicked in. For the first time in months, my knee felt—completely normal, without the slightest hint of pain or even discomfort.
Who needs Jack Daniel’s when they have ambrosia? Enough of this stuff, and I really
could
take on the world!

Then I remembered what was to come and managed to sober my thoughts, if not my emotions. Because, amped up on ambrosia, I might well be able to take on all comers, but one truth was inescapable. This sense of indestructibility was extremely temporary. Eventually, reality would set in once more, including the incessant knee pain.

As if she could hear my irreverent thoughts, the Megaera judged me sufficiently recovered to continue. She guided us to the far side of the table. A pentagram had been engraved into the marble floor just past the table, in front of a dais much like the one in the chancel where we’d first encountered the Megaera. The noticeable difference was the enormous mirror framed in silver gilt that was suspended from the wall, towering over both dais and pentagram. My flesh prickled with goose bumps as I recognized it as a summoning circle.

Circle
was a magical rather than literal term and referred to the sphere of arcane energy that would surround
both pentagram and mirror once the summoning began. I’d seen summoning circles before—hell, I’d summoned spirits from the hereafter myself—but never one involving a mirror, much less one so large and overflowing with magical energy. The reason for that was simple—it required a phenomenal amount of power for a living being to travel from one mirror, through the arcane maelstrom separating the various realms, and out of another mirror without frying to a flaming-hot crisp.

The Megaera positioned Mom at the southwestern point of the five-sided star and me at the southeastern. She moved to the northern point, keeping her back to us so she could face the mirror. Her hands shot into the air, and magical energy roared up all around us. Sapphire blue Fury’s magic swirled from her hands to mingle with a thousand sparks of silver I was learning to identify as divine in nature. The Megaera then chanted in some language even more ancient—and powerful—than the Latin most spellcasters used. My focus narrowed to the mirror on the wall as it rippled with myriad colors and shuddered as if something was trying to break through it—and then something
did
. Or, rather, some
one
. Three of them, to be precise, each as overwhelming and awe-inspiring as the next.

Flash.

A woman with night-dark skin and crescent-shaped eyes rimmed in silver strode onto the dais, toga snapping in the magical breeze whipping inside the circle. Somehow it seemed appropriate that her raven black hair had been braided into a multitude of knots much like the Megaera’s. Unlike the Fury’s hairstyle, however, hers was adorned with glittering emeralds, rubies, and sapphires rather than beads. A belt of woven crescent
moons—each bearing a precious gem at its center—encircled her shapely hips. My eyes widened when I saw a shimmering, multihued python tattoo wrapping from each of her shoulders to fingertips. The colors and size were different, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of my own Amphisbaena in ink form. She clutched a shimmery silver sword in one hand, an emblem that leaped out at me immediately. While I didn’t recognize the goddess by name, I knew what she represented in her current guise: The Rebuker.

Flash.

A man who was more light-skinned than the woman but just as obviously an African Deity sauntered to the opposite side of the dais. His eyes were scarlet bolts of lightning, rimmed in immortal silver, and his black hair sprang from his head in tight curls that seemed to crackle with barely restrained energy. Like the goddess, he bore twin tattoos on his arms running from shoulder to wrists, stylized white rams with eyes the same scarlet lightning bolts as his own. His belt was formed of silver storm clouds winding around his waist. A golden shield hung from one of his arms, giving a clue to his current role despite the fact I didn’t know his name: The Defender.

Flash.

Another woman emerged, this time a pale-skinned redhead of obvious Celtic heritage, with silver-rimmed, ice blue eyes that resembled Scott’s Hound eyes in all but color. Her titian hair rioted around her head even more wildly than my own au naturel style, resembling nothing so much as a horse’s mane. A particularly apt image, since I recognized her the moment she stepped between the other two Deities: Epona, Celtic horse-goddess, who had also been worshipped by many Romans.
My identification was verified by the twin horses that seemed to gallop across her arms, not to mention the golden hounds chasing each other across the belt at her waist. She ruled over not just horses, but also Hounds, the European branch, at any rate. In her current guise, however, she represented an even more important role made evident by the balanced set of scales dangling from one hand: The Mediator.

Brilliant silver light flashed once more, and the mirror went quiescent, leaving the three Deities staring at us with impassive expressions carved into immortal faces. I felt guilty just standing there, much like a child confronted by disappointed parents. Even reminding myself that
I
wasn’t the one in trouble didn’t really help. Not only was I standing in the presence of three real-life Deities, but they were in all-out Triad mode. Rebuker, Defender, and Mediator; the immortal version of the Supreme Court. No, more than that, because bearing the symbols of office as they did, they were authorized to act as judge, jury,
and
executioner.

The Megaera chanted another unfamiliar spell, and the summoning circle faded much like the mirror’s portal had. She immediately sank to one knee, placing hands over heart; Mom and I followed suit. The Deities accepted this as Their due, and we waited until Epona motioned before rising to our feet. “Greetings, Megaera, and Tisiphone’s Daughters.” Our classes were named for the first three Furies of the same names, the only three of our Sisterhood to become
true
immortals as reward for their centuries of service. We became their figurative daughters during the ceremonies in which we pledged ourselves to the Sisterhood.

The Megaera—who represented a stand-in for her
namesake here on earth—bowed less deeply before responding. “Greetings to the immortal Tribunal. We of the Sisterhood stand ready to serve You.”