Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (29 page)

I pricked my wounded hand and touched the door. It groaned almost instantly and I whipped my hand behind my back so Othello wouldn’t see me bleeding. The door opened with a groan and an immediate rush of summer air. “Shall we?” I asked politely, holding out an elbow.

She stared past me, dumbfounded, which was satisfying.

“You are back, my host. I feared it would be some time before I saw you again.” A voice called from inside the doorway. Othello’s eyes widened at hearing such a sultry feminine voice on the other side.

“Nate. You
dog
. How many girls do you have tucked away for your pleasure?” Othello chided with a smirk, looking marginally happier at the fact that I had another woman locked away in a room. Women. I would never understand them.

“It’s not like that. You’ll see.”

She grunted in doubt but grasped my arm and we entered the Armory.

What was I getting myself into?

Chapter 22

T
he sandstone walls emanated a soothing heat, like I was on a vacation. The numerous artifacts lining shelves on the floor, sitting on tables, and hanging on the walls captivated my attention. I could see Othello doing the same and smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She merely nodded. “Is that…?” She pointed at the fleece I had asked Hope about.

“No. But the real one is here too.” I answered honestly, remembering Hope’s answer to my exact same question. We continued on. I was here for one reason. I needed to find the summoner, and I was desperate — fearful even — of borrowing power from this room, but what choice did I have? I had no other friends for backup, and my most constant companion, my magic, had been taken from me, or would be soon enough to make any difference. Some of the wolves might still think I had murdered one of their own. I had promised to make the Demon suffer for his crime, but I wondered if the wolves truly believed my innocence or not. It was mainly fear of my pack of ‘spirit wolves’ that had deterred them. The Nephilim were no doubt hunting me, despite not having run into them yet. Unless the creature egging the werewolves on had been one… I honestly didn’t know, which was why I was here.

For answers. And possibly a weapon or two.

I wanted Othello here to act as my conscience. Another rational being to hopefully talk me out of doing anything too rash, like taking too much power from this place. But she seemed anything but rational at the moment. Talk of Indie had turned her into an ice queen.

We continued on to the balcony that overlooked a vast sunset blanketing a beautifully harsh desert. I stopped, scanning the horizon. “Is this place real?” Othello asked beside me.

As if summoned, Hope stepped out of the shadows, looking just as beautiful as the last time I had seen her. “Yes. And no. The entrances are few, but this is a memory palace of a very real place.”

Othello took a step back. “You’re stunning.” She said bluntly, before turning to me with a wry grin. “You’re telling me Indie is better than
her
?” She asked, dumbfounded.

Hope turned to me with a questioning smile after nodding appreciatively at Othello’s compliment. “Just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean she’s mine for the taking. She’s her own person.” I grumbled.

Hope turned to Othello. “I offered him my services, but he told me he is being sufficiently serviced at the moment.”

Othello burst out laughing.

“Can it. How are things, Hope? Sense any Demonic presence lately?”

“I adore the pet name you’ve given me, my host. I have seen no sign of Demonic presence, but…” she appraised me curiously, “I notice your power has drastically dropped since last we met. Because of your curse. Have you come to inherit your birthright? I have power here like the world hasn’t seen in thousands of years. All yours now, in exchange for your acceptance of my servitude. Is that why you are here?”

Othello slowly turned to me. “Is she serious?”

I shrugged. “I think she is a very literal person.”

“You look sad, downtrodden, defeated.” Hope spoke with a concerned tone.

I could only nod.

“Accept my service.”

I stared at her for a good long while. “Okay.” This was my last hand. After all, I didn’t
have
to use anything here, but Hope
did
need a guardian. I think.

She beamed. “Thank you, my host. Contract made.” I felt gossamer threads of power briefly settle over my shoulders like a heavy quilt as she spoke, and then it faded away as if I had imagined it all. I shivered.

“Now, let me show you something.” Hope offered.

“Will it hurt? I haven’t decided to take anything from this place. I fear the ramifications. I came here only to speak with you.”

She nodded in understanding. “That is your prerogative. I am here only to serve. But allow me to show you something. It will do you no harm.”

I finally nodded. She approached me and I tensed. She was powerful. I had thought she was going to lead me deeper into the Armory, but apparently not. She gently laid a hand on my temple and I was immediately overwhelmed by what I could only call a
vision
.

Sand blasted my face, and the sun threatened to scald any normal person’s skin, but I was no normal person. I was a Mymidon, and this was
home
… kind of. I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling an alien structure to the face I was used to touching. I lifted a hand and realized I was holding a short bronze sword. My other fist held a trio of spears tucked beneath a bronze shield. I was covered from head to toe in bronze armor.
Greek
armor.

I looked up and saw giant city walls before me, lined with archers, all hesitantly aiming their arrows at me. Thirty-foot tall city gates barred my entry, and I was alone.

I turned to look, but saw no one behind me. No Hope, no Othello.
Who are Hope and Othello?
Part of me was aware that this was a vision, but part of me was confused by the sudden thought, wondering if the daymares were back. I squashed my inner dialogue in order to pay attention to the experience.

“HECTOR!” I heard myself roar in a leonine voice that was raw from constant shouting.

Apparently the man was very responsive, or I had been here for a very long time, shouting for him to come out.

How crazy was I? I was alone against an entire city, and I was demanding for a man to emerge from the safety of his walls. Then I recognized the setting. More specifically,
where
I was, and
when
I was.
Who
I was, and what I was
doing
.

I was Achilles.

At the gates of Troy.

At the infamous battle with Hector, seeking revenge for my dead cousin, Patroclus. I felt my rage bloom at the thought. This man, Hector, had killed my most beloved of cousins. And I was about to rectify his action.

The man striding towards me looked saddened, defeated, apologetic, but still a formidable adversary. I shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. He had wronged me. Rage and absolution ruled my emotions. He finally settled a safe, but approachable, distance away.

“This is
your
war. In war there are casualties on both sides.”

I nodded. “A fact I mean to display to your city today. I will show them the true definition of
casualty
. What hope will your people have left when they see me slay their precious prince before their very gates?” I sneered.

“It was not my intention to kill your cousin. I thought it had been you. He wore your armor. Fought beside your men. I should have known after such a quick fight that it
couldn’t
have been you.”

This was the wrong answer. “Are you telling me my cousin fought like a babe? You dare make a mockery of the dead? I will show your city mockery like they have never seen before.”

Hector dropped his head in defeat. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. I meant to honor your
prowess
, not to dishonor Patroclus. You see only vengeance before you. It is clouding your vision.”

“Honor my prowess by drawing your sword, Princeling. I have other tasks to attend to at camp. I hope you have said goodbye to your loved ones. You will not see them for some time.”

Hector’s shoulders tightened in resolution. “I have. But there is no guarantee I will not see them again shortly.”

“Oh, but there is. Do you not know of my story? I am the son of
Zeus
. I am immortal. You stand no chance. I will deliver you to the gods — my
family
— this afternoon, and drink to your death in an hour.” I leered. “Now, draw your spear.” I drew mine as well.

The moment Hector complied I hurled the spear at his face. He hadn’t been ready, and only just managed to deflect the deadly throw. That was fine. I didn’t want a quick fight. Hector would be the best I had ever fought.

The best I had ever killed, soon enough.

I raced towards him, eagerly launching my other two spears in quick succession before drawing my sword. I was hungry for face-to-face combat, not a killing blow from a dozen yards away. I wanted to taste his last moments from up close. Patroclus deserved it. Hector narrowly avoided being impaled, and dropped two of his spears, choosing to fight the old way — his spear against my blade. My sword struck the tip of his spear with a
clang
that echoed off the walls before us. I grinned. “You hear my sword? It’s
hungry
. For
Princeling
blood. For my cousin’s vengeance. It will be sated soon enough, Trojan.”

Then I launched all my skills at him, seeing only the killing blow to come. Hector was well trained, blocking everything I threw at him, but he was becoming weary from my berserker blows. I — on the other hand — was fueled by the gods, by my rage. Honor was on my side. I wouldn’t tire before he lay before me, a rapidly cooling carcass. I wouldn’t sleep until his body lay at my feet.

Hector finally began to attack, no longer defending, no doubt realizing that he could not halt or even slow my tirade of attacks. He was good, but not nearly good enough.

It finally ended in a flurry of metal. My sword slashed deeply into his calf, dropping him.

From the ground, he slashed at my ankles wearily and I jumped back in sudden alarm. “Easy. You might scratch my sandals.” I spat, kicking his spear away, successfully hiding my anxiety. He had almost struck my heel. I lifted my sword, aiming for his heart and scowled down at him. “Prepare to meet my uncle, Hades, and atone for your mistake.”

This was it. My moment. My retribution. All would be well after this blow.

Hector stared into my soul as my sword plunged through his heart.

I stared down at him, watching his life bleed away with satisfaction. The archers on the wall gasped collectively. I waited for the gift of peace to fille me. The peace I deserved in exchange for the justice I had delivered.

But nothing happened.

His body struck the ground, sliding off my sword. Still… nothing. No sense of peace.

I finally screamed in rage. What was wrong? I had served justice. Why didn’t I feel better? In a fit of rage, I strode back to my chariot, and bringing back a coil of leather rope, I hastily tied a knot around his ankles. He obviously hadn’t been punished enough. The gods demanded more shame from this once great warrior. I could do that. Anything for inner peace.

I climbed into my chariot, blocking a lone arrow that sailed my way by a disgruntled archer. I scowled up at him and shook my head one time.

No more arrows came for me, but lamenting screams filled the air, begging forgiveness.

I raced back to my camp, willing to drag Hector’s corpse to the four corners of the earth if that’s what it took to honor the gods. For some reason, I couldn’t help but feel that even this might not be enough to quell my pain…

What felt like a bucket of ice water abruptly showered my soul, and I snapped back to myself, no longer a part of the vision.

Despite being back in the room, my heart still pulsed with Achilles’ anger. It had been infectious. Even now it was hard to release. He had been so
angry
. I could honestly say that I had never been that angry. Achilles had lost it, completely. There was no more hero in him after Patroclus’ death. Just grief. Despite attaining his vengeance it hadn’t been enough, and he had then chosen to cross a line of respect that had existed for thousands of years. It was hard to even fathom, let alone believe.

My voice was raspy, and I glanced up to see that Othello’s eyes were full of concern. “What… what was that?” I croaked.

Hope watched me intently. “The price for vengeance. And now it’s time for you to leave.” She added sadly.

I looked down at my watch, noticing the time and cursed under my breath. Sixteen minutes. Othello looked from me to Hope. “What? We haven’t gotten what we came for. We haven’t even discussed it with you.” A faraway look abruptly replaced her agitation. “Yes, we are late. It’s time for us to leave.” I nodded, understanding her urgency to leave on a slightly different level than last time I had been booted out. I was semi-aware of not really wanting to leave yet, but I still found myself traipsing out of the mysterious Armory.