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“Hush. I’ve got you.”
My eyes fly open and I turn my head, regretting the sudden movement as white-hot pain shoots down my spine. But in the split second I opened my eyes, I had a rather surprising view of a pretty mortal dressed in black. I also caught some of the room, which appeared to be a cottage.
“Where am I, exactly?” I say, covering my eyes to steady the sensation overwhelming me.
“Um… Earth? Or do you want more specifics?”
“WHERE,” I snap.
“Oh! It’s called B-bear Island.”
I growl.
“Northwest of Seattle Washington. The St. George School of Art?”
That rings a bell. Wasn’t this the place Vesh chased that thieving gambler to a few years back? He called on both me and Typhon to help with that fight, which we still lost, thanks to the intervention of a new goddess whose powers were nothing like I’d seen before.
“Why here?” I mutter.
“I think that might be my fault,” she says.
I uncover one eye and crack it open to peer at her. She is luminous, with pale ivory skin and jet black hair that falls around her face in wisps. She’s lined her hazel eyes in black, and painted her lips the same. My taint tingles like when I made the poor choice to rub one out too near the Titans’ prison cell.
“Do tell,” I say, uncovering my other eye despite the pain. It’s worth it: the bountiful swell of her breasts in a clingy black shir. Ink teases over the swell of one breast, up the right side of her neck, directly over a pulsing vein—a black tentacle indelibly etched into her skin. I can’t help but frown, the design too reminiscent of the power wielded by a certain prison warden who is going to tear me a new asshole if he finds me.
Whenhe finds you. You know it’s inevitable.
She tilts her head and laughs, and I drag my eyes up to meet hers. “You aren’t what I expected.”
“So youexpectedme. That seems unlikely. Until recently, I was trapped guarding a prison. Which begs the question… didyou happen to see four very large, very scary gods wherever it was you found me?”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “Um, no. Just you. I only intended to summon you. I figure that’s why you washed up on the beach where you did.”
“Show me.” I struggle to rise, and the pain of my newly forming horns hits hard. The world swims, then goes dark. I regain consciousness with my nursemaid hovering over me, deep concern marring her pretty face.
“Don’t move. I have pictures of the spot. I have this compulsion to snap shots of anything I might want to paint.”
“How long since you found me?” I ask, blinking down at the small rectangular object she holds, suppressing my astonishment at a perfectly realistic image of an unconscious satyr lying on wet sand surrounded by dark glass shards.
“Only a few hours. I did my, um,ritualat midnight. When I came out at dawn, there you were. Finding you must’ve jump-started my power because I’d never have been strong enough to carry you into the cabin otherwise.”
She casts an appraising look down my body. Her rosy flush makes me lift an eyebrow. “You did a midnight ritual, huh?” I can’t help but smile. “To summonme. Do you even know who I am?”
“A fertility god? Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
I snort. “It figures. I’ve been out of circulation for Gaia knows how long. In most mortal circles, I’m known as Pan. Aegipan to my closest enemies.” Her mouth drops open, revealing a silver stud in the center of her tongue. She has another piece of jewelry: an ornate silver bracelet set with black stones that absorb the light. This woman gets more intriguing by the second. But I have to prompt her to reciprocate. “And you are?”
“Nemea,” she blurts. “Pan, as in the Greek fertility god, who plays a reed flute and fucks wood nymphs?”
“So youhaveheard of me. That’s a relief. It’s nice to meet you Nemea. You wouldn’t be a wood nymph, would you?” I arch one eyebrow.
Her cheeks flush pink. “I don’t honestly know what I am. Maybe? I did all this so you could tell me. Everyone on this island has some mix of higher race magic. I havesomething,but haven’t figured out what. I’m hoping you can tell me.” She pins me with a look of desperation.
“Do you have any closer pictures?” I ask, holding the little frame up.
“You can zoom in,” she says, gripping the rectangle and stroking two fingers away from each other on its glass surface. I’m distracted by the brush of her fingers against mine and briefly debate saying to hell with finding answers and dragging her into bed. But the image enlarges and I’m transfixed by the gruesome view of my own bloody head, where it rests on a pile of black shards. Blood streams from my nose, eyes, and ears, as well as the raw stumps on either side of my skull—I stroke my upper lip; she must have cleaned me up before I came to. My horns are nowhere in sight in the image, but if I’m lucky, they’re still embedded in Hyperion’s gut and he’s lying on the floor of Tartarus for one of my brothers to find. The clarity of the picture is startling, though.
“What sorcery is this?” I murmur.
