The Heart of War (4 page)

Of course, he had not. Onya continued taking the skirt down over the woman’s long and very shapely legs. Calluses and cuts marred her knees, some deep and in need of attention. Onya thought that perhaps the woman bounced around on errant rocks during her time in the ocean.

Overlooking the scene, Ares wondered who put the torturous device on her and why. Was she promiscuous? On the other hand, was someone saving her for something? If so, why so long? Whoever had put the wretched device on her did it many years ago and possibly when she was quite young. The unforgiving gold had deformed her hips, which should have been full and round and yet were more akin to the hips of a teenage boy. Trapped behind the constraint they could not grow and fill out as they should have. The man who put that on her may have done so to his own detriment if he hoped to breed with her.

Below the biting edges of cold gold were scars. Some were old and, Ares supposed, they were from where she had grown and the metal continually cut into her flesh as it refused to let her body expand. Others were hideous, thick, deep welts marring her inner thighs and her lower waist where the glittering gold touched the skin. To his practiced eye, these scars did not appear very old. They were perhaps as recent as the last few months, certainly no more than a year. To him it appeared that someone tried to rip the hideous belt from her. They tried to yank it down her body only to have it slice into her tender skin, leaving those nasty scarred welts behind. When that didn’t work, what? Had they tried to burn it? To melt it? Perhaps they had, as there was a band of seared flesh at her upper waist.

Recently, someone had done their damnedest to gain access to her and failed miserably.

“I should get her a gown.” Not that there was much here on the island that resembled a gown; Ares kept his women in little fur bikinis rather than flowing dresses. He liked easy ready access to his women at all times and gowns got in his way. Onya didn’t think the new arrival would be fond of fur bikinis.

“No, my Lord,” Onya muttered. “Sorry about this.” Keeping mindful of the fresh and bleeding wounds between the shoulders of the sleeping woman, Onya very gingerly unhooked the bra and then removed it. She was surprised that Ares had not simply torn through the material with those sharp claws. A hair’s breadth lower and he would have done just that. The gold belt however was a different story. “I have no key for this, my Lord. In fact,” she stuttered as she took in the strange contraption, “I don’t think it opens with a key. There’s no lock.”

“I am not blind; I can see that for myself. Go get her something to wear now.” While he could see all from his perch, Ares was ready for a closer and a bit more private look at his new guest.

Grabbing the nearest animal skin—a bear hide—Onya pulled it over the unconscious woman to cover her from the prying eyes of the God of War. Holding out the tattered wet clothing, Onya asked, “What shall I do with these?”

“Burn them.” Ares said, but then quickly changed his mind. “Give them to me first.” He watched as Onya handed over the garments, bowed to him, and then made her way out of the room. “Bring the salve and bandages for her wrists and back, enough for her other wounds as well!” he called after her. Ares did not have much need of human medicine but those who served him did. As such, he had a large supply of everything from feminine products to over-the-counter pain relievers, prescription pain relievers (those he kept locked up), even cough and cold medicines. The God of War took his job seriously. These men and women were in his charge, they were here to serve him, and he in turn took care of them as best he could.

The material of her clothing was far from the finest in the world. Turning the tattered blouse inside out, Ares looked for a label that might indicate where she purchased these items. No tags. No maker’s label. No washing instructions. Not even a tag with the size on it. Upon closer inspection, he thought the cloth was hand sewn. If she made these clothes for herself, why make something so constricting? Ares tossed them into the hearth; the fire gave out a snake-like hiss as it consumed the wet cloth.

Slithering off his throne, Ares loomed over her for a closer look. Onya, so sweet, he thought to himself as he looked down and saw that the girl placed the skin over the woman with the fur side down. Ares preferred to sleep with the skin next to his flesh. Pulling back the soft hide, he took in the sight of her naked body.

When he first encountered her, Ares thought her an old hag but after his encounter with her in his woods and looking at her now, he could see that was not true. Her face was worn and haggard from days of sun exposure to the sun and the harsh ocean, but with a few days rest and some food she would be quite beautiful. Her body was slender, almost willowy; he imagined that when she walked she was very graceful. Her arms were strong and toned, as was the rest of her body. Very well maintained.

Ares put a hand under her back and put her on her side so he could see the muscles below the wounds he had left there. Laying her back on the stone, Ares slowly walked past her sleeping body to stand at her feet and take her in from this view. The soles of her feet and her knees were callused. The taunt stomach muscles and strong calves were not the well-sculpted muscles of someone who spent hours upon hours preening in a gym, but someone who spent hours and hours working in the hot sun. Whoever she was and wherever she came from she worked hard, and she was no slacker.

Taking in a deep breath, she reeked of brine, seaweed and sand, yet under all of that was still the faintest scent of honeysuckle. The earlier scent of decay that had alerted him to her presence was swiftly fading away. Ares stood there wondering if she was a mortal woman. She looked it but then again, to the untrained eye, he looked like any other mortal man—more or less.

Out of curiosity, he picked up one of her bare feet and moved it to the side so that her legs opened slightly. He wanted to see just how cruel the owner of the chastity belt was and let out a huff of disgust. “Very cruel,” he muttered thoughtfully as he stroked the beard on his chin. The holes in the chastity belt that allowed the exit of urine and solid waste were covered with pricks, sharp little jagged pieces of metal meant to prevent any male entry. Ares knew that every time the woman moved, walked, slept, sat—tried to stay afloat in the water—or did anything at all, she was mercilessly poked in a very tender area by the sharp edges. Before Onya could return and look at him with repugnance, Ares closed the woman’s legs and covered them with the bearskin.

The belt itself looked very familiar, especially with its simplicity of design. It was two ‘U’ shaped bands of gold, one encircling her waist and the other running through her legs. Most interesting was that, like the chain around her neck, the middle of the belt was etched with the same Celtic love knot. In the middle of the knot, like her necklace, was a tall weeping willow tree. Over the tree read these words, I
Await Thee
. The reason Onya could not read it was that it was written in Gaelic, a language that was long dead and almost assuredly forgotten by the outside world. Above the words, in the center of the belt on the band, was the same pair of horns as her necklace.

Ares still found it difficult to believe Cernunnos might have anything to do with the woman before him. Hell, Ares didn’t even know if that Old Celt was still wandering the moors. Perhaps the woman was part of some cult dedicated to the worship of the old bastard. “Curiouser and Curiouser.” If nothing else, she presented him with something to occupy his mind for a little while. Boredom was a true problem on the island for someone like him. He spent much time in the mortal places of planet Earth, although not as much as he once had; this world had little use for him and those like him any longer. As far as Ares was concerned, the feeling was mutual.

If Cernunnos was involved, then chances were this woman was not a mortal woman. If she weren’t human, what was she? She was far too large to be a Faery; her ears were not pointed so she was not an Elf. Certainly not a dwarven woman. Perhaps she was a Fey. That was the most likely answer, yet if she were, then Ares wanted to know what Fey labored so hard and long in the sun? While known to be diligent and honest people, they were also very frivolous and fragile. Delicate even. No Fey he ever met had so much as a single callous, whereas this woman had many. Instead of working, they flitted about deep in the forests, dancing naked in the rain, and drumming up playful trouble for passersby.

“Who are you, woman?” he wondered aloud and picked up the medallion on its fine silver chain. Her slender fingers began to move like willow branches in the wind. “What dangers have you brought to my shore?” Those hands kept waving delicately in the air, almost as though she were trying to tread water. Ares took one of her hands in his as he leaned in close to her, and that ever so faint but highly intoxicating scent of honeysuckle nearly made him quiver with a heady anticipation. The hand in his was just as calloused as the soles of her feet. Looking down he turned it over in his palm to see the thick layers of skin. Even more than the belt, the wounds at her wrists bothered him. The marks left from the tightly bound rope were deep and festering. He marveled at how she’d managed to stay alive in the water with everything against her. Yet, no one meant for her to survive her time in Poseidon’s ocean, he was sure of that. There was no wreckage on his shore because there was no wreck. Someone threw this woman into the water meaning for her to drown. Looming over her, he wondered what her crime had been that she deserved such harsh punishment. There were a million reasons to kill someone, but you did not have to let them linger; for the most part, he did not. When Ares killed, he did it swiftly. Well, unless it was someone he didn’t like or who brought him a great amount of trouble. Then Ares liked to take his time and enjoy each scream of pain and plea for mercy that came from his enemy’s lips.

“You’re not in the ocean any longer, woman. You can stop swimming now.” Ares tried to soothe the sleeping woman, telling himself the answers to his questions would wait until morning. For now, she was exhausted and in need of rest.

And water of the non-salted variety. Onya was quite right about that. What kind of a host would he be if he didn’t give it to her?

Holding out his empty hand a crystal goblet of cold water appeared in his palm. He slipped the other hand under her to sit her up in the crook of his forearm. Blood from the wounds he had laid on her back seeped over his flesh as he put the rim of the chalice to her lips. “Drink this.” Tipping the cup upward the water spilled over her, past her lips, down her chin. “Open your mouth,” he encouraged and pried her lips apart. When he tipped the goblet again the water went between her parched lips and then down her throat in small gulps, but then she began to take greedily from the cup. “Slow down, woman, you’ll make yourself ill.”

At his words, her eyes fluttered open. They were large and as hazy and gray as a stormy sea. Ares pulled the cup away as he believed it appeared she wanted to say something to him but she did not speak. Instead, she reached up and around his head, her fingers entwining thick locks of raven hair. She pulled him down to her to kiss him. Her cool passionate lips pressed to his then parted ever so slightly and the tip of her tongue slipped into Ares’ mouth. What had almost been a quiver just a few moments earlier turned in a shiver that racked his massive frame head to toe as he kissed back, taken by this most delightful surprise. “I love you,” she cooed as her lips pulled away and those stormy eyes began to close.

“I beg your pardon?” Any other time his words would have been said with authority, now they were nothing more than a whisper slipping from tingling lips. Ares cleared his throat and shook his head to clear it; he gazed down at her with much interest. “Woman. Wake up.” Absently, he licked his bottom lip before touching the palm of his hand to it. He found the taste sweet as honeysuckle. Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the act but Ares didn’t think he had ever had a kiss quite like that one before. The God of War loved sex, indulged in it every chance he got in a thousand ways or more, however, intimacy was not usually part of it. As such, kisses were a rare commodity. “Loves me?” Ares scoffed, doubting that when her eyes opened she even saw him. She saw someone but not him.

Just as he stepped away from her and tossed the bear hide back over her nearly naked body, Onya came back into the throne room with Kat. “I did not call for you.”

“Onya thought she might need my help to dress our new arrival.”

More likely Kat was just nosey. She thought of herself as his Head Bitch In Charge although Ares did not see things this way. The other women catered to her almost as much as they did to him; they looked to her for guidance and advice. Kat loved it, sometimes too much. “She doesn’t. Go.”

Onya tried to hold her tongue as she layered the salve on the woman’s wrists and wounded back. Carefully she bandaged the most severe wounds before applying the ointment to the scrapes and gouges on her legs and arms. “This was all I could find. Do you approve, my Lord?” Onya asked as she held up a white linen tunic belonging to Ares. At first she thought he would say no, but then he nodded and Onya slid it over the woman’s head, pulling it all the way down to her knees. “Perhaps it would be best to leave her here, my Lord? Or in another room?”

“What? You think I’m going to be able to get through that?” he snorted as he pointed at the hidden space between the sleeping woman’s legs. “I’m an Olympian, not a magician,” he sneered. “Besides, I want her where I can keep an eye on her and not where she’s free to wander around my home in the dead of night stealing whatever catches her eye.”