The Wicked Within

He’d seen this eye many times before in books and on statues. The Eye of Horus.

On the table were three bowls: one of black liquid, one of red, and one of bluish green. Horus picked up a small dagger from the table.

He offered Sebastian the blade. “You must squeeze a drop of your blood into each bowl.”

Sebastian slit his finger, then squeezed three drops into the bowls.

Horus dipped his finger into one of the bowls. “Close your mouth and face me,” he said.

Fear spiked through him at the god’s words. He had to concentrate on keeping his feet planted. But he’d come this far. He thought of what was happening in his world, the fighting, the chaos, the fires. . . .

Horus’s strange eyes grew brighter as he lifted his finger and touched Sebastian’s mouth. The contact sent the creepiest buzz through him as Horus traced the blue paint over the outer edge of Sebastian’s top and bottom lip, making the shape of what felt like an eye. Horus took another finger and dipped it in black, making a small line down his chin, and then, with the red, he made a second line. Just like the eye on the staff.

“You speak now through the Eye.”

When Horus instructed him to draw the eye over the god’s mouth, Sebastian went cold. He wanted to bolt, to get the hell out of there, but he didn’t move. As much as he didn’t want to touch Horus, he dipped his finger in the blue and, with a shaky hand, drew the eye around Horus’s lips, followed by two lines down his chin in the red and black.

Sweat rolled down his back. The eye around Horus’s mouth looked eerie and grim, almost violent in a way. Like war paint, something with meaning and power.

“I too speak through the Eye, and thus my words are binding.” Horus then repeated everything Sebastian had requested in exchange for the awakening, word for word. “Should I break this vow, my spirit will be pulled by the Eye, through my mouth, releasing me from my body once again. Now you must wake me or suffer the same.”

Sebastian’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he saw stars of a different kind. He gulped. The paint on his lips felt strange as he gave a sharp nod, wondering if this was the smartest thing he’d ever done—or the very worst.

Horus began to say strange and ancient-sounding names. Sebastian repeated them slowly. One after another. The air warbled. As he said the names, he felt the paint sinking into his skin and tingling around his mouth, then down his throat, and into his chest as though it had settled into his lungs. Sebastian felt as though he was breathing life into the names as they came out of his mouth.

Then, carefully, he reached up and felt his mouth. It was dry. There was no paint. It had disappeared.

Beyond Horus’s shoulder, one of the stars in the painted sky grew brighter. Slowly its light was pulled downward in a long stream, growing more brilliant as it touched Horus. The more names that were spoken, the brighter the light that filled him.

As the last name was spoken, Sebastian shielded his eyes. The light surrounded Horus, illuminating his form. Then, in a flash, the star was gone, and before Sebastian stood the tanned figure of a man with a shaved head, dressed in linen. Horus was just as impressive and intimidating now as he had been in his spirit form.

“Now let’s go get my child.”

TWENTY

“BRAN!” I YELLED AFTER HIM as we hurried down the stairs. “Damn it, what god is it?”

An explosion hit the apartment. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling as the building shook. We made it outside just as the stairwell collapsed in a heap of drywall, wood, and plaster.

Coughing, I ran down the street. All around me, the war raged on. Where people weren’t fighting, they were pulling the wounded to safety or evacuating families from the apartments. On the corner of St. Peter and Chartres, Bran slid to a sudden stop. Slamming into him was like slamming into a brick wall. With one final cough and spit, I stepped around him to see what had stopped him cold.

Athena’s army. Minions and creatures of lore spilled into the square from the side streets. Harpies, Minotaur, one-eyed cyclops, sirens, vampires, a few arachnid/human hybrids . . .

My heart sank. It was over.

Kieran came to stand at my other shoulder. And I could tell from their silence, they felt what I did: defeat. Yeah, we’d fight to the bitter end, but inside we knew there was no way to beat them all. There were just too many against an already wounded, divided, exhausted foe. The Novem and New 2 as we knew them would end tonight unless Sebastian came through. Unless, by some miracle, I found the Hands and stopped Athena before things got worse.

A child screamed. Turning, I saw my father carrying a little boy and holding the hand of his young mother. We still had time to get the remaining families out of the square. “Most of the apartments are cleared,” my father said as he hurried past us. “Don’t engage unless you have to. Help whoever you can to safety.”

A small family of four clung to the shadows of a storefront, afraid to move. I went to help them, but the River Witch appeared and helped them cross. What the hell is he doing here? Once the family was on their way down Chartres, away from the square, I grabbed his arm. “What are you doing here? Where are the kids?”

He spun around, the hood of his cloak slipping. “Still at the hospital.” His withered old face held no emotion as he stared at me and then said, “You’re all going to die, and you’re too stupid to save them.”

I blinked at him, shocked by the venom in his tone.

“Use your power, gorgon. What are you waiting for?” He shoved me in the belly with the end of his cane. I reacted without thinking, grabbing it and jerking it past my side, pulling him closer to me in the process. I had him by the throat.

He tried to laugh, but could only wheeze. “So rudimentary. Only by touch. You’re not a true god-killer until you can do it with your eyes. There’s a reason they look the way they do, clear and reflective. . . . ” The witch lifted his cane and power erupted from it, hitting a line of minions running at us. They burst into a shower of ashes. A powerful staff, not a simple cane.

I stared hard at him, my grip softening. I’d always thought I had to touch in order for my power to work. Could he be right? Could I do it now?

“Ari!” My father’s shout jerked me back into the here and now. He was fighting his way to me, swarmed by minions. I started for him. He swung to behead one minion, but a harpy flew in and plucked his sword from his hand. His bloodied hands couldn’t hold on, and it slipped from his grasp. I shoved away from the witch. My father leaped, grabbing the harpy’s ankle, kicking the minion coming at him and then grappling with the harpy. Its leathery wings beat frantically, unable to gain upward momentum.

A sword buried itself in the harpy’s chest, the creature’s shriek so high-pitched and loud, I had to cover my ears. It was Bran’s sword sticking out of its chest; I’d recognize it anywhere. I tracked back and found him across the street. My father and the harpy dropped as Bran began hand-to-hand combat, shouting at Kieran nearby. He urged her to run, to get the hell out of the melee.

I grabbed my father’s blade from the ground and clotheslined a minion running toward me, then dropped to my knee and stabbed it in the heart. After that came another. And another. With every kill I made, with every use of the blade and my power, my hopes sank. We were getting nowhere. And I was getting no closer to my father’s side. The witch’s words echoed in my head as I fought, and I tried like hell to connect my power to my gaze. It was a move I had never practiced, and my attempts were pathetic. There just wasn’t time to concentrate. Opponents were coming at me with blistering speed, keeping me too occupied with staying alive.