Descendant

“No,” Heather said flatly, wondering why the hell this guy wasn’t going away. “But then I never really bothered to speculate on the hobbies of some moldy old Roman goddess, thanks.”

“Oh. Ouch.” His expression turned pained, and he waggled a finger at her. “That moldy old goddess there is Greek.”

Heather shrugged. She knew that. She just didn’t care. “Same diff,” she muttered, silently willing the train to go faster.

Above the rim of his sunglasses, one dark eyebrow arched sharply. “Okay,” he sighed. “You’ve obviously had a seriously shitty night so far, so I’m gonna let that one slide. But just for the record—even though I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to know this—the Greek and Roman gods are so not the same thing.”

Heather could only stare at the guy in dull astonishment. This was one of the weirder conversations she’d had recently—and that was saying something—but there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. She was trapped. There was no easy escape until the next station. And even then, what was to stop the guy from following her off the train? At least he hadn’t tried to shift over onto the seat next to her. And strangely, when she thought about it, she realized she also wasn’t getting go-for-the-mace warning vibes from him. Yet . . .

So Heather just sat there, staring at her own reflection in his shades, as he went on about the differences between the two pantheons of gods like he was the class nerd in her Comp Myth class at Gosforth. Maybe he was an ex-student. Except that couldn’t be. He looked like he was around the same age as Heather, and that would have meant they’d have shared some classes. And she was sure she’d never seen him before in her life. Although . . . the more she looked at him, the more she was struck with a sense of familiarity.

He didn’t seem to notice her scrutiny. Or if he did, he didn’t mind. “I mean, seriously,” he was saying, “I dare you to just try telling Cupid he’s the same guy as Eros.” He flashed a grin at Heather that was only half a tooth shy of maniacal. “You’d likely wake up the next morning strapped to the underside of an amorous goat while a handsome young man uses you for target practice at the local archery range.”

Heather figured he probably wasn’t actually crazy. . . . Just some Queens rocker wannabe who saw a sad, pretty girl alone on the train in the middle of the night and thought maybe he could cheer her up. And maybe get some play if he was successful. Under other circumstances, she might have even indulged him a bit. Not tonight.

“Look.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m really not in the mood, okay?”

“Why?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, expression earnest.

“Why?” she asked warily. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“I mean, why aren’t you in the mood? And what mood would that be, anyway?” He tilted his head and regarded her across the space between them. Heather got the impression that, behind the shades, he wasn’t blinking. “A good one? ’Cause if that’s what you meant, then you’re absolutely right. You’re not. But if you meant you’re not in the mood to talk to me, then . . . I think you might be wrong. You sure look like you could use someone to talk to. Even if it is just some incredibly handsome random guy on a train at three in the morning.”

Heather rolled her eyes. She also, on second thought, realized that he was right about two things. One: he was incredibly handsome. Almost unrealistically so. To the point that, when he smiled at her, she wanted to reach across the space between them, take off his shades, and gaze into what she was sure must be the most mesmerizing pair of eyes on the planet Earth. And two: she really did need to talk to someone.

Calum . . .

“What was his name?” he asked gently.

Heather glared at him, startled by the question.

“The guy you loved. The one you lost. He had a name, didn’t he?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, almost afraid to say it. “What makes you think I lost a guy?”

Ray-Bans shrugged. “Okay. Girl then. Whatever. All I know is you definitely lost someone. Someone you loved more than anyone else in the whole world. There’s no other reason for you to be out here at this time of night, looking the way you do and feeling the way you feel.”

“How do you know how I feel?”

His grin returned, but it was less maniacal this time. “Let’s just say I’m pretty perceptive when it comes to matters of the heart. Years and years of practice.”

“You’re kidding. You look like you’re—what—my age.”

He shrugged again. “I try to stay out of the sun. Eat right. Moisturize . . .”

Heather felt herself almost cracking a smile. She shook her head and gazed down at the floor between her feet.

“But I’d also have had to be blind, deaf, dumb, and chained to a rock somewhere half a world away not to hear your heart breaking, Heather. It was louder than the bridge blowing.”

Heather’s head whipped back up at the sound of her name coming from the stranger’s lips. She hadn’t told him her name. And the bridge . . . how did he know she’d been there when the Hell Gate had blown?

Who the hell is this guy?

She stared at him, speechless, wary.

He stared back and took off his sunglasses.

Heather’s breath caught in her chest. She’d been wrong about his eyes. They weren’t beautiful. They were bloodshot and smudged with shadows. A shade of brown so deep they were almost black—like his pupils were overlarge. Eyes that had seen way too much. There were the beginnings of creases fanning out at their corners. In fact, his eyes made it look as if he’d been weeping bitterly for a thousand days straight. Eyes like that, set into a face with bone structure and pure perfect symmetry like that . . . Heather blinked when she realized that those eyes, world-weary, sorrow-laden, wrung dry of tears by unimaginable heartache, just made him even more incredible.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Call me Valen,” he said, the grin sliding back into place. It put a hint of sparkle back into the darkness of his gaze.

“How do you know me?” she asked, fear creeping up her spine. “Did Gunnar Starling send you to find me?”

Valen’s expression clouded, and he put his Ray-Bans back on. “No. But I’m pretty sure he’s one of the reasons I found you. Not that I haven’t been looking, Heather, but . . . well, it’s not as easy as it was in the old days. And they’ve kept you all pretty safe from us. I’d like to keep you even safer.”

She wondered who he meant by “they” and “us,” but she didn’t have a chance to ask before he reached inside his jacket and pulled out what looked like a compact crossbow.

A . . . crossbow. Okay then.

It was tiny, shiny, and sleek. It was also preloaded with two miniature bolts—a golden one and a dull, gray leaden-looking one. The golden arrow was needle sharp. The gray one was blunt and looked as though it would bounce off the hide of any intended target.

“Yeah . . .” Valen chuckled, seeing the way Heather was looking at the drab projectile. “Appearances. Deceiving. That one? Hurts like every hell there is.” He handed over the strange little weapon.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Use it.” Valen stood, looking pleased with himself.

Heather rolled her eyes. “For what?”

He laughed. “You’re smart enough to know that things are happening, Heather. Strange things.”

That was a colossal understatement, Heather thought. Yeah. “Things” are definitely happening.

“And this is supposed to help me somehow?” She brandished the delicate weapon.

“Maybe. You’ll figure it out eventually. And when you do, use it however you see fit. I don’t need it anymore.