Divine Scales Read online

  “Patricio? Son, are you all right?”

  Patricio whirled around to face the king hovering in his doorway. The monarch’s curling brown hair frosted with silver coiled around the gold collar of his tunic, blending with the sides of his beard. His mustache was perfectly trimmed, keeping it neat despite its thickness. The red cloak over his shoulders was immaculately pinned with a glistening ruby pendant, a perfect match to the jewels set into his heavy gold crown. Despite his impeccable appearance, the king’s wizened old face was creased with confusion and worry. As it always did, the sight of the old monarch filled Patricio’s mind with images of the true prince, the king’s only son. Though they had looked alike, the prince had been nothing like his father. Every nerve in Patricio’s body sizzled, his fingers tightening on his sword. Pressure built in his temples, pounding with every heavy thud of his heart.

  Prince Cesar had been a particularly sick shade of evil, a man who thought he was more than royalty—he’d believed himself to be a god. And a god needed worshippers. A god never heard the word no. The acts the young, cruel prince had committed had left his soul covered in the slick oil of sin, black like pure molasses. As Patricio thought about that night, his arm burned with the need to swing his weapon. His stomach rolled with the hunger that could only be satisfied by the essence of a sinner’s soul, the delicious black mist that escaped the body after his sword had done its work, freed the sin to rise into the air where he could breathe it in like a sweet cloud. The merman should have been enough. He should have been enough, you shouldn’t be hungry, not yet. He glared at the king, fighting to see him through the haze of his own memories.

  “I am not your son!” He spat the words with more force than was necessary, trying to shout loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. Drown out his hunger.

  The king’s brown eyes shone with concern as he pushed his crown up higher on his forehead. His brown sandals were silent on the stone floor as he shuffled forward.

  “I know you are not my son by blood, Patricio.” He bowed his head. “But I do think of you as my son.”

  “I killed your son.” Patricio’s voice held the weight of stone, dropping through the air like a cliff crumbling into the sea.

  He surveyed the king, a man who had once had all the bluster a monarch should. Now he looked at Patricio like an injured puppy, begging for approval. The same way he’d looked at him since the day he’d found Patricio in his son’s bedroom, blood dripping from his sword and dotting Patricio’s face as he fed off the prince’s sins. He could still remember the way Cesar’s evil had risen from his bloody flesh like steam, flowing over Patricio and sinking into his pores in a surge of mid-battle euphoria. It had been a feast the likes of which were all too rare, and Patricio had gotten drunk on the sheer depth of blackness that was the prince’s soul, had stumbled in a stupor for hours afterward.

  The king had found him that way, lost in the bliss that came from such a deep feeding. He’d rushed over, not to cradle his son’s dead body, but to embrace his son’s executioner. Patricio had looked down to see the monarch smeared with the blood of his only child and nothing but gratitude shining in his eyes. His mind had been too clouded to think properly and he’d stood there like a statue as the old man had declared Patricio his heir.

  His heir. The title only twisted the situation into the macabre. It was a constant weight on Patricio’s shoulders. A reminder of his curse. Proof that the witch’s power was far beyond anything he could hope to undo.

  “I know you killed my son, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am. He was evil, truly evil, and you did my kingdom a great service by ending his reign of terror, keeping him from the throne. Thank you.”

  An image of the mermaid leapt into Patricio’s mind, her eyes like the jade of the sea on a calm summer’s day. Her red hair licking down her shoulders to kiss her waist and the first shimmering scales of her lower body.

  “He was your brother… He’s dead.”

  “Thank you.”

  The king thanked him for killing his son. The sea maiden thanked him for killing her brother. They’d been evil, had deserved to die. It was Patricio’s destiny to bear the sword, to bring sinners to justice with blade and blood. But the families… The witch was right.

  “Did you love your son?” The words escaped his lips without his permission, but he let them hang in the air, waiting to be answered.

  The king stepped forward. At seven feet tall, Patricio dwarfed the monarch by over a foot. It made him appear more feeble somehow. Vulnerable.

  “Of course I love you,” the king assured him.

  “Not me!” Patricio stepped back, glaring at the king, wishing he could wipe the blind devotion from his eyes. “Your son. The one I killed. Did you love him?”

  The king stroked his beard, slow, thoughtful. His brow furrowed and he looked to the side as if trying to see into the past, searching for an answer to what should have been a simple question. “I… I think so. I must have, mustn’t I? A father always loves his son.”

  “And yet you thank me for his death.” Patricio sharpened his tone like a weapon, sending it straight for the king’s heart. “You thank me for killing your son, the son you loved, the son who loved you.” As much as a monster is capable of love.

  The king raised his face and for a sliver of a second, Patricio thought he saw grief in the man’s eyes. His heart lifted, hope that the curse was not all-powerful raising his spirit. Then it was gone and the king closed his hands around Patricio’s arms, giving him a single firm shake. “Yes. And I thank you, for myself and my kingdom. You are truly a worthy heir.”

  Patricio grabbed a handful of his blond hair in his fist, pulling it until the pain in his scalp ripped his mind from the threat of overwhelming despair rising like thick fog to consume him, choke him. Too many smiling faces, all full of gratitude instead of grief. It was unnatural. Wrong. Mocking him and his faith in his purpose.

  Patricio stumbled back a step, breaking free of the king’s supportive grip. He couldn’t breathe. He needed some air. His feathers ruffled, catching the breeze as his wings hitched with his sudden need to fly.

  “Patricio, what of your expedition? I see that the ship has returned to its berth, does that mean you were successful?”

  The king’s voice grated on his nerves like squalling birds fighting over flotsam and jetsam. Patricio sheathed his sword and turned his back on the simpering king.

  “Yes. The complainants were right, the merman was using the chaos of storm-tossed ships to snatch sailors off the decks and demand payment for saving their lives. As I predicted, he showed up as soon as the first sailor fell from the ship.”

  “Were any lives lost?”

  Patricio paused in the balcony doorway. “Only the merman’s.”

  The king’s words were lost to the wind as Patricio hurled himself over the balcony. He tucked his wings close to his body, diving with skin-chilling speed down the side of the palace, past the point where smooth castle stone gave way to the jagged, rocky teeth of the cliff. The last of the storm’s waves crashed and thundered against the wall of the cliff, sending salty spray up to bathe Patricio’s face. He flared out his wings at the last possible moment, his entire body jolting as the giant feathery limbs caught the wind and he shot out over the choppy surface of the ocean.

  He flew over the churning blue-black water, nearly skimming the surface then climbing higher into the air. He brought his arms out from his sides, reaching forward and concentrating on the sensation of the wind sliding through his fingers. Bit by bit, memories intruded on his calm.

  The little mermaid cuddled against his side, her soft, sweet curves a sea-kissed balm against his wave-battered body. Her red hair spilling around them like a silken blanket, wild tendrils twisted by the currents. Eyes the color of the sea as winter finally released it, the sunlight finally smoothing the waves and bringing them to their most beautiful. He’d wanted to kiss her. Even lying there on the beach, lungs still aching from the jabs of sea
water that had swept in after he’d fallen into the dark depths, he’d wanted to draw her close and kiss those lips the pale pink of a glossy sea shell.

  He’d seen her rescue a sailor, seen her muscles bunching as she climbed the rope against the side of the ship with the man hanging from her back and the wind buffeting her body. Even in the moments leading up to the merman’s death, with the blaggard’s black soul a sweet tingle on his tongue, he’d noticed her. Admired her strength, the force of determination that radiated from her.

  “You’re next. Prepare yourself.”

  Eurydice’s words rang like a heavy gong in his mind and Patricio curled his lip back in a snarl. The hamadryad. This had to be her doing. Somehow she’d sent that mermaid to him to lure him into her twisted plot. She’d obviously thought that he’d be entranced by the mermaid’s beauty. Or perhaps her strength. Bravery…

  The image of the sea maiden saving the sailor’s life shattered under the fresher memory of her glazed eyes and dopey smile. The fortitude he’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by the empty delirium that heralded the onset of his curse. The merman he’d killed had been her brother. And like it had with all his other victims’ families, the witch’s curse had struck sure and true.

  A roar of frustration tore itself from his lungs and he clawed at the wind, beating his wings furiously against the air as he fought higher and higher into the sky. The seawater had dried on his skin in an itchy net of salt, and it pinched him as it tightened. The sensation ate at his patience until he tore his sword from its sheath and held it out over the ocean.

  He hovered in the air, the moonlight flashing on his blade as it wavered in his crushing grip. He still remembered the day Hephaestus had given it to him, how proud he’d been standing there as a young man barely big enough to hold the impressive weapon. It was not a decorative piece. There was no gold or jewels to give it beauty, only the smooth, razor sharp edges of silvery metal and a plain, even hilt, worn from a lifetime of use. At four feet, it was just over half of Patricio’s height and at its base was as wide as his hand. Smooth, silver perfection. Simple. Zeus’ voice still echoed in his head if he stared at the blade hard enough.

  “Look at this sword and feel the desire for justice. Feel the drive to seek out the sinners of the world and put an end to their wicked ways. Let the blade mark them with their sins and send them to my brother Hades with clean souls.”

  That had been the day Patricio had been sent to the temple. The day he’d started his training. It had been years until he’d questioned it. The desire to drink the sins of men, the pounding drive to wipe wicked lives from the face of the earth.

  The pounding of his heart blended with the sound of the waves until it was all a dull roar in his head. He’d left Zeus’ temple long ago. He no longer answered to the philandering deity with all his hypocrisy and bluster. Though he still carried out his duties, he was no longer obligated to. No longer acting on orders from a god.

  “Zeus, you adulterous boor. You’ve had enough of my life already. I don’t have to do your dirty work anymore.”

  The sword grew heavier in his hand. He could drop it. Drop it beneath the waves and forget it, forget his duty, his blood. He’d never have to break another living soul, never have to hear them praise him over the dead bodies of their loved ones. He’d never have to look into a woman’s eyes and see false desire. He killed out of duty. That was it. Duty. Not hunger, not really. It wasn’t anything inside him that needed death. He could walk away. He could let it all go, never kill again.

  He gripped the sword, knuckles turning white. Just. Let. Go.

  Chapter Three

  “Marcela, did you hear me?”

  Marcela tore her gaze away from the royal palace rising off in the distance, her sudden movement causing her elbow to slide across the slippery surface of the large rock she was propped up on. She winced at the bite of salt in the small scrape.

  “Are you all right?”

  Benita leaned forward where she was seated on the shore, her crimson dress shifting against her ample curves as she peered at the tiny specks of blood seeping from Marcela’s elbow. Her wrinkled face creased even further and if Marcela didn’t know the woman as well as she did, she might have mistaken the look as innocent concern. But she didn’t miss the sharpness in the woman’s eyes as her gaze left the wound and searched Marcela’s face. Benita knew her mind had been elsewhere—and the woman was smart enough that Marcela wouldn’t put it past her to parse out exactly where it had been. Unfortunate, since Marcela was not in a hurry to share her sudden crush on the angelic prince of Meropis with her friend.

  “I’m sorry, Benita.” Marcela forced a smile and settled back against the rock. “I’m afraid I’m a little preoccupied.” She cleared her throat. “As you know, I am once again on ship surveying duty. I’ve been swimming all day making sure there are no ships in distress. And after the storm the other night, I suppose I’m a bit edgy.”

  She clamped down on the urge to look back up at the castle embedded on the rocky cliff at the top of the sloping mountain. The mention of the storm filled her mind with images of Patricio with his chiseled jaw, beautiful blue eyes, and enormous white wings. It had been three days, and she still couldn’t get the handsome prince out of her head. She’d hoped he would come to see her, so she’d spent as much time as she could near the beach where they’d shared that one, soul melting kiss. Unfortunately, she had duties, and not a lot of free time. She’d no doubt missed him.

  Benita’s face lit up. “I heard all about that dreadful night from Senora Gonzalez. She told me you pulled poor Miguel from the water. The same way you did with my Armando. You and your people are such a blessing to us.”

  Marcela relaxed against the rock, relieved to be on safer ground, conversation-wise. “We are only too glad to help. And of course we must remember to thank Prince Patricio as well.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Marcela realized her mistake. Tension crackled in her shoulders, drawing them painfully tight. Benita jabbed a finger at Marcela.

  “So that is it!” she crowed. “You have met Prince Patricio.”

  “What?” Marcela shoved herself up off the rock, cursing the warmth in her cheeks as she tried to school her features into a mask of indifference. Why on earth had she mentioned him? “What are you talking about?”

  Benita clucked her tongue, simultaneously raising her hand to cover her son Ernesto’s eyes. The sable-haired teenager who had looked so bored a moment ago was suddenly fascinated, his brown-eyed gaze locked on Marcela’s naked chest, as helpless as a fish on a hook. He didn’t even move for several seconds after his mother covered his eyes, his hands frozen in his lap where he’d been toying with a small piece of driftwood moments ago. Marcela quickly lowered her body, once again hiding her chest against the slick slate grey surface of the rock.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  Benita took her hand off Ernesto’s face and waved it at Marcela, dismissing her apologies. “My dear, when exactly were you going to tell me you’d met our prince?”

  The words to argue danced on the tip of her tongue, but one look at Benita’s knowing brown eyes and Marcela knew denial was pointless.

  She hesitated, dipping her tail in the waves and lifting it to let the water slide over her scales. The caress of the sea trickling over her lower half soothed her and she bobbed her head in surrender.

  “All right, all right. It was right after I pulled Miguel out of the water,” she started. “After his fellows dragged him back on board, something caught the moonlight. I looked to the side and there he was.”

  The memory came back to her, as vivid as if it were happening all over again. “I’d seen him before, but viewing him from a distance doesn’t prepare you for seeing him up close. He’s enormous, a giant hulking over other men like a great white swimming with a school of minnows. Muscles upon muscles, as if he could have lifted the ship out of the water if he’d had the mind to. His wings spread out around him like a giant
cloud, his hair hanging around his face like…like golden chains, and his eyes… Benita, I swear his eyes glowed.”

  “I’ve never seen him in person.” Benita fanned her cheeks. “He sounds heavenly.”

  Marcela propped her head up in her hand, her chin resting in her palm as she tilted her head to the side. She gripped the rock as she told Benita all about her encounter with the angelic prince. “He was magnificent.” Suddenly she gripped the rock. “Then the mast broke loose. It struck him and sent him hurtling off the ship into the sea. The water swallowed him immediately and I dove after him.” She put a hand to her temple, trying to rid her mind of the image of that horrible moment. “There was blood in the water. His wings that had looked so majestic as he stood on the ship were a nightmare in the sea. I could barely get my arms around him enough to pull him to the surface. I dragged him to the beach. Thankfully, I wasn’t too late.”

  “Que romantico,” Benita mused, her brown eyes twinkling.

  The memory of Patricio’s lips on hers seized Marcela’s brain. The sweet taste of spring, the hard muscled length of him pressed against her body. The strength she’d sensed in him as he’d taken control of the kiss… “I love him,” she blurted out.