The ancient world's most notorious sorceress has just become the modern world's only hope for survival.
How do you fight a god of light who has been seduced by darkness? That’s the challenge Medea Keres must meet. Posing as a wealthy young heiress in modern day Atlanta, no one knows she is the original Medea, the sorceress from ancient Greek legends.
As priestess of the witch goddess Hecate, Medea is charged with hunting demons that would otherwise overrun the world. Now she must face a far greater adversary. One of the twelve shining Olympian gods has turned rogue, violating the edict against human sacrifice. As the body count quickly rises, Medea knows her enemy is getting stronger.
With the help of the underworld nymph Orphne and the hero-god Heracles, she must find a way to unmask the evil so that the other Olympians will take action.
But as she probes deeper into a blood-soaked labyrinth of suspense and intrigue, Medea finds a net of deceit and treachery that will require all of her cunning to escape.
The man in front of me held up a restraining hand. A hand that, like the rest of him, was changing again, shifting from the image of my father to someone new.
He was becoming far younger. Barely twenty now. The face so familiar, tanned from months on the unforgiving waters of the Black Sea as he sailed with his comrades to my birthplace in Colchis.
I kept myself from looking into eyes that should have been a soft amber-brown. I knew they would be red, and that I would be lost if I glimpsed them. Instead I focused on the hair. A rich chestnut, curling slightly where it met his shoulders. It matched the short beard, streaked through with gold from the relentless sun.
The beard framed a mouth that still had the fullness and softness of youth, not a trace of chapping despite his exposure to the cruel elements. It was a mouth that begged to be kissed and promised to be marvelous at returning it.
I avoided that temptation, though it was hard. Instead I allowed my hand to trace the arm. So well-muscled from his turns at the oars, which he insisted on taking even though he was leader of the band.
He leaned into me, the feeling of his body so familiar against mine. I smelled honey and salt, and a slightly heavier musk wafted to my nostrils now and again. The scent of hardship and deprivation willingly embraced, the sadness of friends lost along the way, and an underlying fear that he would never again see his home.
If the situation had been any different I could have almost forgiven him for taking Jason’s form. Almost, because no matter how much it hurt to see my first love’s likeness again, there was something else too.
This was how he had looked when we first met alone, after he landed in Colchis on the quest for the Golden Fleece. It was enough to remind me the breathless excitement of infatuation which I’d mistaken for love. I’d never felt quite the same way with any other man.
“Sweetly done,” I murmured, allowing my lips to just caress the edge of his ear. “But we have a saying these days. I’m over you.” I pulled back and turned away.
The movement was so subtle I almost mistook it for an errant shadow. Orphne?
I glanced back to my right. The movement came again. It wasn’t Orphne. Nyx had just appeared, quickly. She saw that I was looking, put a finger to her lips to silence any possible giveaway I might make, and just as quickly vanished.
Was she going to help me somehow? She had some tricks up her sleeve, but I doubted they’d be enough to get us very far. Still, she had the one thing I desperately needed now: the element of surprise.
“I was right,” I sighed as I took a few thoughtful paces. “You’ve been stuck on holy Olympus too long. You think these images from my past will hurt me. But you’re wrong. I long ago came to terms with my father and Jason, and their memories. They wronged me, but in revenging myself I committed my own wrongs. I forgave them. I had to, so I could forgive myself.”
There was a slight sound of footsteps behind me. But they were softer than they should have been for a man of Jason’s size.
“And have you really forgiven yourself?”
My veins ran cold at the sound of the child’s voice. My breathing quickened, but my heart slowed so much it might have been pumping lead. My eyes squeezed shut involuntarily at the pain that voice sent surging through me.
A small, cool hand slipped into mine. “Have you forgiven yourself,” the voice repeated. “Mother?”
About the Author
Morgan St. Knight live in Atlanta, and is a lifelong student of mythology, the occult, and comparative religion. With more than 25 years of experience as a journalist, Morgan enjoys the occasional foray into fantasyland to escape the grim realities of life. He is currently working on the sequel to "Curse of Prometheus" and is developing a second paranormal series which also takes place in the South.
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