Battle for the Blood Read Free Page A

one of Apollo’s shirts—blessing him for his broad shoulders—and disappeared into the bathroom with a borrowed brush to do what I could about the wild mass of hair I blamed on the gorgon part of my bloodline. At least my serpentine locks didn’t actually have minds of their own. Apollo had some kind of hair gel that I decided to try despite the distinctly masculine scent, and for a wonder my curls practically transformed into ringlets on the spot and played nice. I vowed to buy stock in the product.
    I was without makeup, but I never wore much in any case, and if I looked somewhat scary, maybe the Grey Sisters would think twice before eating my face.
    Apollo was up next. There was a knock at the door a minute after he stepped out of the bathroom, looking amazing, as always. Upon answering it, we found a doorman ready to conduct us down the service elevator to the dock entrance through which supplies and laundry came in and out. And, apparently, special guests trying to avoid a media frenzy. Just outside the dock doors a car waited. I didn’t recognize the car itself, but the driver…
    “Viggo!” I cried.
    Apollo opened the back door and hurried me inside before I could draw attention.
    “Ms. Karacis!” our driver answered. “I am so glad to see you okay. But your back… You are carrying yourself with difficulty. You are all right?”
    The wings flapped under Apollo’s shirt, fighting for space I didn’t have to give them. I just hoped Viggo wouldn’t notice. “Just a little stiff still,” I told him. “But what are you doing here? I thought you worked for Uncle Hector.”
    “I have him on loan,” Apollo said.
    “With a bonus!” Viggo agreed. “Hazard pay.”
    I laughed. “Glad to have you aboard.”
    Viggo took off as soon as Apollo was in beside me with the door closed, before we’d even had the chance to snap our seat belts.
    “Where to?” I asked, realizing I still didn’t know.
    “Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re on to Metéora. The Grey Sisters’ cave is halfway up the side of one of the cliffs.”
    I groaned. No wonder he’d waited to tell me until I was a captive audience. Viggo drove only slightly slower on the switchbacks down the side of Mount Parnassus than he did changing lanes in Athens, and my heart was entirely in my throat. I hated heights. And now I had to contemplate scaling the cliffs of Metéora to meet three carnivorous crones. My life, I thought, could not possibly get any crazier.
    I was wrong.

Chapter Two
    If Delphi was the navel of the world (so said myth), then Metéora was Gaia’s hand flipping mankind the bird. Great projections of rock shot up out of the ground like Mother Earth giving us all the finger several times over. The rocks rose straight skyward to the height of mountains but without a single gentle incline. It was cliffs everywhere you looked. Metéora was a spot so unique, so stunning, so inhospitable as to be absolutely one of the most compelling places in the world. Even we Greeks, who liked to build on the tippy-top of mountains, had left it alone for ages and ages…until hermit monks determined to withdraw from the ever-encroaching world, scaled the heights and eventually built atop the unlikely peaks.
    I couldn’t even imagine how that had been accomplished. There’d been no roads, no gentle gradients to allow for the transport of materials. No airlifts or giant cranes or any modern conveniences, which nonetheless would have been difficult if not impossible to maneuver on the rocky surfaces. Legend had it that the founder of the first monastery, Athanasios, had been carried to the heights by an eagle. Now monasteries stood atop the various cliffs of Metéora like fairy-tale castles.
    But before there were structures, there were the caves. The cliffs were peppered with them. A few were highlighted with ancient symbols or more modern graffiti. One or two were decorated with brightly colored flags, candles and kitsch like a memorial wall. But most