Page 4 of Dream Warrior (Dark-Hunter 16)
Jericho paused as he saw the grease on his hand covering the tattoo he'd used to hide the words of condemnation his own mother had burned into his skin at Zeus's command. Old memories tore through him anew as he thought about the way the Olympians had turned on him.
And all because he'd refused to murder an infant. Closing his eyes, he remembered that one defining moment so clearly. The small hut. . . the goddess's screams as she begged him for mercy.
"Kill me, not my baby, please! For the sake of Zeus, the baby's innocent. I'll do anything."
He'd tightened his grip on the child, fully intending to fulfill his duty. The baby's father had gone at his back. But the god of pain, Dolor, had caught him and cut him down before the goddess who'd tried so desperately to save her family.
That baby's only sin had been its birth.
And as he'd looked into that small, trusting face and the baby had smiled up at him, unaware of what was going on, he'd faltered.
"Kill it," Dolor had snarled.
Cratus had pulled his dagger out to slice its throat. Laughing, the baby had reached for him, its eyes twinkling with fire and joy as its tiny fingers wrapped around his large hand.
So he'd done the only thing he could. He'd used his powers to put the baby to sleep, then smuggled it out and given it over to peasants to raise.
One moment of compassion.
An eternity of shame, abuse and degradation.
Now they dared to ask him for a favor after all they'd done to him. They were out of their collective minds.
And he was through with them.
"Hey, man," Darice said, coming up to him. "Why didn't you ever tell us you could speak?"
Because talking to Darice might lead to friendship. And if he made that mistake, Darice would die right before him. Brutally and mercilessly.
Zeus had taken everything from him.
So he ignored Darice while he unbolted the alternator that needed to be replaced.
Darice made a sound of disgust. "Whatever. Guess you're too good to associate with the rest of us."
Let them think that. It was much easier than trying to explain a truth they would never accept. He was alone in this world. As always.
Darice wandered over to work on the Toyota that had come in earlier. He and Paul joked good-naturedly while they set about flushing the radiator and putting in new plugs.
Jericho had just pulled out the alternator when a shadow fell over him. Looking up, he found the shop owner, Jacob Landry. Short and pudgy, Landry had salt-and-pepper hair that was receding and a pair of greedy blue eyes.
"I heard there was some trouble here with you earlier."
Jericho shook his head no.
"Um-hmmm. Charlotte done told me that you can speak, too. Is that true?" He nodded.
"Boy, why you want to lie to me? I done told you when I hired you that I don't play that bullshit. You want to work here, you come to work on time, keep your personal life at home and give me no lip and no lies. Comprende?"
"Yes, sir," he said as he tried to keep the hostility out of his voice. He hated that he was reduced to belly-crawling to assholes like this just so that he could eat. "It won't happen again, Mr. Landry. I promise."
Landry poked him sharply in the shoulder. "It better not."
Jericho tightened his grip on the wrench in his hand, wanting to give Landry a taste of what he was capable of. There had been a time when he'd have gutted anyone who talked to him like that. Never mind someone who'd actually dared to touch him uninvited. Before his human life had begun, everyone who came into contact with him quivered in fear of his strength and sternness.
But Landry was a bully. He enjoyed his minuscule power over the people who worked for him. He only felt good about himself when they were groveling for their livelihood.
And as much as it sucked, Jericho needed this job. As the world became more modern, it was getting harder and harder to find people who could make fake IDs at a reasonable price and who were willing to let him live off the grid.
Other immortals were allowed to accumulate wealth, but that, too, was beyond him. Any time he tried to save even a dollar, Zeus cleaned him out. One catastrophe after another.
So had been his existence for so many centuries that he no longer even bothered to count them.
He was nothing and he would never have anything again. Not even dignity.
Sighing, he went back to work, hating himself and this life.
You could change that....
It had to be bad for Zeus to send someone to ask for his help.
You could be a god again....
The dream of that thought tormented him. It was tempting except for one thing. He'd have to look at the very beings who'd turned their backs on him and left him to this pathetic state. Every one of those bastards had ignored him.
Every one of them.
Or worse, they'd tortured him.
Every single night. For thousands of years, the Dolophoni-the children of the Furies-and the dream gods had come to him and killed him. And every morning, he was resurrected to live this miserable existence right where he'd left off the night before.
Over and over. Bloody and violent. No matter how hard he tried to fight them off, he held no powers against them. They gleefully held him down and beat him or carved him to maximize the pain of his sentence. Every organ in his body had been torn out of him so many times that the pain was seared into his DNA. He dreaded every night and the horror it would ultimately bring.
