With the protection spell in place, he was able to breathe a little easier. Any monsters lurking in the shadows wouldn’t be able to get past the circle he’d cast, at least for now. His powers were nothing more than tricks, really. He wasn’t strong enough to cast a spell for any serious length of time. Tomorrow night he’d have to cast the damn spell all over again, and there was a good chance it might not even work. And judging by the way his luck was going…
His jaw clenched as he moved down four dusty steps that took him into what he suspected had once been a kitchen or dining hall but was now nothing more than rock and soil and open sky. Stars twinkled overhead and moonlight shimmered down, casting shadows and light over the uneven ground. He moved around a corner and paused near a six-inch gap that ran from floor to what used to be a ceiling at least ten feet high, where two walls intersected in the shape of an L.
He might have passed right by this spot earlier if he hadn’t felt the chill brush his face. Now he was just plain curious. He ran his fingers over the edge of the gap. The air leaking out was cool, but not frigid. Grasping the edge of the protruding wall, he pulled, and like a door opening, the wall hinged outward.
The space was just wide enough to slide through, no wider. He paused inside to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. From the moonlight shining at his back, he realized he was looking at another wall of solid stone.
He was just about to turn around and head out the way he’d come when the cool air slid over his bare feet. Kneeling down, he ran his fingers along the bottom edge of the wall and the inch-high gap that stretched the width of a door.
A false wall, he realized. Stepping as far back as he could, he squinted and discovered what faced him wasn’t solid stone but an arched doorway. He pressed his palm against the center of the door. Pushed. Nothing happened. Lifting his gaze, he looked over the entire space, and that’s when he noticed the ancient text inscribed into the stones surrounding the door. Faint, weathered from time and the elements, but readable.
Only he who hath been chosen shall pass unto this sacred place. Speak ye hero and enter.
A shot of apprehension rippled through him. What could possibly be sacred on this miserable island? His brow wrinkled as he read the words again and realized it was nothing more than a riddle. He’d never been good at riddles. Never really cared. And yet…
He glanced at his forearms, and two words came to mind. The ancient Argolean words for Eternal Guardian. A name he and the other Argonauts were never even called anymore because it had fallen out of use. “Aionios Kidemonas.”
A loud scraping sound echoed and the door opened inward all by itself.
“Whoa.”
He stepped inside the circular room, which looked like home to nothing more than wide dusty steps that spiraled down into a black abyss. He listened, the only sound the rapid beat of his own heart. Beside him he spotted a metal ring embedded into the stone, roughly shoulder height, with what looked like a wooden torch perched within.
He swiped the cobwebs away, lifted the torch from its holder. Touching the rag wrapped around the end, he brought his fingers to his nose to sniff.
Oil.
Apprehension turned to wariness. His senses went on high alert. Were he and Isadora really alone on this island?
Muttering one of the easy spells he remembered from childhood, he waved the fingers of his free hand over the end of the torch and watched as flames ignited in the cloth to illuminate the downward-spiraling room and cast eerie shadows over the walls. He took a step down, then another, and as he descended he couldn’t help but consider the irony. He’d used his powers more in the last two days than he had in the last two hundred years combined.
The steps dropped what had to be thirty feet. The air was cooler down here, mustier. At the base of the steps, he held up the torch to shine over the massive space ahead.
“Holy mother of Zeus,” he whispered.
A long hall was flanked on both sides by massive marble pillars that ran up to the ceiling. Between each pillar sat a lone steel trunk. Three on the left, three on the right, and at the very end of the hall another, though this chest was bigger than the first six and was decked out with gold hinges and trimmings and the symbol of Heracles.
He moved toward the wide flat stone table that stood on a raised platform in the center of the room and held the torch waist high so he could read the words carved into the base.
Aionios Kidemonas.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he turned a slow circle, glancing from one chest to the next, each monogrammed with a different Greek symbol.
The Hall of Heroes.
No way.
A lump formed in his throat. It couldn’t be real. Not here on this island of all places, hidden away from the world.
His eyes flicked over the second chest from the end, then came back and held. He focused in on the ancient symbol of his forefather, Jason.
His heart beat hard as he stopped in front of the trunk. Glancing around, he noticed more steel circles embedded into the pillars, as if to hold luminaries. He slid the torch into the closest, then flexed his fingers and refocused.
There was no lock. No magick words to speak. Grasping the lid of the chest, he lifted. Aged metal groaned as it hinged up and back. He peered inside and froze.
“No fucking way.” His hands slid into finely spun golden wool. Slowly he lifted the fleece from its resting place and stared at the mythical object, which looked like nothing more than a ram’s skull and horns with a head full of golden curls. The search for the Golden Fleece had been Jason’s one major quest. The journey that had propelled him to hero status. The mission in which he’d fallen under Medea’s spell. It had set events into motion that now could not be undone, and which had condemned Demetrius and every other of Jason’s ancestors.
It didn’t look like much to him. He turned it in his hands, noting not a flicker of power anywhere in the damn thing. Just bones and wool and history. Frowning, he set it aside and looked down again, then felt a burst of excitement.
“Now this is what I’m talking about.” The parazonium with its black handle and red jewels was the perfect weight in his hand. He swung it right and left, brought it back to center. “If only…” He touched the edge with his free hand and winced. The blade sliced through the tip of his finger as if it had just been sharpened.
He brought the tip of his finger to his lips and sucked until the blood flow slowed and stopped and he felt his skin begin to heal. Wiping his finger on his pants, he looked back in the chest. Then smiled when he spotted a shield with Jason’s markings, a steel breastplate with the same, and shoes.
“About time you did one damn thing for me.” He set the parazonium and shield on the massive stone tablet and bent over to push his foot into the well-used sandal.
Not a pair of hiking boots, but a thousand times better than bare feet. He’d left his shoes on the beach and had been kicking himself ever since for taking them off in the first place. Looking back in the trunk, he realized there was only one sandal, not two.
“Figures.” He tugged the sandal off and tossed it in the chest. Digging deeper, he found a spell book that had to have come from Medea, a bag of rocks he had no clue what to do with, a sheepskin rug, blankets, and a bunch of black candles.
His distaste for witchcraft reared, but with the monsters he’d seen the last two days, he wasn’t about to be picky. He’d use whatever the hell he could. Hooking the belt and scabbard over his shoulder so it lay diagonally across his back, he slid the parazonium in its sheath. After replacing the other items back in the box, he stepped to the next trunk, the one with Achilles’s symbol branded into the metal, then flipped the lid and smirked as he lifted the Pelican Spear from its resting place.