Deep Water (8 page)

“And if she said no?”

The sea god opened his mouth to reply,
then deflated. Over the centuries he had entertained so many impossible
fantasies of braving the horrors of Tartarus and rescuing a grateful Medusa. It
had never occurred to him that Medusa might refuse to be rescued. “Then I would
leave her to Amphitrite,” he said slowly. “At least I could make amends to both
of them that way. But it doesn’t matter now.”

Chiron frowned down at him. “Why?”

“Because Medusa—Griffin—is dying. He has a
brain tumor, and it’s fatal.” The wine hadn’t helped. He couldn’t shy away from
the situation anymore. “I am one of the most powerful gods on the planet, but I
have no healing ability. I can’t stop this, Chiron. And dammit all to Tartarus,
I don’t know what to
do
!”

He bellowed the last into the air.
Startled seabirds and puffs of dust erupted into the air as the ground trembled
at his anger. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to rage, thrust his trident into the
guts of an enemy, raise a tidal wave,
bring
down
mountains.

And it wouldn’t change a thing. His
agapetos
would still die from the
hidden, lethal assassin in his head.

When the temblor eased, Chiron cleared his
throat. “Are you finished?”

Poseidon shrugged one shoulder. He refused
to think it was petulant. “I suppose so.”

“Good. Now, did it ever occur to you to
ask for help?”

For a moment he wasn’t sure he’d heard his
half-brother correctly. “I—no?”

The centaur sighed. “Phenomenal cosmic
powers, itty bitty grasp of social skills,” he muttered. “Look, you may be an
asshole, but you’re also family, screwed up as it is. And I like
Ammie
—if she wasn’t involved in your
fuckery
,
she shouldn’t have to pay the price.”

Poseidon licked suddenly dry lips. “Are
you saying you’ll help me?”

His half-brother rolled his eyes. “And the
light dawns. Yes, I’ll help you, you big idiot. Now, as I see it, you have two
options—find a god with healing abilities and get him or her to heal Griffin.
It wouldn’t fake out the Fates, but it might buy you more time.”

“I already thought of that,” Poseidon said
morosely. “If Nicholas has Asclepius’s Rod that means something happened to
Asclepius. And I haven’t seen Apollo in centuries. And you—”

“Are somewhat corporeally challenged,”
Chiron finished sardonically, gesturing at his shimmering form. “I don’t know
what to tell you about Asclepius. The last time I spoke with him, he said he
had a prophecy from the Oracle. He wouldn’t go into details, just said that he
was making arrangements for someone to take over the Rod and asked me to tutor
the Bearer. I don’t think we can expect him to show up anytime soon. As for
Apollo,” he spread his hands, “you know what he’s like. He likes going
walkabout even more than Zeus. But I can start looking for him.”

Poseidon found the words difficult to get
out, but did it anyway. “Thank you, brother. You have my undying gratitude.” He
blinked. “Wait. You said I have two options?”

“Right, and I think you’re
gonna
like the second one better.” Chiron smirked. “What
happens when a god falls in love with a mortal and doesn’t want that mortal to
die?”

Faces appeared in Poseidon’s mind, the
sweet countenance of Psyche, Cupid’s human bride, and the steadfast face of his
own son-in-law. “Godhood,” he breathed. “Griffin can be raised to godhood.”

“Bingo,” Chiron said. “Have him made
divine and his mortality won’t be an issue anymore.”

Poseidon’s high hopes, raised by the
thought of finding Apollo, drained away. “But once again, I don’t have that
power. And Gaia—” He hesitated, not wanting to mention her vague promise, if it
could even be called that. “Well, you know what she’s like.”

“Which leaves…” Chiron prompted.

“Zeus. Who also hasn’t spoken to me in
centuries.
”

“Like you should complain about that. But
I may be able to convince him to do it,” the centaur said.

“How?”

Chiron gave his body a brief, bitter look.
“Let’s just say that he owes me a few favors, and I’m in the mood to collect.”

Cautiously, Poseidon considered the
suggestion. There was no love lost between him and his youngest brother, the
King of the Gods. He could bring himself to beg for Griffin’s life, galling as
it would be, but there was no guarantee that Zeus would grant the boon.

But if Chiron could convince Zeus to grant
Griffin godhood… “Your offer is an extremely generous one, and I thank you for
it,” he said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”

“We have to find our feckless sibling
first,” Chiron finished for him. “And from what I’ve heard, he’s on the run
from Hera. Again.”

One of the unfortunate truths about the
King of the Gods was his inveterate wanderlust. Combined with the crumbling
mortal faith in the gods and a desire to get out from under his wife Hera’s
scrutiny, Zeus had developed a habit of disappearing from Olympus for years at
a time. He would eventually show up again as if nothing out of the ordinary had
happened, but during his absences he was incommunicado.

Apart from setting fire to Mount Olympus,
Poseidon could think of no way to summon his youngest brother. “According to
Nick, Griffin only has a month to live,” he said, “and that may be a generous
estimate. Splitting your time between hunting for Apollo and Zeus will waste a
good deal of it.”

“So stall for time,” Chiron said.

“How?”

The centaur smirked again. “The same way your
sons made it possible for Ian to survive an ilkothella bite. Have sex with
Griffin. Full-on, penis inside at least one orifice sex, with ejaculation. Your
seed should be more than strong enough to stop a brain tumor in its tracks.”

Poseidon went still. Chiron’s description
was crude, but the thought of making love to Griffin sent an unexpected zing of
lust through him.

“I have no issue with bedding him, but
he’s been very ill,” Poseidon said. “He may not want to come to my bed. Plus I
don’t know if he lies with men.”

Chiron made a face. “I suppose getting him
drunk and jumping him is out of the question?”

Poseidon growled in sudden fury. “That’s
what caused this situation in the first place, you fool,” he snarled. “I’m not
going to make that same mistake again.”

Chiron held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.
So you woo him. As your
agapetos
,
he’ll respond whether he’s straight or not. All he really has to do is lie
there. If worse comes to worst, tell him who you are and that this is the only
way he can avoid dying. If he has an ounce of survival instinct left, he’ll
spread.”

There was logic in the centaur’s words,
but Poseidon recoiled from the thought of Griffin lying underneath him,
stoically accepting his love. It smacked far too much of his first—and
only—night with Medusa. “Perhaps I should introduce him to Amphitrite first,”
he said. “If he prefers women—”

“Yeah, no. We don’t know if sex with a
goddess will have the same effect, and if he’s sick he may not be able to get
it up in the first place. First you make sure that he’s going to live, and then
you call Amphitrite.” Chiron gentled his voice. “Look, you can be charming when
you want to be, and if he’s your
agapetos
his orientation isn’t going to matter anyway. Just be gentle, use lots of lube,
and try to make it fun for him. If you try, I know you can pull this off.”

Poseidon had to laugh at that. “That makes
one of us.”

****

Griffin woke with the warm prickling of
sunshine on his face. Even with his eyes still closed, the constant background
hiss of the waves told him where he was. He smiled.

Time to run the now-routine morning
evaluation of his body. Slight ache in his joints—normal for a 50-year-old, and
a damn sight better than it could have been. Nothing from Johnson, but after
the last round of radiation he’d pretty much given up on getting another
erection anyway. Bowels felt okay, no real strain on his stomach now that he
was off the horse pills that shredded his gastric lining. Heart was pumping
along as usual, lungs inflating and deflating rather nicely in the warm sea
air. Head…

He knew the brain itself didn’t actually
have pain sensors, so the tumor growing in his cerebrum wasn’t directly
responsible for the ache in his skull. It was pressure from the tumor pushing
on other things that caused the pain, pressure that was partially relieved by
his lying down.

He was damned if he was going to spend his
last vacation in bed.

At
least, not by myself.
He pondered the idea of taking a taxi into the nearby
town and seeing if he could find a sympathetic woman with a taste for Brits and
getting eaten out. That, at least, he could still do.

Eyes still closed, he reached out
carefully to his bedside table where the bottle of painkillers sat. He opened
the bottle by feel and fished out two tablets, then replaced it and grabbed the
water bottle he’d left there the night before. The water was warm and flat, but
he just needed enough to help him swallow the pills. After they kicked in, he
would lever himself up carefully, wait out the inevitable dizzy spell,
then
stagger out to the kitchen for breakfast and tea.

While he was waiting, the events of the
previous day came back to him, making him grimace. The damn day had been going
so well, too. Dunn was a rare sailor and pleasant company, and having him
onboard had suited Griffin down to the ground.

And then his fucking brain had to go and
spoil things with a seizure. Pissing himself on the doctor’s living room floor
had been the worst bit. He wasn’t surprised when he’d gotten out of the loo and
found Dunn had left.

Nick had seemed oddly shaken up, but
played the host well enough with the provision of clean shorts and a t-shirt.
Griffin had waved off an offer of assistance back to his cottage until Nick’s
large boyfriend loomed over him genially, saying,
“
It
would really make us feel better.”

He’d given in, allowing Liam and Nick to
pace him back to the cottage. The doctor had even left his mobile number on the
tiny dry erase board on the fridge, with instructions to call him if he needed
any kind of help. Griffin had no intention of doing that, but it was still nice
to have a M.D. next door, just in case.

The throbbing in his head finally dimmed
to a manageable level. He sat up with caution, waiting out the dizzy spell,
then got to his feet and tottered off to the bathroom. After a piss, a shave
with an electric razor, and some tea and toast, he might just be able to face
the day.

It wasn’t until he finished washing his
hands that he heard someone knocking on the front door. He grimaced at his
reflection.
If that’s Nick, we’re going
to have to have a chat about boundaries.

To his surprise it turned out to be Dunn,
in yet another natty set of tropical-weight slacks and shirt. “Ah, good morning,”
the bearded man said, holding up a paper bag. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Won’t say no to that. Come in.” The
rental company had done up the lounge in easy-to-clean tan furniture with
bright throw pillows, and Griffin waved Dunn to a seat before taking the sofa.
“Look, about yesterday—”

“I wanted to apologize for leaving before
you got out of the shower,” Dunn said quickly. “I had a work emergency and was
called away. But Nicholas assured me that he would make sure you got back to
your cottage safely.”

“Oh.” Obscurely, that made him feel a
little better. “No problem, I understand.” He eyed the bag. “So what’s in
there?”

Dunn handed it over with a small smile. “I
thought this might work better with your sandwiches.”

Griffin opened the brown paper and spotted
a white, slightly crumbly cheese with a familiar label on it. “Fuck me. Where
the hell did you find white Cheshire over here?” he said in delight.

“Aphros is a bit of a gourmet cook. He
contacted one of his sources in the cheese aficionado world and came up with
that.” Dunn looked chagrined. “No criticism of your sandwiches was meant, by
the way. I just thought—”

“No, thank you. God, this is great.” He
weighed the bag in one hand. At least enough for a week’s worth of sandwiches,
and if he could eat anything it would be a proper cheese and pickle sandwich.
“I was about to make tea. Want some?”

Dunn made a polite face. “Thank you, but
I’m not overly fond of orange pekoe.”

Griffin snorted. “None of that colonial tripe
here, mate. PG Tips, brewed properly, and milk added after.”

Dunn’s distaste evaporated. “Oh. Well, if
you put it that way.”

Soon enough the two of them were sitting
at the breakfast counter in the kitchen, mugs of tea at hand. “I’m sorry to
bring this up,” Dunn said, “but am I correct in assuming you’re ill?”

“You mean me seizing on the pier wasn’t
obvious enough?” Griffin said, taking another sip of tea. “Yeah. Brain cancer,
stage four. I have maybe six weeks left.”