Unmade (Unborn #4) - Amber Lynn Natusch Page 0,31

could hear his need for me to confirm what he both suspected and feared.

“That she is not alive to find.”

Oz and I shared a look before I pulled open the manhole and led the way down. Once we were all in and the manhole cover was closed and locked, I asked the other question plaguing my mind from our encounter with the messenger god. The one with far greater implications.

“Did you not know that you could not read the minds of the dead, Muses?”

“I did not.” The sting of his limitation was clear in his tone.

“Can you read Ares’?” I asked carefully. “His situation is different from theirs, as is Demeter’s. Could we not attempt to find him and extract his knowledge of the fear god?”

“Possibly,” Muses said, hedging, “but it’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?” I asked as we wandered deeper into the sewers.

“Because the PC—your twin, especially—has a duty to protect Ares. We cannot let harm befall him.”

“So don’t hurt him in the process,” Oz said from behind us.

“And therein lies the problem, Ozereus. To inspire him would be fine, I think, but if he plans to leverage Khara with this information, then he will not give it up freely or easily. The second I try to force it from him, provided I even could, Sean or one of the others will be there to stop me.”

“But if you could get it out before that were to happen,” I pressed, needing a solution to be found in Muses.

He shook his head. “Ares is never far from aid—even when he appears to be alone.”

“And you do not wish to fight our brothers.”

At that, Muses smiled. “Depends which ones we’re talking about.”

He laughed as we walked deeper under the seedy city of Detroit. I followed, contemplating how I could possibly keep my twin from harm and learn how to rid ourselves of Phobos forever. It seemed Muses’ ability would not be our savior in this matter.

I hoped I could find one somewhere else.

12

We had only just filled the others in on our semi-successful encounter with the messenger god when Trey and Sean appeared out of nowhere in the center of the Dragon’s gilded lair. I repeated the story in its entirety, but included Phobos’ dream visit that time for full disclosure.

Oz snapped me a nasty look, and I shrugged. “Do not get angry with me. You made your bed.”

Mischief flashed in his brown eyes. “And then you climbed in it with me.”

Sean struggled to keep his composure at the thought, as was Oz’s intention, no doubt. “Can I talk to you?” he asked, storming past Oz to reach me.

“Of course.” I led the way to my shared room and opened the door. As Sean stepped in, I looked over at Oz to find him watching us like a hawk—an attempt to browbeat me into submission so I would tell my twin of Ares’ despicable plan.

I closed the door behind me and took a seat on the edge of the bed as Sean leaned against the dresser.

“You look troubled, Brother. Is your problem at home unresolved?”

At that, he laughed. “You could say that.” He released the bridge of his nose and forced a smile. “Sometimes running the PC isn’t the easiest job. Lately, that’s been more the case than ever before.”

“And it gives my invincible brother a headache?”

“Wouldn’t that be ironic? He can’t be killed, but he can be impaired by a migraine.”

“We all have weaknesses, or so I am told.”

Any hint of amusement slowly faded, his serious expression falling back into place.

“And what is your weakness, Sister? From what I have seen, you don’t have one.”

“Unlike you, I can be killed,” I replied, my tone as neutral as his. “I would say that is a weakness of rather epic proportions.”

“And yet you haven’t died, despite your best efforts.” A hint of sadness peeked through his countenance. “I am aware of everything that has happened—the way you have endangered yourself to save those you care about.”

“I have heard rumors that you tend to do the same. Perhaps this is a familial trait.”

“Except it certainly doesn’t come from Ares, and what our mother did when we were infants doesn’t speak to a protective nature…”

“Or maybe it does. Just not in the way you think.” He turned those bright green eyes that we shared to me, and they all but begged me to give him another perspective—one that might paint our mother in a better light. The desperation to understand her motives was