Unexpected Changes

Chapter 1

It was a cool, calm night. Unusual, thought the tall, dark man. It seemed unfitting for the weather, or anything, really, to ever be peaceful around Morsus' temple. It was the sort of weather that young lovers took strolls in, and children laughed and played. The sort of night where is seemed almost impossible for darkness and the slightly-less normal creatures of the night to roam. It was odd that the night was so clear, he decided, especially since, in the one and a half hours he had been in the structure of fine-looking white marble pleading his cause, he had clearly pictured himself dying by the god's hands at least ten times. It would have only been fitting if lightning was flashing, and rain was coming down in a waterfall throughout the entire island, or, even better, fatal sunlight was streaming through the windows, burning his flesh like a deadly poison. Ah, yes, that would have been much more fitting in his opinion. Even so, he continued speaking in a calm, slightly-disrespectful voice that he had used many times, appearing confident and cold while his heart beat steadily in his chest, well aware that the god could sense any increase in the speed of his blood, and would kill him for showing fear without a second thought.

Acheron, he thought wirily, is a fool if he thinks Morsus will help us.

When he had finished his account of the situation, the god said nothing. Although he knew it was disrespectful, the man spoke. "So, will you assist us? It would make winning this war so much simpler, and we would ask nothing more of you." The tall, raven-haired man asked quietly. Personally, he didn't care whether the Dark-Hunters won or lost the war between them and the Daimons; he simply wanted to sleep the sleep of his almost-human race and let the cool nothingness heal the wounds his brother had given him. Ha, some brother of his. He had known all his life that they were related; their appearances were nearly identical. However, his older brother had denied him their families name till his death, and, it appeared, well into their second chance at life as well. Becoming a Dark-Hunter had been the best, and perhaps the worst, thing that had ever happened to him.

The thin blond god laughed. There was true amusement gleaming in his nearly-clear blue eyes, along with the subtle malice that always shown when a god or goddess looked at him. He was used to it; in fact, he preferred it to open warmth. You didn't be a Roman whipping boy your entire natural life without developing a healthy sense of suspicion for anyone who looked at you without hatred.

"My dear Roman-"

"Greek," he corrected automatically. Although he was technically half-Greek, half-Roman, he clung to his Greek heritage like a drowning man after rope. Call him any number of names, but, by all the gods he knew, don't call him a Roman.

The Atlantian spider god still smiled, and he clicked one of his many legs on the smooth white-marble floor. As anyone would expect, the light tap by an over eight-foot long spider leg took a healthy chunk of marble from the floor, but the raven-haired man ignored the occurrence as if it never happened. One false move, he knew, and he'd have a lot more to worry about than not finding an additional warrior for their cause. It was perhaps the only reason he had been chosen to partake in this particular assignment. The endless patience that he had acquired as a slave, and, if necessary, his endless tolerance for pain, were qualities that had made him the only candidate suited to dealing with the temperamental arachnid god.

"My dear Greek, while I can see that your commander is a bit desperate to come to me, a creature who has hated him sense birth, your patience with my continual chatter and threats had given me a reason to assist you."

"You will fight then?" He was surprised, to say the least. He could only sigh his acceptance when the god shook his head, a smile on his lips.

"Of course I cannot. While eleven thousand years is a long time to hold a grudge, I very much fear that my hatred for the man is alive and well. However, I will assist you in telling a good personal friend of mine to aid you in your little war. His name is Reses, and, considering he owes me a favor or two, I'm sure he will be all to happy to lend a hand."

"And if this Reses turns out to be an assassin of sorts after my not-so-appreciated commander?"

He laughed again, but this time it was cold and chilling. If he had been a normal man, he would have backed off, taken back his comment. Fortunately, worrying about being "normal" had never been a problem. Besides, he couldn't, in good conscience, allow an unknown person near his commander. Although he didn't particularly like Acheron, the tall blond Dark-Hunter leader, he respected him for his courage, and felt for him for the few long weeks he had spent as a slave, and Acheron felt for him as well. In a sense, they had reached an understanding, avoid each other if possible, but help each other if necessary simply because of the past experiences they shared. Ironically, over the last two thousand years, their feeble attempt at friendship had lasted, until they realized that each was the only friend the other had.

"Suspicious, little Dark-Hunter?" asked the god as he rose from his reclined position into his full height. At well over twelve feet tall, the spider was an almost over-powering force, and he should have been terrified. He wasn't, and stared back at him calmly.

"Always," he replied, and was unsurprised when he felt himself thrown back onto the cold, smooth floor, his already injured body hitting the marble with a sharp crack. He resisted the strong urge to groan as pain swept through him, and he resisted the even stronger urge to lay on the floor for a while as he stood, brushed himself off, and returned to his former position in front of the spider, looking remarkably unfazed.

The spider-god looked at him thoughtfully, before he grinned and relaxed once more.

"You bounce back quickly, Dark-Hunter. I'm impressed. And, in answer to your earlier question, no, he would not be a paid assassin. I hate Acheron too much to allow another person to kill him."

In a strange way, the spider's reasoning pacified him.

"As to finding Reses, you need only to go to the airport. I will have him be there tomorrow, and you may have his services until you feel fit to send him back. Notice I say you, Dark-Hunter. He will not obey Acheron unless you tell him to."

"Fair enough," he replied, and was about to leave when a thought occurred to him.

"What does this 'Reses' look like?"

The spider grinned at him.

"Reses is…unique. You will know when you see him."

Be here my ass, Zarek thought unhappily. He had been at the New Orleans's airport for nearly six straight hours, and the "unique" warrior had not made an appearance. He really, truly, had no idea what "unique" meant anyway. By human standards, as Zarek once had been, he assumed that he would look something like the young man with the neon blue hair. Of course, he had already asked him if he was Reses, and had received many a frightened looks, since he had not bother to hide his fangs at the time. Of course, considering that a giant blond spider had called him "unique" might change the meaning entirely. He sighed, and contemplated leaving, when something caught his eye.

He frowned. No, not something, he corrected, but someone. The man he had caught only a glimpse of through the Mardi Gras crowd had been searching for someone, and, while he had been wrapped in a large coat, hat, sunglasses, and had been carrying a perfectly normal black duffel bag, he had seemed strangely aloof from a distance. Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed himself off the wall and strode through the crowd in the direction he had seen the man. It didn't take him long to find him again, and it was with a sigh that he found himself tapping on his shoulder of the slightly smaller man. I'm probably wasting my time, he thought to himself. Then the man turned, and he knew he wasn't.

"Are you him, then?" asked the man, in a smooth, cultured voice, completely devoid of emotion.

"That depends. Are you Reses?" Zarek asked, and he reminded himself not to stare. Although the man hid most of his appearance, Zarek saw the single lock of silver-white hair that dared to escape his bulging hat, and the unnatural glint of ocher eyes behind dark lenses. Even though the man was only about two inches shorter than his own six-foot-six frame, he could safely say that, had he not been covered almost completely by dark clothing, he wouldn't have thought he was a man at all, but instead a rather tall young woman. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful creature that Zarek had ever laid eyes upon. Far more beautiful than any woman he had met ever could be. Strange, he thought. He had never found another man attractive before, and had viewed them only as competition.

"Yes," answered the man with a slight smile, "I am. Zarek, then?"

"Yes," he replied and, because he was curious, asked another question. "Why are you wearing so much clothing? Is there a problem with the weather?"

Again, the man smiled thinly.

"I have found before that my appearance attracts unwanted attention. While this does not bother me, per say, it has been known to bother my masters before."

The way he phrased it caused Zarek to bristle. More over, he picked up the slight hint of resentment in his voice, and it disturbed him. He hated to think of himself as owning another living creature, especially because he himself had once been treated as a possession too many times before.

"Well, rest assured that I do not care how you look, and I certainly do not want you feeling like I am your master. I am not, I am merely a fellow warrior."

"Of course," said Reses, and, although he knew the Greek could not see it, he looked at him oddly behind his lenses. His "fellow warrior" he had said. This was new to Reses, and he wondered how long it would last. None of his other masters had ever viewed him as a person, with feelings, before. Even while he reminded himself not to get used to the change in his masters' outlook , as it was sure to change, if not with this one than with the next, he felt a rush of gratefulness to the dark-haired Greek for giving him permission to shed his unwanted garments. Morsus, while he had been as kind to him as his "Black Widower" personality would permit, had always insisted on Reses hiding his appearance from prying eyes. It was a relief to finally be rid of the scratchy wool garments for once, and feel the cool wind on his face. He did not remove his sunglasses, however, as it would lose him the advantage of studying his "fellow warrior" without his knowledge. In his mind, he stored away his composed appearance, the hard eyes and dark hair, and, although it surprised him somewhat, he noticed that the Greek was more attractive than was average for his masters. While appearance had no relevance to how kind they were or were not, it was also a relief to know that, should he be forced to be sexually active with his master, as was usually the result of a week or two in their presence, at least this one was good-looking. He glanced at him again. It appeared that the Greek, for whatever reason, was remaining silent, which was also new. Many found out as much as possible about him, as soon as possible. While this should not have been surprising, given Morsus' description of him, he had been a little vague on the details, and Reses did not know what exactly this Greek/Roman Dark-Hunter with the smart mouth had done to earn Morsus' esteem. While Reses was curious, to say the least, he was still painfully aware that he was little more than an upper-class slave, so he kept silent.

As they exited the building, Zarek frowned. This new addition to Acheron's army wasn't very talkative, and he didn't know whether to be grateful or affronted that he had decided not to "speak until spoken to," as was a slave's custom. Finally, he decided simply to be annoyed. Although he knew it shouldn't bother him that he was still being looked at as "the master," it did. Tremendously.

When they reached the shiny black Honda he had recently learned to drive, he was all but boiling with something akin to anger. As he opened the trunk, and reached for the small black bag Reses was carrying, he forced himself to relax. He was over-reacting to something understandable: had it been him when he was still a slave, he probably would have been acting the same.

"You know," he said slowly as he stored the bag near the spare, composed as much as he was able to be at the moment. "You can speak without being spoken to. I meant it when I said that you shouldn't view me as any sort of ruler."

"Can I?" asked Reses from somewhere above him, and he looked up at him. His silver hair had been uncovered, and flowed past his shoulders, ending just below his lower back. He hadn't removed his sunglasses, but, again, he didn't need to for Zarek to see the golden glow to his eyes. Although his face was completely devoid of expression, he sensed the hesitant hope that he was trying hard to hide. Whatever Reses had been before, he hadn't been a slave his entire life if he still felt hope.

"Of course," he said brightly, or as brightly as he was capable of, as he closed the trunk. He was just about to enter the driver's side when he paused, looking at Reses.

"You wouldn't happen to know how to drive a car, would you? I'm not quite as good at it as most people."

"What?"exclaimed Reses, and, for the first time, Zarek saw a hint of emotion of his face as he gripped the arm rest: fear. Normally, being a sadistic bastard, he would have laughed, but this time he simply sighed, since he doubted laughing at him would make him more comfortable. For all he knew, he might do something foolish, like leap out of the car.

"I'm not that bad. Relax, Reses," he said as he closed his door. Almost instantly, he relaxed.

Zarek sighed irritably.

"That wasn't an order."

"I am aware of that. If you were really that bad, you wouldn't be driving at all."

Zarek almost smiled, but refrained. Well, he's certainly a quick study. It was a relief not to have to worry about his intelligence when he was guarding his back in battle. Of course, if Reses still viewed him as the master, he may just stab him and be done with it, as Zarek himself had been tempted to do more than once to his own masters. He had best remember that: no matter how Zarek wanted to feel compassion, too much compassion turned into trust, and he couldn't afford to trust.

They had been driving several minutes in silence when Reses spoke, softly, and cautiously.

"Where have you been, Dark-Hunter, that you can not drive well?"

"I've been in Alaska for nearly 900 years. The only vehicles we use there are snowmobiles."

"Ah. You were banished?"

For a moment, it seemed he would not respond, and Reses almost decided to stop talking when Zarek, as Reses had begun to think of him, answered in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

"Yes. A bit mild for punishment, perhaps." That piqued Reses' curiosity. "Oh? What did you do?"

The look Zarek sent him was tight, and humorless.

"Nothing of any import. Do not concern yourself with my flaws or mistakes."

Okay, he had definitely struck a nerve there. Not knowing what else to say, he fell silent, and stared out the window at the various buildings and naïve passerby.

Zarek sighed inwardly when Reses fell silent. He hadn't been surprised when the obviously lonely slave had begun to speak to him, slowly and hesitantly. When he had first began his second life, he had wanted to talk to anything, to anyone, who would listen. The freedom to do whatever he wanted, say whatever he wanted, without fear, had been a fabulous new sensation. And while the need to talk had dimmed considerably, he could still remember what it had felt like to be given that freedom.

It just figured that he would squish the man's first attempts at being open. He sighed loudly, and drove silently through the streets of New Orleans. Although he was used to silence, it bothered him that Reses could so easily slide into a seemingly uncaring calmness that Zarek had never quite achieved.

"I-" he paused, and knew the instant when Reses looked at him, even as he concentrated on driving the large, metal beast through the crowded Mardi Gras streets. He couldn't explain it, but it felt as though a bolt of lightening went up his spine every time Reses looked at him.

"I failed to protect my village from a blood-thirsty creature who tore them to shreds." He said, guilt still ripping at him. When Reses excepted his tale with a nod and turned away, Zarek could only sigh. He did not know why he had felt compelled to tell him this, but he could only be thankful that he had not told him the entire truth. It was worse, much worse than he had said to Reses, and he would never forget the look of horror on their faces. He had failed to protect his village from a creature; yes that was true.

He had failed to mention, however, that that creature, had, in all likelihood, been him.