Nike and Nicodemas

The voice, with its lofty yet shrill tone, pierced the murky fog that had descended on Nike. It rose her from an open-eyed daze and she realized that she had been riding by habit alone. If not for the great folded white wings of her steed, faithful Pegasus, she might well have pitched headlong into the narrow rutted track of this dismal roadway. 

Drawing a deep breath despite the clogged burning of her lungs, Nike straightened. Her own wings, just as white as those of the flying horse, fluttered from her back and shed a drift of feathers like falling petals. 

Ill, Admeta had said. Yes, it was true and Nike was not going to deny it. But neither was she going to admit it to the spoiled princess. Bad enough she'd been burdened with this task. She did not have to like it. Neither the mission or her charge. That had not been one of the Queen's conditions. 

"I can go on," she said. "We dare not stop, not if we're to find a ship that will see us to Crete, that you might be safely home and I might be on my way to Delphi."

Delphi! The very word was evocative. Delphi, where she would find answers, and hope. Where she might finally learn who she truly was, and what was her purpose in life. 

"What good will it do us to seek a ship now?" Admeta asked. "You were the one who believed we'd need the luck of Hermes himself to find a willing captain, you not only a barbaric warrior-woman but one with wings. How welcome will we be when you are also falling down with a plague? They'll cry contagion."

"It is not a contagion," Nike said. "If it were, you'd have come sick with it as well. It is a curse. I feel it in my marrow."

"All the better!" cried Admeta. "A winged, plague-ridden warrior-woman also cursed by the gods! Oh, they are certain to vie for our passage then. Do you Amazons know nothing of the ways of civilized men?"

"More than we wish to," snapped Nike. "Perhaps you should take a better look at your so-called 'civilized men' once in a while."

She looked around, unsure of how far they'd ridden while she languished in her daze of misery. A crossroads was ahead and she thought she recognized the route. 

"We'll go that way," she said. 

"I hold that we should stop," Admeta said. "You'll do no one any good unless you rest, and heal."

"I'll do no one any good if we linger here to be beset by bandits," Nike countered. 

Without waiting for a reply from the Cretan princess, for that would be a sure invitation for more arguments or belittling remarks about the Amazon way of life, Nike urged Pegasus toward the turn in the road. The mighty beast tossed his head and snorted. His wings ruffled, then re-settled themselves.

Admeta scowled, but her docile mare followed after Pegasus. Nike pressed the inside of her wrist to her own brow and grimaced at the fever burning on her skin. As hot as she was, she felt chilled. Her hand strayed to the heavy medallion she wore around her neck, but that familiar token, hers since before memory, brought scant comfort. 

She initially mistook the sound for the rapid drumming of her own laboring heart. Only when Admeta hissed a frantic whispered question – "What is that?" – did Nike understand that the sound was real. Pegasus, too, reacted with a whinny and a nervous to-and-fro sidestep that made Nike sway upon his back. 

Not heartbeats. Hoofbeats. Many of them, and closing. 

Nike reached for her sword. No sooner had her fingers touched the hilt in its well-worn leather wrapping than the source of the sound hove into view. Centaurs thundered down the lane, burst through the underbrush in sprays of leaves, and by the time her hand closed solidly around the hilt, she and Admeta were surrounded. 

The centaurs were fierce in appearance, powerfully muscled in both their equine lower bodies and the thickset human torsos. Their hair was wild and long, tumbling in shaggy manes down their backs. Their eyes glittered unmercifully as they glared upon the intruders. 

One of them strode forth from the rest. He was a tall and majestic creature with a hide of iron-grey and hair to match. He crossed his arms over his broad chest in a gesture of resolve and studied Nike from his imposing height. 

"You may not pass by this road," he said in a voice that was deep and rolling. "Turn back and we part as strangers. Press on, and we meet as foes."

Nike's arm was still bent up and over her shoulder, clasping the sword that rested in a scabbard strapped to her back between the sprouting of her wings. With her other hand, she wiped clammy sweat from her forehead before it could run into her eyes and further obscure her vision. 

"We seek only to reach the nearest port," she said. "We mean no harm to you or yours."

"Turn back, I say you," the leader said. "We will not have you cross the borders of our village and bring danger in your wake."

"Let us travel," Nike said. Her fingers tightened. Sweat ran from the hollows of her temples in beaded droplets even as she shivered and a rash of gooseflesh broke out along her limbs. 

The iron-grey centaur's expression was tempered the merest bit by pity. "You are unwell."

"Well enough to see us through to the port. Will you stand aside?"

"We shall not."

"Then I must make you." Metal sang as she pulled the blade from the scabbard. Her arm felt leaden and shaky, but she brandished the sword defiantly. 

Admeta's cry alerted her a moment too late. The iron-grey leader had not moved but a sudden flurry of motion, a burly wall of muscle and hair, came at Nike from the side. Pegasus pranced to evade the charging centaur but a glancing blow sent Nike tumbling from his back. 

She landed on the hard-packed earth with a bone-rattling impact and sprawled there. Her sword was jarred from her hand. Shame burst over her. She, Nike, an Amazon, taken by surprise and knocked flying! Yes, she was sick, but even so …

The urge struck her to send a mental plea to Athena, wise patron goddess who had gifted her with Pegasus, but her pride would not allow it. The centaurs closed in on Admeta, swiftly taking control of the docile mare. Pegasus, plunging and rearing and striking out with his hooves, gave them a bit more of a challenge but they soon roped him and held him. 

Nike, meanwhile, was struggling to get her legs under her. They did not seem to respond. All her weary limbs wanted was to rest. The iron-grey leader was shouting out orders, calling names – Dolius, Nicodemas, Zelotes. Admeta squealed in fear and indignation. 

From the corner of her eye, Nike saw a centaur approaching her. She groped for her sword but it had fallen beyond her reach. As he drew near, she was astonished to see how handsome and well-groomed this one was, with hair as dark as sun's gold and eyes the color of the Aegean. 

Surely it was the illness ruling her perceptions. She was so very weak that she could not do more than make a muttered protest as he gathered her up effortlessly into strong arms. His hold on her was surprisingly gentle, not that of a captor but of compassion. He was speaking to her, and his voice was a low and soothing drone but she could not make out words in it. Her senses were clouded, her thoughts were adrift. 

He broke into a thundering gallop. Nike made one last feeble effort to free herself from his grasp, then sank into a delirious darkness. 

She woke slowly, as if climbing from a deep chasm. Sensations gradually impinged themselves on her mind. Scents of smoke, straw, horsehide. Sounds of exuberant young voices and the clatter of what might have been wood on wood. A feeling of warmth and comfort, a padded bed and a heavy blanket. Tastes in her mouth, sour and unpleasant, medicinal. 

Her eyes peeled open and she was looking at a thatch roof. Firelight made small dancing shadows in the angles of the timbers. She tried to sit up but lassitude still held her in its grip, and all she could do was stir slightly. 

It was enough to bring her to the attention of the owners of the exuberant young voices. She was aware of figures coming to the bedside. A girl's face appeared, pert-nosed and freckled, framed by a tousled mass of yellow hair. Bright blue eyes regarded Nike curiously. A boy, similar in appearance and perhaps two or three years younger, was behind the girl. 

Nike's lips were cracked, and stung when she parted them, licked them. "Where am I?"

"Our cottage," the girl replied. "What is your name? Mine's Ioanna. His is Hesperos, my brother."

"I am Nike," she said. 

As she surfaced to full awareness, it occurred to her that she was naked beneath the blanket, and clean. Someone had bathed her. Tended her with medicines. The terrible fever and chills had left her body. She was so weak that the mere act of raising her head to have a better look at the children left her gasping. She let her head fall again. 

Children, she'd thought. And yes, but not human children. From the waists down, they had the bodies of small horses. Young centaurs. 

"Where is your mother?" she asked, and knew at once that it had been the wrong question. 

The girl's smile faded. "Dead. We live with our father."

"Then … where is he?" It galled her to have to ask a male for help. She knew all too well how they could be, treacherous and deceitful, even murderous in their fits of jealous rage. That it was a centaur male and not a human man was only small consolation. 

"Here." He moved into view. 

Nike felt a prickle of recognition. Sun-gold hair, eyes of Aegean blue. It was the one who'd picked her up and borne her from the scene of the confrontation. She remembered her futile, infant-weak struggles in his arms. 

"I am Nicodemas," he said. "You are in my home. I have tended you."

Tended? Bathed, then. An unaccountable blush colored Nike's cheeks. She was not modest as a rule but the idea of having been unconscious and helpless while a stranger divested her of her clothes and armor was disturbing. 

What had he thought as he looked upon her? Had he, as foreign men did, believed in the lies about her people and thus been surprised to discover that both breasts were intact and undamaged? What had he made of the wings that grew from her shoulderblades? Those, not even the Amazons could fully explain. She knew that in the minds of some, her wings likened her to the fearsome Gorgons. 

Those questions, which she would not ask, were replaced by ones she should. Questions as to the fates of Admeta, and Pegasus. Questions as to how long she'd been here, and when she'd recover. As Nicodemas brought forth a steaming bowl and spoon, though, all else was pushed aside in the face of her sudden ravenous hunger. 

It was a simple dish of boiled and mashed grains, sweetened with fruit, but to Nike it might have been the very ambrosia from Hebe's cup. She reached for the spoon. He held it back. 

"I will feed you."

"I am capable of feeding myself," she said. To prove it, she snatched the spoon from him and dipped it into the bowl. But as she raised her arm, it began to tremble, and the porridge fell from the spoon with a plop to the blanket. 

The centaur's lips twitched, holding back a smile. His children were not so restrained, and laughed merrily. Nike flushed again, feeling foolish and thinking vaguely that here was a centaur who should smile more often. She had not realized how melancholy his face had been, how burdened with sorrow his eyes. The smile changed all that, showed once more how handsome he was. 

She made no further objection as he brought the next spoonful to her mouth. The porridge was delicious, and in her current state she felt as if she could eat barrels of it. She was astonished to find that her shrunken stomach rebelled when the bowl was not even three-fourths empty. 

"Thank you," she said. Weariness was already weighing her down again, helped along by the warm fullness in her belly. She took a breath to say more, let it out only in a long sigh, and fell asleep. 

Nike had the children laughing, and the joyful noise pierced the heart of Nicodemas. Such sounds had not often been heard in the cottage since Delta's death. 

Much of that, he knew, was his own fault. He had buried himself in his work and his studies in hopes that he would be able to forget the pain of first betrayal, and then loss. That his wife had been unfaithful cut him to the quick; that it had cost Delta her life at the hands of murderous humans was unbearable. He had devoted himself to his farm, the pursuit of medicine, and the care of Ioanna and Hesperos. 

Only now, hearing the mingled laughter of his children and the winged Amazon, did it occur to Nicodemas that he had been harming his family as well as himself by sinking into bitterness and despair. 

He had never considered himself to be a lonely creature by nature. He knew that he had many friends, was well-liked, had the trust of his tribe's chief. He did not neglect his duty, taking part in the patrols to keep Phillipus safe from the deadly beasts that roamed the forests. That was how he'd come to be out there that day, hunting for signs of the fearful Lamia. 

Rather than any such monstrous she-demon, they had been startled to discover the winged Amazon, her steed, and her princess charge. Nicodemas had dreaded the violence he suspected would erupt as the bold warrior-woman defied the centaurs. She had been so terribly ill that it was a wonder she could remain upright, and yet her indomitable will would not let her surrender. 

Seeing her so strong and fierce had made him expect her to be heavier. He could not forget the light, yet full feel of her in his arms. She had been burning with fever and wracked in delirium, she was not of his kind, she had nearly made herself an enemy of his people … and yet, as he galloped for Phillipus with her life hanging in the balance, it had come to him to marvel that this was the first time he'd held any female so intimately since Delta. 

And female, she assuredly was. She had only the two legs, not four, not a sleek mare's body, but those legs were bronzed and shapely in their way. Above the waist, if he restricted his vision to that part of her, she was supple and well-muscled and exciting to look upon. The duskiness of her complexion, the waves of her dark hair, and the directness of her storm-grey eyes intrigued him far more than he dared let on. Too, there were the wings, attractive in their soft white plumage. 

Snorting, Nicodemas caught himself and turned his thoughts away from such things. He might be a widower, and lonesome, but he was no fool. 

He hazarded a glance at her. She was recovering well from her illness, a healthy tone to her skin, a sparkle in her eyes. Her strength was returning and she had already voiced disgust at the weakness she perceived in her limbs, the slack tone that sickness had given her body. She longed for the day when she'd be able to move about normally, and resume her practices with weapons. 

In the meantime, she remained in his bed. It was far too large for her, made with the massive forms of centaurs in mind. Nike looked small and curiously appealing sitting upright against pillows, the blanket bunched around her lap as she and the children played some hand-game of quick claps, snaps, and slaps. Hesperos struggled valiantly to match the dexterity of his sister, and Ioanna bubbled with delight as she cleverly won another round. 

Nicodemas wrung out the rag he'd been using to clean the table, and rolled a barrel into place to serve as a chair. He and the children would eat standing, but tonight for the first time, Nike would join them instead of dining abed. She claimed she felt well enough, and he believed her, though he would be watching her closely. For the first signs of fatigue, of course … in his capacity as a healer … and not because of the secret pleasure he took in observing the rise and fall of her proud breasts, or the way her hair rippled with blue-black highlights when she shook it back from her high brow. So he reminded himself. Firmly. 

A fist hammered on the wooden door, making the entire cottage shake. The children jumped, and Nike gasped and reached for the sword that was no longer sheathed across her back. It hung instead by the fire, well out of reach. 

"Hallo, there, nephew!" boomed a voice rich with drunken cheer. "Come hither, come hither!"

"Oh, it's only Uncle Nessus," Hesperos said, and turned back to the game. 

Ioanna frowned pensively, and her eyes clouded. Nicodemas observed this and was troubled. She had become skittish around her great-uncle of late, shying away from him whenever Nessus came near. Part of it was the grape, of course. Nessus was one of those who could not often resist the temptation of wine for all it served him poorly. 

"We shall eat soon," Nicodemas said, slinging the rag on a rail as he moved to the door. "Wash up, and be ready."

"Yes, Sire," the children chorused. 

Nike settled against the pillows again, but Ioanna's reaction was not lost on her and she remained wary, casting sidelong looks toward the front of the cottage. Nicodemas opened the door and recoiled from the sour fumes of wine that hung around his uncle in a mist. He stepped out, closed the door behind him, and looked up a few inches into the face of Nessus. 

There was little resemblance between them. Nessus was stocky of build and dark-haired, with black eyes ringed in bloodshot red. A scuff of beard shadowed the planes of his cheeks and chin, and a scar twisted the corner of his mouth into a perpetual sneer. He wore nothing in the way of adornment but bracers of boiled leather. His hair was long, tangled, unkempt. The same could be said for his tail. Burrs clung to his hide and mud splashes were drying on his withers. A wine-sack dangled, deflated and half-empty, from a braided cord over his shoulder. 

"What is it, Uncle?" Nicodemas asked with as much a show of respect as he could muster. 

"I'm told you have captured a woman," the older centaur said with a leer. "A winged Amazon, no less."

"She is not my captive, but my patient," Nicodemas said. "Otherwise, yes, you were told true."

"I've come to … see her." Nessus touched the tip of his broad, pointed tongue briefly to his upper lip as he grinned. "I'm also told she's a lush and pretty thing. For her kind, of course."

A chill spread through Nicodemas. He knew full well what Nessus intended. His uncle's shameful lust for human women was well-known in Phillipus. He and others of his ilk were wont to raid human settlements, stomping the life from the men, looting the wineshops, and chasing down the women to strip and abuse them. This in and of itself did not much disturb him. Particularly after Delta's murder, Nicodemas harbored no love for most humans and felt they deserved what they got. But Nike was different. She was not fully human, for one. And for another, she was … 

"She is my responsibility," he said, which was not quite what he'd been thinking. "My patient. She is not for you, Uncle."

"What's this?" Nessus' black brows lowered menacingly. "Turning me away from your house?"

"I have taken her into my care. I will not hand her over to you." Could they be heard from within the cottage? The walls were thick, but Nessus had never been known for a moderate tone of voice. 

"I see how it is, Nephew. You want her for yourself, is that it?"

Nicodemas felt a blockage in his throat and a blush mounting in his cheeks. Nessus saw his discomfiture and roared a laughter that had only meanness in it, no mirth. 

"She must be a toothsome creature indeed, then!" he cried. "To sway the celibacy of dour Nicodemas! Tell me, Nephew, have you rutted with her yet?"

His fist was in motion 'ere he knew what was happening. With all the power of his formidable weight behind it, Nicodemas' punch smashed squarely into the overlarge nose of Nessus and crushed it into a bleeding lump. 

Nessus reared in surprise. His forehooves flashed dangerously near to Nicodemas' head. His bellow shook the cottage as much as his knocking had done. The front half of his body slammed to earth again. A violent rage made his eyes seem to burn.

"Leave my home," Nicodemas said, undaunted. "You are not welcome here when you are rude with drink."

"You dare to strike me, you insolent colt?" Nessus touched his nose, brought his fingers away wet with blood, regarded them, and glared furiously at Nicodemas. "You dare!"

"And will dare again if you do not go." Inwardly, he was shaking in a terror, but he was pleased by how he remained outwardly calm. 

Only utter silence came from within the house. He could imagine the children there, cowering against the unleashing of Nessus' wrath. And Nike? Was she struggling to rise and arm herself? 

Whatever else might happen, he knew that he could not permit Nessus to win. It might have been only sport in the older centaur's mind before, but now, if he gained entrance, he would seize Nike up and carry her away to a painful fate. Nicodemas was astonished at the icy determination he felt. He would not allow that to happen, not to her, not at the cost of his very life. 

Nessus saw this in his even and implacable gaze. Somehow, it permeated the drunken fog that surrounded the older centaur. He already had a broken nose more than he'd arrived with, and would suffer worse if he persisted. He was bigger, and stronger, but Nicodemas was driven by a force greater than malice and lechery. 

"I will go," he said, the words somewhat clogged and muffled by the blood flowing so freely from his squashed nose. As he turned, though, he looked back over his shoulder with a sly animal cunning. "But you cannot protect her from me forever, Nephew. I'll bide my time. You'll see."

He left, and Nicodemas stayed where he was, quivering with rage. At last, when he trusted himself to move without kicking anything, he went back into the cottage. 

They were looking at him, three pairs of eyes. Those of Hesperos were shining with admiration at having heard his father stand up to the mighty, frightful Nessus. Ioanna, more prosaic, looked sick with worry at how close Nicodemas might have come to being beaten, overrun, and trampled. Nike, who was standing at the side of the bed with her drawn sword in hand, wore an expression of mingled emotions – gratitude for him, anger for her illness, disgust for Nessus, concern for the children. 

When he closed and barred the door behind him – it would not hold against the determined kicks of even a young centaur, let alone a massive brute such as Nessus – the children rushed to him on clattering hooves and threw their little arms around him. He held them, murmured assurances, pressed kisses onto the tops of their curly heads. Over them, he met Nike's gaze. 

"Thank you," she said, words that he knew did not come easily to her. 

Nicodemas nodded. All at once he did not trust himself to speak, for gods alone knew what might have come from his mouth. She was beautiful, and horrible as it may have seemed, Nessus had been right. 

He did want her for himself. 

The day had dawned pearly with fog. Nike, rising first, tested her limbs and found that they obeyed her will without stiffness or pain. Her head felt fully clear. The lassitude of her enforced bed rest was galling. 

She looked around. Early light filtered through the windows and thatched roof of the house of Nicodemas, and banked embers glowed faintly in the hearth. She could just make out the little ones on their beds, Ioanna with all four legs curled neatly beneath her and head resting on crossed forearms, Hesperos sprawled with arms and legs splayed in all directions. 

And there, on a makeshift pallet by the fire, Nicodemas himself. His posture was more like that of his daughter, legs folded, upper torso bent. The muscles of his back were well-defined against his skin, the play of shadow on them changing with the even rise and fall of his breathing. He had slept thus every night, insisting that she have the use of his bed while she mended. 

Well, at long last it seemed she was. Nike left the warm nest of blankets for the cooler air of the cottage. She wore only a loose shift that had been fashioned from a sack, while her own clothes were clean and neatly folded on a shelf above. On tiptoe, she moved to retrieve them, and clutched the bundle to her chest as she made her quiet way to the door, to the yard. 

The world was grey with hanging mist, silent but for the irregular drip of collected moisture from the trees. It was even chillier out here, but refreshing, invigorating. Nike felt the wet grass brushing against her calves, tasted the salt of the sea in the stillness. 

She discarded the shift, standing naked in the drifting fog. Her wings extended, and she thought of flying sleek through the low clouds. But wisdom prevailed – it would be too easy to run headlong into a tree, and render herself once more an invalid in Nicodemas' care. 

Would that be so bad? A part of her wondered this, reflecting with fond memory on the tenderness of the centaur's big hands as he tended her. As large and strong as he was, he had been so gentle. There had been something most pleasant in the feel of his touch. The way he would lift her, cradling her back and neck, when she was too weak to sit upright on her own and sip from a bowl. The way he had combed the snarls from her dark hair. 

What was she thinking? Perhaps it had not been so horrible, being looked after by Nicodemas, but she was in no hurry to injure herself just to prolong her stay with him. She was well now. Healed. Her body might be sluggish from her confinement to bed, but soon she would be as fit as ever. Fit, and ready to go on her way. 

She no longer had Admeta to worry about, for the leader of the centaur tribe had arranged to send the princess on her way with an armed escort. Nothing now stood in the way of Nike's planned journey to Delphi. There, she would find out once and for all who she was, and what destiny was meant to be hers. 

The yard sloped down to a mirror-smooth pool, barely visible in the eddying mist. Nike walked to it and waded in. The water was cold enough to take her breath away but she did not let that stop her. It had been too long since she'd had a proper bath. At its deepest, the water reached her waist. She held her wings up and out of the way as she bent, dunking her head, splashing her shoulders and back. 

When she had rinsed her hair and wrung it into a sodden black rope, she emerged from the pool and stood shivering on the bank with skin pebbly in gooseflesh. A few stretches and calisthenics soon warmed her, pumping the blood through her veins. She was dismayed at how quickly she tired, aching from even that small exertion. 

Each day would bring improvement, though. She dressed in her familiar, well-worn garments and felt fully herself again for the first time since collapsing from the back of Pegasus. The steed was being looked after, fed and groomed by the centaurs. He had not attempted to fly off, knowing that he needed to wait for his mistress. Athena be praised for that much. And no harm would have come to him by centaur hands. They seemed to regard the winged horse with a peculiar kinship, more than they did Nike herself. She knew all this for the thoughts of Pegasus were as her own, when she opened her mind to receive them. So, too, was she able to convey her thoughts to him, letting him know that she was recovering. 

She slung her scabbard at her back and drew her sword. The blade was heavier than she remembered, but the hilt fit her hand as if it had never been away. It made a satisfying swish as she swept it back and forth, and Nike smiled. A practice lunge, and parry, and jab, and then lock blades and dart in for a brutal uppercut with the off hand –

Something was different. Nike paused mid-thrust, every sense suddenly alert to danger. She looked around, seeing nothing but the looming shadows of tree trunks rising and disappearing into the fog. Nothing had changed, and yet … something was different. 

A low sound, neither a snort nor a grunt, came from the side. Nike whirled. It was Nessus she was thinking of, Nessus the murderous brute who would have carried her off, breaking her wings if she tried to fly away from him, breaking her legs if she tried to flee, breaking her arms if she presumed to fight, and then sating his savage lusts on her helpless, pain-wracked body. He would have done this, and then perhaps crushed her skull beneath one massive hoof, had not Nicodemas defied him. 

Nike smelled a new scent now, mixing with the salt tang of the distant sea. Her nose wrinkled. It was a bestial odor, hot and fecund, vile. Not the sweat-and-leather horsehide odor of a centaur. Something else. Earthy and strange. She tightened her grip on the sword. 

She had come so far toward the creek that the cottage was a featureless bulk at the edge of her vision. Yet she could see a shape moving there. Low-slung and hunched, not a centaur-shape. The sight of it, even such a fog-blurred glimpse as this, sent adrenaline racing through her veins. She thought of Nicodemas, asleep by the hearth. And the children, so young and sweet. Whatever this thing was, she knew in her heart of hearts that it meant them harm. Deadly harm. 

Emotion conquered reason. Nike rushed up the slope as the shape slunk around the corner of the cottage. Never slowing, she rounded right after it and skidded to a halt in the dewy grass as the hideous monster reared up. 

Its breath, a stink of rotted meat, washed over her as it hissed. Forelegs raked the air, but they were not horse legs ending in hooves. One was shaggy with matted brown-black fur, the other was mottled with reddish-green scales, and both ended in curved, jagged claws each long and sharp as a knife. Above the half-leonine, half-draconian body was a thickset female torso with bare, sagging breasts and wild harridan's locks. 

The face that glared down at Nike was a Gorgonesque visage, contorted with rage. The eyes burned like flames. The mouth was split wide and bristling with pointed ivory fangs and a flickering black tongue. The creature's human-like arms were blotched with patches of scales and tufts of fur, and ended in filthy fingernails like talons. 

Nike was momentarily thunderstruck with horror. Only warrior instinct saved her life, making her duck as the foreclaws sliced through the space where her throat had been. She sprang back, uttering a loud cry of both war and warning, and struck out with her sword. The keen edge met claws, shearing through them. 

From inside the cottage, she heard the frightened cries of the children and the clatter of hooves on wood. Nike knew that if she gave this monster a chance, it would fall upon the defenseless youngsters and slaughter them. 

"The Lamia!" she shouted. 

Nicodemas had told her of it, the fearful peril that was part woman, part dragon, part animal, cruelty given living form. It had been hunting in the forests around Philippus, terrorizing the outlying farms. A party of centaurs had been out searching for signs of it when they had encountered Nike and Admeta. The tribe leader's insistence that they turn back had been out of fear that the Lamia would follow their trail, and find the village. 

Now it had done so. 

Foul breath blasted her again, making her gag. The Lamia seized her sword arm in both hands. It was fearfully strong. Nike kicked out, her boot landing squarely between its forelegs in a solid blow that made the Lamia hiss again in fury and pain. 

Claws squealed off Nike's breastplate, long parallel gouges in the metal. That terrible mouthful of teeth darted down. Nike flung her head to the side, but the Lamia bit a clump of feathers from her wing. 

She wrenched her arms free and drove forward with the tip of the blade. It pierced the Lamia just below the navel of the humanoid torso, but even that skin was thick as leather, and the weapon barely penetrated. A thin ooze of blackish blood ran down into the ugly fur of the Lamia's lower half. 

The cottage door was thrown open. "Nike!"

Nicodemas was calling her name, and with such fear for her that Nike was at once insulted and absurdly flattered. He cared for her, but he did not believe she was capable enough for this?

As the Lamia lashed out again, foreclaws and fingernails in lethal arcs, Nike wondered if she was capable enough for this. The creature was fast as well as strong. It grazed her upper arm like a line of stinging fire.  

"Nike!" Nicodemas charged, spun neatly on his forehooves, and launched a terrific kick with his hind legs. 

The Lamia was knocked against the wall of the cottage with such force that the structure shook, and clumps of thatch fell from the roof. Inside, the children screamed. The Lamia rounded on Nicodemas, rearing up to a daunting height. 

Nike brought her sword down in a hard swing, chopping at the Lamia's back. She tore a furrow in the scales, loosing more of that black fluid. Again, the Lamia hissed. It struck at Nicodemas' hindquarters, ripping his flesh. 

"Nico!" Nike cried, and thrust her sword into the Lamia's side. 

It went in a bit, then glanced off bone and was jarred from her hand, stuck in the wound. Rather than try to yank it out, Nike jumped straight up, beating her wings furiously. This held her in the air long enough for her to drive out with both feet, aiming for and hitting the crosspiece of the hilt. The impact of the kick plunged the blade deeper into the Lamia's body.

This time, the creature did not hiss, but howled. It forgot about Nicodemas, and brought the full power of its wounded wrath to bear on Nike. And here she stood, unarmed. 

Unarmed, perhaps, but not helpless. As the Lamia lunged at her, she dove to the side and rolled, tucking her wings around herself. She came up on one knee and unerringly seized the hilt. The forward motion of the Lamia helped her tear the embedded blade free, opening a large gash from which the black blood no longer trickled, but gouted. 

Screeching and grievously hurt, the Lamia did not turn to attack again. It galloped off toward the forest as fast as its injuries would allow. 

Nike was poised to give chase, wings already anticipating the flight and pursuit, when she thought of Nicodemas. He had gone to his knees and was twisting his torso around, trying to see the ragged slices across his flank. Blood was running from them, red and thick, splattering on the rich green grass. 

"Father!" Ioanna wailed in anguish. 

"No!" Nike snapped. "Stay inside, keep your brother inside, stay there until I tell you."

"But Father!"

"Now, Ioanna!"

The girl's head disappeared, and the door banged closed. Nike hurried to Nicodemas. He was gritting his teeth, but she knew that he was suffering. She snatched up the shift she had been wearing, folded it into a pad, and covered the wound. He groaned as she pressed hard. 

The fog was dispersing, burnt off by the rising sun. Nike could hear the thunderous gallop of other centaurs, the babble of excited voices. The commotion had roused the neighbors.

"Are … are you all right?" Nicodemas asked, gasping. 

"Think of yourself," she scolded. Her belt would not reach to hold the pad of cloth in place. "Can you walk? Not far, but into the cottage?"

"Yes." He laboriously stood, favoring the leg nearest the injury. "The Lamia …"

"Gone, for now," Nike said. She called to Ioanna to open the door. The girl obeyed at once, and both she and Hesperos were quick to help, moving furniture out of the way as the Amazon guided their limping father inside. 

"It is not so bad –"

"Hush." Nike led him to the bed that had so recently been her resting place. She coaxed him onto it, and he stretched out on his side, wincing. 

"I know what to do," Ioanna piped up, and hastily gathered Nicodemas' medical supplies.

Nike stood back, watching, wiping her sword clean with a rag. When the other centaurs came to the door, exclaiming over the bloodspill and other damage, she went out to meet them and told them what had gone on there that morning. One of them was Nessus, giving her a raw look of red-eyed hatred. But the rest, emboldened by the news that the Lamia was wounded, wanted to set off at once and track the creature, finish it off. The herd of them went off at a brisk trot, weapons in hand, following the trail of black splashes. 

She wanted to go with them, finish the hunt. But she was already so tired, and her arm stung from where she had been grazed by the Lamia's claws. So, once the centaurs had vanished into the thinning fog, she returned to the cottage. 

Ioanna might have lacked her father's experience, but she had some knowledge and skill. A proper bandage was already in place, and with mortar and pestle she was busily grinding up some fragrant herb. Nicodemas struggled to raise his torso as Nike came in. 

"Stay, rest," she said to him, echoing the very words he had used so often on her during her many days of illness. 

He looked as though he might protest, but then grinned a rueful grin – how handsome it made him! – and settled back with a sigh. "Tell me what happened."

She did, both children listening with wide eyes. 

"You saved us, then," Nicodemas said when she had finished. "If not for you, the Lamia might have gotten in here while we slept. I owe you my life, and those of my children."

"I already owed you mine," she said. "And had you not come out when you did, and kicked the beast, it may well have overpowered me. I think the debt is balanced."

"Even so," he said, "thank you. You could have left us to our fate, but you did not. You stayed to fight."

Nike was at the bedside, quite close to him. Almost of its own accord, her hand went out and caressed the line of his jaw. "You have been so kind to me. I could not abandon you, Nico."

His hand covered hers, held it where it was just as she flushed and was about to remove it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ioanna covering a merry smile, eyes dancing bright with approval. 

"Does this mean you will stay?" he asked. 

"Stay? I … I had meant to go to Delphi." She tugged on the chain around her neck with her free hand, bringing out the medallion. "To learn what this means. I have no place in the world until I do."

"There will always be a place for you here," he said, gesturing with his other arm to indicate the cottage and finishing up with his hand resting over his heart. "Or, if you'd allow me, I would come with you to Delphi."

"But your children –"

"We can stay with our grandsire and granddam," Ioanna quickly said. "They would be happy to have us, wouldn't they, Hesperos?"

"I don't want to stay with –" 

Ioanna clipped him with her hoof. 

"Ouch! I mean," Hesperos said, bending to rub his leg, "yes, that would be nice."

"It is settled, then," Nicodemas said, capturing Nike's eyes with his. Aegean-blue, deep and warm as the sea. "If you have no other objections."

What was she doing? It was madness, but such a welcome madness. What did it matter if he was not of her kind? Neither had any of the Amazons, although they had raised her. The wings growing from her back had always made that plain. Yet it had not stopped her from caring for her adoptive parents, grieving for them when they died. It had not stopped her from having lovers. If they had overlooked that difference in her, why could she not overlook the differences of Nicodemas?

He was looking at her so solemnly, a guarded hope in his eyes. She knew by now of his pain and loss over his wife, first in her adulterous betrayal, and then in her death at human hands. It had shattered his spirit, and he had devoted all that was left of himself to his children, and his studies. This was the first time since Delta that he was opening himself up, making himself vulnerable to love. For her. 

"Objections?" Nike echoed, and shook her head. "None whatsoever."

His face lit with joy. And then, unable not to, Nike leaned down and kissed him. His lips were warm and firm, the arms that came up to encircle her waist strong but tender. Nike blushed brighter at the sound of the children giggling, then forgot all as she gave herself over to the sweetness of his kiss.