The Spoils of War

Love's Immortal Pantheon: The Spoils of War
By: Kayleigh Jamison
Published By: Tease Publishing LLC
ISBN # 978-1-60767-028-5

Word Count: 6,000

Categories: Paranormal/Horror Historical Regency Short Stories

Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Epub
Price: $1.99


Victory always comes with a price.

The Duke of Wellington, hailed as one of the greatest military generals in English history, defeated Napoleon and brought peace back to Europe. But what if he had help? And what if that help was the god of war and manliness? What would a bored immortal ask for in return?



Excerpt:

The Duke of Wellington was not pleased to be roused in the middle of the night by a visit to his bedchamber. Clad only in his dressing gown and heavy red velvet robe, he sat in the large overstuffed chair by the fireplace, a tumbler of brandy in one hand and a smoking cheroot in the other. Irritation sketched across the hard, battle-weary lines of his face as he regarded his guest. "I wondered when you would come," he grumbled. The visit was not unexpected, nor was the hour. The first time he'd entertained the Greek god of war had been at a similar uncouth time five years before, though then he'd been in his tent, and not sleeping, too consumed with worry over the possibility of defeat at the hands of Napoleon. Of course, then he'd had a pistol and sword nearby; he wished he had them now, though he knew they'd have little effect upon a god. Prior experience had taught him that, as well.
"I've given you time to rest now that you're home," Ares replied calmly. His accent was subtle, unidentifiable, but distinct. "I upheld my end of our bargain. The little Frenchman is defeated, you have your victory, and your glory. Now I want my prize."
"You must, at long last, tell me what it is you desire," the general countered. Victory for you, the spoils of war for me, Ares had proposed. You won't tell me precisely what you want, Wellington had countered, because you think I'm too desperate to care. The god had smiled and simply replied, yes. And he'd been correct.
Ares shrugged his well-muscled shoulders. He was dressed oddly, as he'd been in that first meeting, a linen tunic barely visible beneath a silver and gold breastplate, with large black horses decorating the sculpted pectorals, flame and smoke curling from their nostrils. A cast brass and silver belt circled his waist, and thick leather pteruges hung from waist to knee. The ensemble was topped with a blood red cape, fastened around his shoulders with a gold, jewel-encrusted pendant the size of a fist. On his feet were sandals with straps that wrapped around his feet and ankles, leather styled with more gold. The outfit of a Roman warrior, one who preferred his Greek name.
"A simple thing, given your influence and status. I want a woman."