“And what did I say to you?”
When he didn’t answer, she lifted her chocolate eyes to his. “Don’t remember? Then I’ll tell you. I said the most important things in this world are the ones we have to fight for. And I still believe you’re worth fighting for, Demetrius. Even if you don’t.”
He stood where he was long after she disappeared up the spiral stairs. The door at the top opened with a hiss, then closed gently behind her as she left. And alone, his heart squeezed so tight, it hurt to draw a single breath.
He was doing the right thing. No matter how painful, no matter how upset she thought she was now…in the long run, ending it here, before she learned the truth about him, was the only thing he could do.
In the quiet, he turned a slow circle and glanced over the Hall of Heroes, stopping when his gaze landed on Jason’s trunk. In the three thousand years after Jason’s tragedy, Demetrius hadn’t learned a thing, had he? He was still fucking things up, just like his forefather. History, obviously, loved to repeat itself.
Damn it.
He blew out a breath, ran his hands over his face then rested them on his hips. After ten minutes, he figured that was long enough for her to collect herself. It would be morning soon. She could start packing up whatever she wanted to take to Argolea. As soon as it was light, they’d set out for the temple again. And from there…
From there he didn’t know where the hell he’d go.
The ache spread out from his chest like wriggling tentacles searching for pain receptors to latch on to and bleed dry. He made it to the top of the steps and pushed the heavy door open, pausing as chilled air slid around his hand and crept toward his body.
Had a cold front moved in? The temperature seemed to drop by the second. Isadora was wearing only a tank top and shorts. She had to be freezing up here. Before they headed for the temple, he’d make sure she grabbed a few blankets from down below. Shoving his shoulder against the door, he stepped out into the moonlight. And then froze.
The seven foot daemon holding Isadora against his body had one hand wrapped around her mouth to keep her quiet, the other over her abdomen to hold her still. Two other daemons stood behind the first, their grotesque faces awash in the moonlight trickling through the open ceiling above. But it was the figure draped in red, moving up on Demetrius’s right, that nearly stopped his heart.
A vile grin spread across Atalanta’s face. “Guardian, it’s so good of you to join us. We’ve been waiting.”
His gaze jumped to Isadora’s wide, frightened eyes.
Atalanta stepped up to Isadora and bent to run one red-tipped nail down her cheek. The princess tensed. “You’ve done well,” Atalanta said to him, continuing to study Isadora. “Very well, it seems.”
Skata. How had she gotten here? And why now? When he was hours away from getting Isadora to safety?
Atalanta trailed her finger down the center of Isadora’s chest, over the daemon’s arm holding her still, then hovered her hand over Isadora’s belly. A wicked smile turned her bright red lips higher at the corners. “Oh, yes. Extremely well, yios.” She turned to face him. “But then I never expected anything less. I always knew my son would one day make me proud.”
Isadora gasped beneath the gnarled hand clamped over her mouth before looking to Demetrius for some sign that what Atalanta said couldn’t possibly be true. But there was nothing he could say or do to reassure her.
“And you, yios,” Atalanta went on, obviously enjoying her torment, “have done that now. In nine months’ time, the princess is going to bear me a child. The heir to the throne of Argolea. With my bloodline in its veins. And in doing so, she will gift me the link to the Horae that was stolen from me by the Argonauts.”
His gaze shot to Isadora’s face. Betrayal and revulsion raced across her perfect features, morphed to bitter hatred. And in the stillness that followed, Demetrius knew he’d been wrong. History hadn’t repeated itself. Because in Jason’s case, the only people who’d been affected by the hero’s fuckups were the ones he was supposed to have loved. This time the whole world was at stake. And thanks to him, the enemy now had the weapon it desperately needed.
Chapter 21
The blackness circled in, seeping through Demetrius’s ribs to condense in the space where his heart had been. A blackness he hadn’t felt in days and hadn’t once missed. Steeling himself against the familiar tightness in his chest, he shifted his gaze away from Isadora and focused on Atalanta.
He had to play it cool. He couldn’t let her see his fear. Couldn’t show he cared in any way.
The goddess turned to her minions. “Take her outside.”
Panic pushed in. “You can’t take her.”
Atalanta’s dark gaze swung his way. “I can do anything I want, yios.”
Isadora grunted beneath the hand clamped over her mouth, struggled in the daemon’s arms as he muscled her toward the doorway. Though he wanted nothing but blood, Demetrius didn’t look. His mind spun with alternatives. If they took her off this island where he couldn’t follow…
As if a light flicked on, he remembered the way Isadora had been sick once before at home. Before she and Casey had been joined as the Chosen. That’s why she was weakening. Not because of the witches. Why the hell hadn’t he figured that out before?
“She’s sick,” he said quickly.
“Halt.” Atalanta’s abrupt command stopped the daemon’s forward momentum. Eyebrows drawn low, the goddess crossed the stone floor to peer down at Isadora, her bloodred robes fanning out behind her in the moonlight as she moved. With one long finger she tipped the princess’s chin up and studied her pale face.
“She won’t last nine months,” Demetrius added. “Likely not even nine days, given the rate she’s weakening.”
“What is this illness?” Atalanta asked, still examining Isadora’s face. “A spell?”
“Not mine.”
“Then whose?” Atalanta’s enraged face whipped his way.
“It’s part of the prophecy. You should know this. The longer she’s separated from her sister, the sicker they each become. Blame Hades if you want, but not me.” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pants, hoping, praying he looked relaxed and not like he wanted to rip her throat out with his bare hands. “And since you sent us to this piece-of-shit island, what? A week ago? That time’s been running out.”
Atalanta’s eyes narrowed. Demetrius’s pulse picked up speed. They stood locked in a stare-down that vibrated the blackness inside his chest and drew it to the forefront. He knew she was looking inside him, delving deep for the lie she sensed was hidden somewhere in his words.
Just when he was sure she was going to strike him down simply because she could, she turned to look back at Isadora, then shifted her gaze to him once more.
She crossed the floor, lifted her hands in front of his face, and muttered words he didn’t catch. He tensed, but before she even finished chanting, he felt something shift in his hands and break open.
Her eyes grew to thin black points of darkness. “I was going to leave you here, where I could keep a close eye on you, but I’ve decided there are other, more useful plans for you now. I’ve unbound your ability to open the portal. On this island, however, you’ll still need to get to holy ground, though I have no doubt about your abilities. You are, after all, my son. It’s your loyalty now that concerns me. So I’ve decided to test it.” She looked at Isadora, but her words were meant for him. “You’ll return to Argolea, you’ll find the Chosen half-breed, and you’ll bring her to me. To your soul mate.”
Isadora cried out under the grotesque hand still clamped over her mouth, but Demetrius still didn’t look her way. He remained focused on his materas, on the female who, in a fucking twist of irony, had given him life and was now ripping it from his grasp.
Atalanta faced him again. “As you said, yios. Time is running out.” Over her shoulder, she called, “Baal?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Take the princess
outside.”
The daemon dragged Isadora out of the hall. The other monsters followed. Every muscle in Demetrius’s body clenched, ready to spring forward, but Atalanta, leaning in close, stopped his momentum. Her perfectly formed face, as beautiful as Aphrodite’s, blocked his line of sight. “Your soul mate’s life hangs in the balance, yios. Do not disappoint me.”
She moved out the door, disappearing from sight. From outside he heard a pop, a sizzle, and then a scream—Isadora’s scream. And then nothing at all.
He knew they were gone. He didn’t even need to look. Just as he knew he had one chance now, and time really was ticking.
He hit the doorway to the Hall of Heroes at a dead run, slithered through the widening gap as the door opened. Skipping stairs to get to the bottom fast, he ran through everything he might need. Candles and torches flared as he hit the ground, as if the dark magick inside him vibrated so strongly he didn’t even need to harness it. He flipped up lids on the heroes’ chests one by one and snagged the Pelican spear, a knife that looked like a circle of teeth—which he strapped to his thigh—and two daggers he hooked in the belt loops of his pants. Then he headed for the stairs.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye. Three steps up he paused and looked back toward the pallet he’d lain on with Isadora only minutes before. Quickly he crossed back to the makeshift bed and used the spear to flip up the top blanket. Lying near the far right corner lay the diamond with the Titans’ marking. He bent and lifted it and immediately felt the heat and life of the earth radiate into his palm and up his arm.
You’re the one who set the torches.
I am. It’s sacred.
His gaze darted up and around the hall as he thought of his conversation with Lachesis. Bloody hell, this was the sacred ground they’d needed all along. She’d been trying to tell him, but he’d been too stubborn to listen. Isadora could have opened the portal at any fucking time. All she’d needed to do was calm herself and focus.
He dropped the weapons in his hands, shoved the earth element into his pocket, and brought his pinky fingers together. He focused his mind, thought of Argolea. The Argonaut markings on his arms glowed as if backlit, growing strong in intensity. And then the portal opened in a pop and sizzle of light that shimmered all along the walls.
He stepped through the portal and into the Gatehouse in Argolea. Where a force slammed into his side and shoved him to the ground.
“What the hell?” he said.
“It’s him. Skata. Get him!”
Four sets of hands grabbed on to him. He tried to push himself up but they shoved him back down to the ground. Blinding pain shot off behind his eyes as his head smashed into the stone floor.
“He’s armed!” a voice yelled.
“Someone get to the Argonauts and tell them we’ve got him!”
“Get the fuck off me!” Demetrius hollered. A knee jabbed his back. His arms were wrenched behind him before he could break free and swing out. What were these morons doing? Didn’t they know who he was?
He thrashed, knew if he got to his feet he could take all four of them down. Throwing his head back, he cracked his skull against the guard behind him. The guard cried out in pain, loosened his grip. Demetrius swung around. The blade at his throat brought him to a sudden halt.
“This little party’s over,” the guard muttered. He stripped Demetrius of his weapons while another guard searched his pockets.
“Look at this,” the one to his right said.
The guard with the blade held the earth element out so Demetrius could see it. “Oh, Guardian, you have been a bad boy. Many have been looking for you, and I can’t wait to see what they’ll say when they get an eyeful of this.”
***
“You don’t seem pleased to be here,” Atalanta said. “I’d think you’d be dying for real food after a week of nothing but berries and fish.”
Isadora cut her gaze from the roaring fire in the enormous stone fireplace to Atalanta, seated at the other end of the long rectangular table in what she supposed was a dining room. Supposed, because she didn’t care. All she could think about were the things the witch in front of her had said back at the ruins. And the fact Demetrius hadn’t once denied them.
Atalanta lifted a large goblet and took a deep drink. Unable to watch, Isadora’s gaze fell to the tall, grotesque metal candleholders in the middle of the table, dripping red wax like blood splatters onto the scarred wooden surface. The scents of spices and raw meat wafted on the air. Isadora’s stomach rolled as she looked from the candles to the slab of oozing red meat on the plate in front of her. She didn’t know where they were, only that it was colder than the top of the Aegis Mountains here and everything about this place was vile. The food, the temperature, the smell, the company. She wanted to go home. She wanted her sisters. She wanted…
Bile rose up her throat and she swallowed hard so she wouldn’t think of Demetrius. She didn’t want him. She couldn’t. Not after what she now knew was true.
Dear gods. She couldn’t be pregnant. Hours ago, that had seemed like the perfect solution to all her problems. But now? Her eyes slid closed. She just couldn’t be. The goddess was lying. No one could know so soon…
The soft chuckle at the other end of the table drew Isadora’s eyes open. “I know much, Hora. And my son’s seed now grows within you. Just as we planned it would.”
What little food she’d eaten earlier rushed up and Isadora’s stomach heaved. She covered her mouth with her hand, rolled out of the chair, and darted for the bathroom in the hallway Atalanta had let her use before ordering Isadora to join her for dinner.
Sardonic laughter followed as she slammed the door shut and reached for the toilet. Again and again her stomach heaved until there was nothing left. Until every muscle in her body ached from exhaustion. Until her soul was utterly and completely spent.
Tears rushed down her face as she dropped back on the floor and grabbed a towel from the bar to wipe her mouth. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Every cruel word and despicable thing Demetrius had ever done or said over the years came back tenfold in her mind to make perfect sense. She’d wanted to believe there was good in him. She’d built up a fantasy of who he was, when the truth had been staring her in the face the entire time.
He was Atalanta’s son. The spawn of ultimate evil. And he’d tricked her to get what he—what Atalanta—wanted.
Her gaze strayed to her stomach. No, she couldn’t possibly be…
She squeezed her eyes shut tight on a wave of misery, unable to even think the word. And that’s when she remembered the Fate’s words.
Look within yourself for the balance you seek.
Chapter 22
Casey’s eyes flew open wide. On a gasp she rolled out from under Theron’s arm and lurched from the bed.
“Meli?” Groggy, Theron pushed up on his elbow and blinked Casey’s way.
The first rays of dawn shone through the high-arching window of their suite in the castle, cascading over his rumpled hair, the dark whiskers on his jaw, his broad, bare, and muscular chest. His eyes were still sleepy, the lines on his face a harsh reminder that even in sleep he hadn’t found peace. Exhaustion was wearing on him, and since he hadn’t slept more than two hours since Isadora had gone missing, Casey had pulled out all the stops and lured him to bed with the promise she would ease at least a little of his anxiety first. Truth be told, she’d succeeded in easing them both, for a little while at least, and afterward Theron had finally fallen asleep in her arms, just as she’d wanted. But now…
“Meli?” he asked again, sitting upright on the white silk sheets. Confusion cleared from his eyes and the focused intensity she was used to seeing from the leader of the Argonauts returned to his features.
Her pulse slowed as she looked at him, as she took in the dimly lit room around her with its four-poster bed, lush rugs, and velvet curtains. Damn it. The hallucination, dream…whatever the hell she’d just experienced had killed
their restful mood.
“I—”
“Casey!”
The sound of Callia’s voice in the living room, at this hour of the morning, brought both their heads around.
Casey’s heart rate shot up again. And one thought registered. The king. God, not now. Not with Isadora missing. Casey darted a look at Theron and saw the worry she felt reflected back at her. She reached for her robe from the end of the bed and headed for the door.
“Hold on, meli.”
By the time she pulled the double doors open, Callia was already across the living room, her hand lifted to knock on the bedroom door. She wore baby blue silk pajamas, the cuffs of the pants brushing her bare feet, the sleeves falling to her knuckles. Behind her, Zander’s face was pale and drawn, and from his twisted sweats and rumpled hair it was apparent his much-needed few hours of sleep were also long gone.
“The king?” Casey asked, her worry overriding everything else.
“What?” Callia’s brows dropped low. “No. He’s fine. I mean, I’m sure he’s fine. That’s not why I’m here. I—”
Relief was swift and consuming. And then Casey thought of the dream and dread spiraled in like a twister.
Casey reached for her sister’s hands. “You felt it too.”
“Yes,” Callia breathed, gripping Casey’s hands. “You did as well?”
Casey nodded.
“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Theron asked.
“I vote for that,” Zander muttered at Callia’s back.
Casey’d almost forgotten about the males in the room. She turned toward her husband. “I don’t know. At first I thought it was a nightmare. It was so strong it pushed me right out of bed. But now I’m not so sure. I thought I felt—”
“A jolt,” Callia finished. “And then a voice. It sounded like…”
As Callia’s words trailed off, Casey looked back into her sister’s wide frightened eyes, at the wild and tousled hair framing Callia’s perfect face, at the stark reality mirrored back at her. One look and Casey knew the nightmare hadn’t been a nightmare at all.