Tempted

Chapter 3

Somewhere close, Isadora heard the crash of waves, felt the gentle push and pull of the water. The sounds were relaxing, the tide freeing. And the tingle in her skin was as intoxicating as the strongest wine in all of Argolea.

Something brushed her calf. Sparks of electricity zinged along her nerve endings. She drew in a breath, relaxed as the touch crept up her leg, over her hip to her abdomen. Warmth gathered there, teased her, pushed up to the undersides of her breasts. A thick heaviness pulled on her body, called to her from a place outside herself. Unfulfilled need puckered her nipples. Her blood warmed, beat in her veins, slid lower inch by inch, until she had to press her thighs together to keep from moaning.

You like that, don’t you, Princess?

Excitement leaped in her chest. The voice was male, deep, and sinfully sultry. A hint of darkness hovered along the sexy edges, calling to someplace deep inside her. Her mind struggled to make the connection she knew was on the tip of her memory, but awareness eluded her.

She rolled to her back. Arched. Needed…something more, though she wasn’t sure what. More of his touch. More of those strokes that were making the blood pound in her ears. More of him.

He chuckled low, near her ear. Hot breath fanned the sensitive skin of her neck, sent delicious shivers up and down her spine. Tell me, Princess. Are you wet?

This time she did moan. Because his barely there caress, those erotic words, and that wicked voice all condensed until a fire ignited in the center of her core.

Hands pushed between her legs, spread her thighs. Flames licked at her center even before she felt the first contact.

Open your eyes, little one. Look up at me. It’s time.

Her body blazed with white-hot desire and scorching flames filled with need. Slowly, she peeled her eyelids open and stared up at the blurry image above. Short dark hair framed a rugged face, onyx eyes, and a strong square jaw, with the slightest dent right in the middle of his chin.

Demetrius.

Alarm rang through her head like a bell being tolled, and yet still her body arched toward his, toward his lustful gaze and that decadent promise of ecstasy hovering in his dark eyes. But it was wrong. He was cruel. And she had never wanted and should never want him like this.

Her mind protested as she tried to move. A groan tore from her chest. She rolled onto her side, sucked air, and tried to break his wicked pull even as her body continued to hum with unfulfilled cravings.

Hands grasped her hips, and she cried out as they easily rolled her back. Warmth gathered in her center all over again. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want him. Why wasn’t her body listening?

“Wake up, paidi, it’s time.”

This time the voice wasn’t male and deep and sinfully erotic. This time it was female and clipped. And the hands hovering against her skin were small and cold.

Isadora blinked, shook her head, tried to see through the fog still hanging around her like a shroud. The room came into view. It was circular, made of stone. A chill spread down her spine when the temperature registered. An old iron chandelier hung from the high ceiling, shining light over the stone floor, over her. Over Isis standing at her side, smiling a sinister grin.

Isis. The witch. The scene from earlier raced through Isadora’s mind. She darted a quick look to her left, then her right. This room was not the same one she’d been in before. It looked like a bedroom chamber with high arching windows, a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a large, cold, unused fireplace on the far wall filled with dead embers.

“It’s time, paidi,” Isis repeated. “We must ready you for your journey.”

“Wait—”

Hands gripped Isadora’s arms. She resisted, but they pulled her easily from the bed. The sheet fell to the stone floor, revealing her naked body. Desire still thrummed through Isadora’s body, combined with the chill air to tighten her breasts. Embarrassment washed over her, but the two witches with death grips on her arms barely seemed to notice. They dragged her across the room, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and dropped her into a steaming bath set near the blackened fireplace.

She wanted to escape, needed to run, but the water was warm, the scent of roses soothing. Her body immediately relaxed and the hands pressing down on her shoulders kept her immobile.

Isis sprinkled some sort of oils into the water. She chanted in Medean, then sent Isadora a smug grin. “Atalanta wants you in peak condition when you cross the portal.”

Atalanta. Those alarm bells rang louder. Isadora didn’t have a clue what the hell Atalanta had planned for her, but whatever it was it couldn’t be good. Atalanta had been pissed at the Argoleans for millennia—ever since she’d been denied the rank of Argonaut herself. Until recently, she’d been living in the Underworld, gathering an army of daemons in her never-ending quest to destroy those who’d shunned her. And now that the Argonauts had stolen from her the one thing she needed in her quest for ultimate control, she was even more pissed than ever before.

Isadora’s mind churned and sputtered as the witches cleaned her. She blocked what they were doing and focused on what she knew. She was in some kind of castle. The stone walls and floors, the chill, the darkness, all were things she recognized. And this witch had just settled one of her fears—at least she was still in her own realm.

Panic edged its way into her chest, but she pushed it aside. Focused again. She couldn’t flash through walls, but if she could get clear of this castle, if she could just find her way outside, she could flash home. But first she had to summon enough strength to get the hell out of here.

The witches pulled their hands from the tub, motioned for Isadora to stand. She did, her mind plotting and planning as they dried her with towels. From a hook on the wall, one of the witches reached for a garment, turned back, and held it up against Isadora’s naked flesh.

“Yes, yes,” the other witch said with excitement. “Perfect, yes. Let’s get her into this. Quickly. Quickly.”

The first witch removed the thin black garment from the hanger and lifted it over Isadora’s head. Her arms slid through the long sleeves with apprehension; the hem fell at her bare feet. She looked down with horror as she realized the garment was sheer nearly everywhere, showcasing her skin, her left hip, her belly button, the swell of her breasts. The only places protected by diagonal strips of velvet were her nipples, the juncture of her thighs, and—she glanced over her back—thankfully, her ass.

Dear gods. This wasn’t a gown. It was a negligee. One that didn’t hide nearly enough and showed more than anyone had ever seen.

She couldn’t come up with one logical reason Atalanta would want her dressed like this. That panic clawed its way up her chest, wrapped itself around her throat until she wanted to scream. She glanced up and around, searched for the exit. Behind her, Isis chuckled.

“Relax, paidi. The spell is working. You will enjoy this.”

She had no idea what “this” was, but earlier she’d been dreaming about Demetrius. And though nothing about him could be good, anything that had to do with Atalanta was a thousand times worse.

“Bring her,” Isis said, starting for the door.

The witches wrapped their fingers around Isadora’s arms, and something inside Isadora screamed that if she went with them it would be the end for her.

“No. Stop.” She braced her bare feet on the stones, pulled back. “You can’t.”

“We haven’t much time,” the one to her left said.

“No. Please.” Isadora struggled as they pulled her out into the cold dank corridor and dragged her along. “Please!”

But her cries went unanswered. And the arms pulling her were too strong. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she realized she was trapped. For so many years she’d thought her father’s will and his intent to bind her to one of his Argonauts—even Demetrius—would be the worst thing she could imagine in this lifetime. Now she knew the truth. Nothing compared to the horror that waited for her somewhere in this castle.

Frigid air blew past Demetrius’s face as he stood with the rest of the guardians hidden in the dark forest to the southeast of Thrace Castle. A thick fog enveloped the stronghold built into the side of the towering mountain. Aside from the great wall that ran around the base of the fortress, the only sections of the castle that could be seen were the cold gray spires above the clouds, illuminated by the moon, nearly at its crest above.

Anticipation thrummed in Demetrius’s blood. Beside him, Theron ran through the layout of the castle one more time with the witch Selene, who’d guided them this far.

“Yes,” Selene said. “Once you get past the outer wall, you’ll have to be careful. The witches on guard will be scanning for anything out of the ordinary. If you can get through the inner wall, the princess will most likely be held in one of the four towers.”

Four towers. Demetrius glanced at the witch, shivering in her puffy black coat, then to the spires he could see rising above the shadows and mist. Eeny, meeny, miny, fucking moe. Just their luck Isadora wouldn’t be in any of them. And just their luck this castle was built for defense. Sheer rock wall on one side, drop to bone-jarring glacial water on the other. There was only one way in and out and that was through the main gate. Which was, no doubt, guarded by at least twenty witches.

“Apophis’s minions have the power to alter perception,” Selene went on. “So be careful. What you see may not be what’s actually real.”

Lovely. They were so screwed it wasn’t even funny.

Theron looked up from his map, swept a glance over each of his guardians. “Zander and I will distract the guards while the rest of you go in. Orpheus has agreed to help us out on this one. Demetrius, Gryphon, and Orpheus take the west side, Phin, Cerek, and Titus, the east. We need to make this short and sweet, boys. Once you find the princess, set off your medallion and the rest of us will clear the road so you can get her out. This is a rescue mission only, not an attack. Are we clear on that?”

Heads nodded in unison.

“And if any of you run into that warlock Apophis—”

“Bend over and kiss your ass good-bye,” Titus muttered.

Theron’s irritated gaze shot in Titus’s direction as he rolled up the map. “I was gonna say, get your ass out of there as fast as you can. You won’t last two minutes against the kind of power he wields.” He looked at the rest of the group, handed Selene the map. “The only advantage we have is that his powers can’t cross the castle walls. Don’t go until you hear our diversion. After that you’re all clear. Any questions?”

Energy vibrated around the group. Eyes darted from face to face. No one said a word.

Theron nodded once. He looked toward Zander standing to his left, dressed in the same fighting gear they all wore. “You ready to go tease some witches?”

A wide smile broke across Zander’s face. “You betcha. Just don’t tell Callia. Wouldn’t want her getting jealous or anything.”

Across the group, Titus huffed.

“Get moving, lover boy.” Theron swept a glance back toward the others. “The rest of you, don’t get dead.”

As Theron and Zander headed off toward the main castle gate, Selene held out her hands to the rest of them and muttered in Medean. Demetrius knew she was casting the last of her invisibility spell so they could reach the castle walls unseen, but a part of him prickled just the same. He avoided magick at all costs, any kind. And this was just one more thing he had to hold against Isadora. When he found the little vixen…

“D,” Gryphon said, “let’s go.”

Looking up, Demetrius realized the others had already left. He followed Orpheus and Gryphon as they made their way to the west side of the castle. The darkness of the forest opened up to brilliance as they reached the edge of the trees, the light of the near-full moon illuminating the area as if it were daylight. This close, Thrace Castle towered above, the stark peak of Mount Parnithia a black shadow, hovering. Gruesome gargoyles glared down from perches along the outer wall. Off in the distance, torches flickered near the castle’s main gates.

“Well, boys,” Orpheus said, shrugging into his black cloak. “This is where I leave you.”

Surprise registered, but not shock. Demetrius never expected Orpheus to play by the rules. Some instinct deep inside said not to trust the scoundrel alone with Isadora for even a second, though. Demetrius grasped the ándras by the arm before he could get a step away. “Hold up. Just what is your claim to the princess?”

“Careful, Guardian.”

The flare of green in Orpheus’s eyes was unsettling. Almost as unsettling as why Demetrius even cared what Isadora was to this guy. “If you intend to harm her—”

“No, hurting females would be your specialty, not mine.”

“Orpheus,” Gryphon warned.

Orpheus ignored his brother, narrowed his gaze on Demetrius. “What is she to you, Guardian?”

The darkness vibrated in Demetrius’s chest, pushed against his ribs, screamed to be let free. “A burden.”

“Well, that’s where we differ, Argonaut. To me she’s an opportunity. She and I have an arrangement. And she owes me something I intend to collect. Now if that’s it for the inquisition”—he glanced down to where Demetrius held him by the arm, waited until he let go—“then I’ll see you both inside.” He lifted the cloak around his head and disappeared.

Demetrius darted a look at Gryphon, who only rolled his eyes. “Invisibility cloak. Don’t ask where he got it. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Demetrius looked back to where Orpheus had stood only moments before.

“He can also poof through walls, in case you didn’t know. Which means he’s probably already inside. Where in Hades is that signal?”

As if on cue, an explosion rocked the front gate and shook the ground. Screams and shouts erupted; a fireball ignited near the moat. Demetrius caught Gryphon’s eye. Gryphon nodded and flashed. Demetrius followed. When he opened his eyes he was on the top of the outer wall walk. He turned just in time to see three witches running his way, blades drawn, mouths open in blood-curdling screams.

Holy Hades. He tensed, had just enough time to draw his parazonium—the ancient Greek dagger they each carried—from the scabbard at his back and swing out and around in a defensive move before the first witch reached him. But his blade made no contact, swept through nothing but air. Jolted by the lack of matter, he shifted his attention to the middle witch, who screeched and swung up and over with her sword, bringing it down dangerously close to Demetrius’s shoulder. He shifted out and around, heard Gryphon call his name from farther down the wall walk, and kicked out, knocking the witch off balance. She hit the stones at his feet, jumped up, and swiveled in the air like a kung fu fighter.

Blade met sword. The witch was small but strong, and Demetrius felt the dark magick clinging to her as she fought against him. The third witch disappeared and reappeared at the edge of his vision, an exact replica of the one he was fighting. As he swung again and again and advanced, he realized she was casting illusions, trying to confuse him.

Fucking witches…

He pushed her closer to the gun battery. She growled, shifted the sword in her hands. Venom shone in her eyes. Her back hit the stone wall with a thwack. Knowing she was cornered, she stared at him, and a slow smile spread across her twisted face. “Come to me. Join me. You know you can’t resist for long.”

“I don’t think so.” He swung up and over, catching her arm with the flat of his blade, knocking the sword from her grasp. It clattered against the hard ground.

Her eyes flew wide, and her irises turned neon yellow…which was just freakin’ wrong. She shifted forward, raised her arms, and pointed her fingers at his chest. “Mother goddess of the—”

“I’m not wild about that one either.” He placed the heel of his boot against her chest and pushed just hard enough to get her attention. Her back hit the wall again. “Surrender.”

He spent his life killing. Daemons weren’t a problem, and if a random human got in the way of his goal, it was an acceptable loss as far as he was concerned. But he had a mental hang-up when it came to fighting a female, even a witch. He didn’t want to gut her, but he also knew the depth of her powers and he wasn’t about to let her cast a spell over him.

“I’d rather die first.” The witch lifted her hands again.

Before she could hex him, he pushed with the sole of his boot. A cracking resounded just before the stones gave way and her body tipped over the edge of the wall. He reached out to grab her, but she slipped out of his grip. Her scream echoed up as she dropped into the clouds below.

“Demetrius!”

Damn it. At the sound of his name, Demetrius tore to the other side of the wall walk and looked across the ward to the inner wall, where Gryphon had flashed and was now fighting a handful of witches. Only these didn’t look like illusions. They looked real and pissed and abundant.

“Skata.” Demetrius closed his eyes and flashed to the next wall, behind the horde of witches. He kicked out at one, knocked her off balance. She leaped to her feet, twisted around, and hissed. When she charged with her sword high, he arced out and slashed through her abdomen. Lights flickered around her like a halo as blood spurted from the wound. But it wasn’t red, it was neon yellow, and when a drop hit the skin of his hand, it sizzled and burned.

Holy motherfucking…

Her shriek yanked his attention. In a daze he watched her beauty stutter and fade, leaving behind a wrinkled, gnarled, and warped being with razor-sharp teeth and snakes shooting out all over her head.

No way. Delia hadn’t lied when she said these things weren’t Medean anymore. They were like Furies, without the fucking wings. Any apprehension he had at mowing them down evaporated. He used his blade to take down one, then another. Each time he struck, that acid spurted from their wounds, charred any bits of his flesh left exposed.

They were relentless, coming again and again. By the time he reached Gryphon’s side, he was bloody and bruised, his hands charred and aching, and he was breathing heavily, a trail of dead witches behind him on the wall walk.

Gryphon didn’t look much better. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I prefer fighting daemons. These witches are fucking brutal. At least the damn daemons go down easy.”

Demetrius wasn’t about to compare the two. His gaze shot to the courtyard below. “We have to get inside that keep before they bar the doors.”

They each flashed to one side of the gatehouse entrance, where two witches were working to roll the massive wood doors closed. Demetrius nodded once at Gryphon, then jumped up to the steps and went after the first witch. She was agile and turned on him like a wraith. Her scream echoed through the chill air, but he struck out and around with his blade and caught her in the chest. Her face contorted and morphed into her ugly image, her neon yellow eyes flying wide just before she fell at his feet.

Demetrius looked up in time to see the blade in the other witch’s hand catch Gryphon at the chest. Gryphon roared as metal sliced into flesh, went down to one knee. The second witch screeched and lifted her sword for the kill blow.

Demetrius charged with his shoulder and plowed into her abdomen before she could make contact. The witch sailed through the open door and smacked into a pillar on the far side of the hall. Her eyes went glassy; her head lolled on her shoulders. As her glamour faded, the snakes that made up her hair hissed and twisted around her face. She slumped to a heap against the floor.

Demetrius righted himself, reached for Gryphon.

“I’m fine,” Gryphon grumbled, pushing up to stand. “Shit, that burns.” He shook off Demetrius’s help. “I said I’m fine.”

Outside, shouts resounded and footsteps drew closer. The cackles and screams were clear indications that what was coming their way wasn’t Argolean.

“Skata.” Gryphon pointed toward a circular staircase with his blade. “There. Go!”

They made it halfway up the stairs before they were overrun by five more witches rushing down from the second level.

They swung, battled, chopped, and kicked. For every witch that went down, another seemed to come out of the woodwork and join the fight.

“Holy Hera,” Gryphon shouted over the battle. “They’re reproducing like rabbits!”

Just about the time Demetrius thought they were losing ground, Orpheus appeared on the landing above, his own sword raised as he drove the remaining witches down. Metal clanked against metal. Shouts resounded. Cries and screams of effort and agony echoed in the vast stone space.

“I leave you boys to do one simple thing.” Orpheus sliced through one witch’s leg. When she howled, he kicked her in the stomach. She tumbled down the staircase to land on a pile of dead and mutilated bodies.

Demetrius wiped a hand across his sweaty brow and peered down at the ruin below. “No way there’s only fifty witches in this freakin’ castle.”

“The witches are the least of our problems right now, boys.” Orpheus’s eyes flared in that strange way of his. “I found her.”

Orpheus turned and skipped steps to get to the top. Blades drawn, Demetrius and Gryphon followed. When they reached the third floor, Orpheus held up a hand, stopping them. Down the long arched corridor, an open doorway at the end glowed with a surreal blue light. Dark magick hovered all around, and a vile evilness coated every inch of space.

Demetrius stared at the blue light, transfixed by the glow, his chest rising and falling as he worked to regulate his breathing. That darkness inside him leaped with excitement.

He swallowed hard, gripped his blade. At his side, Gryphon did the same.

“This is where we separate the men from the boys.” Orpheus’s eyes flicked to his brother. “You wanna run home?”

Gryphon shot him a glare. “And let you have all the fun? I think not.”

Orpheus smirked, looked to Demetrius. “How about you, cowboy? Did you ever wonder what Pandora let out of her box?”

Demetrius tensed. There was no way Orpheus could know who and what Demetrius really was, but the intense expression, coupled with the look in the ándras’s eyes when he tipped his head toward the door, gave Demetrius a strange hitch in his gut, as if Orpheus knew way more than he should.

Orpheus took one step toward Demetrius. “Some things are better left unseen. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Guardian?”

Knowledge and secrets lingered in Orpheus’s words, drifted in his empty eyes. The black mist pounded at Demetrius from every side. The two parts of him he kept locked off from the world, the blackness inside and his so-called gift, strained to be set free. To finally be used.

Temptation was closer than it had ever been. All he had to do was lift his hands, give in to the power…

An ear-shattering scream rent the air. Demetrius looked past Orpheus toward the blue glow. And his chest grew impossibly tight. He knew that voice.

Instinct pushed him forward without a second thought. “Isadora.”