Tempted

Chapter 5

Orpheus felt like he’d been run over by a semitruck. The skin on his hands and forearms was fried from all the acidic witch blood. His shoulder hurt like a bitch where he’d taken a blast of Apophis’s energy. And he had enough nicks and cuts from claws and swords everywhere else to last him into the next millennium.

Man, the Argonauts owed him big-time. As he flashed to Delia’s tent city in the low hills of the Aegis Mountains, he corrected himself. Isadora fucking owed him.

And this time he planned to hold firm to his word and make sure she paid up.

Delia rushed out of the pavilion just as he lowered the invisibility cloak’s hood. She grasped his forearm, her fingers digging in deep to his already-seared skin.

He winced as pain shot into his arm and tried to pull away. But the witch had a death grip and her wide-eyed expression put him on instant alert. One look around and he realized the Argonauts weren’t here, where’d they’d planned to reconnoiter after rescuing Isadora.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“They left.”

Left? Why, those ungrateful motherfu—

“They sensed one of their own open the portal.”

“I know. The big one opened it to get the princess away from Apophis.”

Delia shook her head, white hair flaring out all around her shoulders. And his last thread of patience snapped. He’d nearly gotten fried, had risked his own neck so Demetrius could get Gryphon and Isadora the hell out of there, and then they’d gone and ditched his ass so they could—

“It didn’t reopen.”

“What did you say?”

“I said the portal didn’t reopen. They didn’t come back through. Not here, not in Tiyrns.”

His brow wrinkled. “How can you—”

“Because I sense anytime the portal opens, anywhere in Argolea. How do you think I’m able to monitor our mobile portals?” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I sensed it open to the human realm, but not back again. Orpheus, I don’t have to tell you, as one of the Horae, it’s not safe for the princess to be in the human realm.”

No, it wasn’t safe for Isadora to be in the human realm, but that wasn’t what set off a tremor of unease deep in Orpheus’s gut. Thinking about Gryphon unable to stand on his own when Demetrius had taken him through was foremost in Orpheus’s mind.

He didn’t bother to answer Delia, simply closed his eyes and pictured the castle in Tiyrns, then flashed to the grand foyer.

The guards at the front door caught sight of him and hollered, surprised he’d flashed inside walls. Turning, he looked up the massive staircase to where Theron and a few of the other Argonauts were coming down.

Footsteps pounded across the marble floor. Theron waved a hand from above. “He’s with us.”

The leader of the Argonauts stopped at ground level, motioned Cerek over to take care of the flustered guards. Then he turned his attention on Orpheus. “Glad you made it back.”

Yeah, right. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell us.”

“We were overrun. Demetrius took the princess and Gryphon through the portal to get away. I stayed back to give them a chance.”

“How in Hades did you get out?”

Orpheus didn’t like the accusation. The guardian might command this ragtag group of warriors, but he didn’t hold a damn thing over Orpheus. “I have my ways.”

Theron studied Orpheus for a long beat, and in his eyes there was skepticism and distrust, the kind Orpheus was used to seeing. But not when he’d volunteered to help. And definitely not when he’d nearly gotten zapped to smithereens as a result. This is what he got for being a fucking Good Samaritan.

He set his jaw, was just about to lay into Theron, when the guardian said, “They never made it back. What did they say to you before they left?”

Nothing that would help the Argonauts find them, that was sure. They could be anywhere. Except…“Gryphon was injured.”

“Where? How?”

“That piece of shit warlock hit him with some kind of energy. He could barely stand on his own. If they didn’t come back right away—”

“Skata.” Theron looked over his shoulder. “Zander, get Callia. We’re going to need her.”

As the blond guardian headed back up the stairs, Orpheus’s irritation with this whole fucked-up situation reached its limit. “Can’t you just track them with those fancy medallions you all wear?”

“The medallions work like a beacon, one way, and only if they’re pressed. Someone has to activate them for—”

Boots clomped on the floor above, and all heads turned to see what the ruckus was about. Seconds later Titus rounded the newel post and skipped stairs to reach them at the bottom. He was out of breath when he said, “I got it. Just came in.” He waved some kind of handheld gizmo. “Gryphon’s medal went off.”

“What about Demetrius’s?” Theron asked.

Titus shook his head. “Hasn’t been triggered. Theron, man. They’re at the half-breed colony.”

“Skata,” Theron muttered again.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that was the worst possible place to open the portal. The colony had recently been overrun by daemons, and the Misos—half human, half Argolean—were in the process of setting up new digs somewhere in Montana. If Demetrius had opened the portal there, odds were good they’d run into a shit storm of daemons, still running patrols and searching the area for stragglers. And with Gryphon injured, their chances of getting out alive diminished radically.

“Get Nick on the horn,” Theron said to Titus. “He’s still in Oregon rounding up his people and getting them moved over.”

“Got it,” Titus said, skipping back up the steps.

Zander was just coming back down the massive staircase with Callia at his side. “T,” he said as Titus rushed by. “What’s up?”

“Nothing good,” Titus muttered, then disappeared around the corner.

One hand gripping Zander’s tightly, the other holding her healer’s bag, Callia couldn’t hide the worry shrouding her face. She stopped at the base of the stairs, looked from Orpheus to Theron and back again. “Zander said Gryphon was hurt. How bad?”

Theron shook his head then focused in on Zander. “T tracked them to the colony.”

“Shit,” Zander muttered. “What the hell are they doing there?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. We’ll need to go in carefully, pick a location well enough away so the bastards can’t sense us.”

“I’m coming too,” Callia cut in.

“No,” Theron said. When she flicked him an irritated look, Theron gentled his tone. “No, Callia. It’s too dangerous. Until we know what the scene is like, you stay here. But I want you ready at the Gatehouse. If it’s safe and we need you, Z will come back for you. If not…we’ll figure out a way to get Gryphon back to you ASAP.”

That didn’t seem to appease Callia, but she nodded, then turned to Zander. The two exchanged quiet words while the other Argonauts muttered among themselves. And watching, Orpheus had the distinct impression he was systematically being shut out.

His jaw clenched. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” Theron said without looking his way. “We can handle this on our own.”

Fuck that.

The muscles in Orpheus’s eyes constricted, and though he fought it, he couldn’t stop what was about to happen. Callia glanced his way and gasped. Several of the Argonauts turned to look. But before his eyes shifted to complete glowing green, he closed them tight and flashed out of the castle and straight to the portal.

Screw the Argonauts.

In this case he was lucky the Council had replaced the Argonauts with the Executive Guard. It took him microseconds to hit the Gatehouse, pull up the hood of his invisibility cloak, and sail right past the morons and through the portal.

The Council thought they knew best, that they didn’t need the Argonauts to protect their realm, that the Executive Guard could do it just as well by standing guard. They didn’t have a clue what kinds of evil lurked on the other side of the portal. But Orpheus did. He knew because he lived it every damn day.

Since he’d been at the half-breed colony only days before, he knew the coordinates in the remote Oregon wilderness, and it was easy to open the portal just beyond the cave’s entrance. A flash of light erupted as he stepped through, then sizzled and popped into nothingness.

He lowered the hood of his cloak, stood where he was, his eyes and ears adjusting to the sights and sounds around him. The Douglas firs were eerily quiet, the light from the full moon illuminating the thin layer of fresh snow on the forest floor with a surreal gray light. A whisper of frigid air ran down his spine, prickling the hair on his back, and the scents of earth and pine and decay filled his nose. That and blood. Lots of blood.

The daemon in him pushed forward, but he fought it back, thankful this one time his heightened senses would draw him to what he was looking for. He moved through the forest without a sound, like the dark shadow he knew he was, and reached the edge of the clearing moments later. It was just as he’d remembered days ago—wide, snow-covered, and bloody. Except this time it was empty.

The storm the last two days had covered the battle from before, when the daemons had overrun the colony, so he knew this blood was fresh. As he moved over the meadow, he studied the footsteps in the soft powder, stopped to examine the blood sprays and other fluids he found staining the ground. He knelt down, ran his bare fingers over one wide patch of red, and brought the blood to his nose to sniff.

“Not exactly a winter postcard, now is it?”

Nick. Orpheus recognized the voice of the half-breed leader. Though Nick Blades and the Argonauts didn’t exactly get along, Nick and Theron had formed some sort of alliance in the war against the daemons and aided each other whenever necessary.

Orpheus looked up at Nick’s shaved head and scarred face. A highly trained warrior, he was dressed in boots, thick black pants, a heavy black military-type sweater, and his signature fingerless gloves. It was easy to see this Misos was built like the Argonauts and was just as deadly. But unlike the Argonauts, Orpheus considered Nick an ally. Usually. Today he was too juiced to think of anything other than finding his brother.

He sensed the portal open and close in the woods behind him, so he knew the Argonauts weren’t far behind. As he went back to checking the ground, a pair of boots stopped just at the edge of his vision.

“Daemon?” Theron asked.

Orpheus rubbed the blood off on his pants, rose, and looked around the barren meadow. “No. Argolean.”

“My men killed four daemons in the woods on the way over here,” Nick informed Theron, “but we haven’t seen anything else.”

“Skata. Fan out,” Theron announced to the rest of the guardians. “Z, you and Phin keep an eye out for the bastards. I don’t want any surprises while we check the scene.”

No one said a word as they worked. A handful of Nick’s men joined the search. Minutes later, Cerek’s voice rang out near the tree line. “Over here!”

Orpheus followed Theron and the others to where Cerek stood holding a knife of some kind. Theron reached for it with gloved hands.

“It’s Demetrius’s,” Cerek said, pointing to the letter D carved into the handle.

“Yeah.” Theron turned it over, looked up and around the battlefield again. “There should be bodies. If they got hit by daemons when they came through the portal, D and Gryphon should be here. Even if the motherfuckers recognized Isadora.”

“We’re in the right spot,” Titus announced, studying the screen in his hand. He tapped it with his finger. “Gryphon’s medallion is going off right”—he turned to the left and faced the trees—“here.”

Orpheus glanced up and around while the Argonauts and Nick discussed what could and couldn’t have happened. He saw nothing but snow and trees, a few shrubs here and there, rocks, and an old-growth, moss-covered log that looked like it had dropped twenty years ago and was now home to rodents and snakes.

Come on, Gryph. Where the hell are you?

He scanned the tree line again, taking in every boulder, every tree trunk someone could hide behind, every—

His gaze swung back to the old-growth log. And his heart picked up speed as he headed that way. Someone call his name but he didn’t turn. His senses kicked in the closer he got to the log and he smelled blood again. This time fresh. And very, very Argolean.

He bounded to the top of the log, at least six feet off the ground, and looked down. Dread welled in his stomach at what lay on the other side. “Shit.”

He dropped to his knees beside his brother. Gryphon lay with his torso tilted at an odd angle, perched against the log. Blood oozed from various cuts over his face and arms and legs and seeped through what was once his white shirt.

“Dammit, Gryph.” When the guardian shivered, Orpheus whipped off his cloak and tucked it up around his brother’s shoulders.

“You…” Gryphon’s teeth knocked together. “Don’t look so…happy to…see me.”

“I’m never happy to see you, dumbass.” But there was no heat in Orpheus’s words, and as he worked his gut churned with urgency.

Damn it, he needed Callia, like now. Orpheus wasn’t a healer, but even he knew Gryphon had taken a blade to the ribs and had already lost too much blood. Yeah, he was an Argonaut and as such healed faster than most, but there was no telling what Apophis’s energy had done to him.

Footsteps and voices echoed as the others came around the log. “We’re gonna get you home, brother,” Orpheus whispered.

Theron dropped down on Orpheus’s right. “Hey, Gryph,” he said softly. “How you doin’, buddy?”

“Never better,” Gryphon breathed as another shudder racked his body. He looked up at the others, his voice no more than a whisper. “You guys make a helluva lot of noise. Thought you were never gonna…find me.”

Worry ran across Theron’s face. He glanced at Orpheus, who nodded at Gryphon’s side, where blood was already seeping through the black cloak. “Ribs. We need to get him back now.”

Gently, Theron lifted the cloak, swore, then replaced it. “Orpheus is right, Gryphon. We need to get you home. We’ll do it gently, but we need to hustle. There’s no telling how many daemons are out in these woods. We—”

Gryphon shook his head, stopping Theron’s hands from shifting under to lift him. “No. None. They’re gone.”

“How do you—”

“They left…” Gryphon shivered again. “With D.”

“What do you mean ‘left with D’?” Theron asked. “You mean the daemons captured Demetrius? Him and the princess?”

Gryphon shook his head again. “No. Not captured.” He grimaced, bent forward at the waist as if he was in excruciating pain, then eased back. Sweat marred his brow as he said, “Demetrius opened the portal here on purpose. I heard him. They thought I was down, but I heard the head…daemon congratulate him on finally bringing them a prize.”

Oh shit. Orpheus had been wrong. Demetrius’s biggest secret wasn’t that he could harness magick.

At Theron’s perplexed expression, Gryphon shivered once more and added, “Theron, man. Demetrius…He’s Atalanta’s son. The motherfucker double-crossed us.”

“I’m sure you’re anxious to see Atalanta.” The archdaemon—Phrice, Demetrius was sure he’d heard him called—cranked the key in the engine of the old rusted-out cargo truck.

The daemon on Demetrius’s right snorted. “I guarantee she’s eager to see you.”

Yeah, Demetrius just bet Atalanta was anxious to see him. Anxious to see him, gut him, then stick his head on a stake for all the Argonauts to see.

He kept his mouth shut as the rig bounced over the frozen ground. In the hours since he and Isadora had been wrenched from the half-breed colony, they’d ridden on a small plane, landed somewhere in northern British Columbia, and were now driving across the barren tundra to hell-if-he-knew-where. As daemons were bound by the same limitations as Argoleans, they couldn’t flash from one place to another on earth, which meant hauling back a hostage or two took a long-ass time.

The only plus in the entire situation was that Isadora was still unconscious. Until he knew where they were headed, Demetrius had to play it cool, not show any outward sign he was frantically plotting a way to get Isadora far enough away from these monsters to open the portal and get them both out of this nightmare.

They drove for twenty minutes, and as the truck drew close to an enormous lodge-style wilderness retreat, that black mist inside grew stronger.

The truck pulled around the side of the structure, then headed for an outbuilding roughly two hundred yards away. Phrice shoved the truck into park and popped the door. “Get out.”

The hair on Demetrius’s neck tingled as he slid out of the cab and dropped to the ground. There was very little snow here, but the ground was frozen solid and brown as death. At the back of the vehicle, the cargo door slid up, and seconds later a daemon walked around the side with an unconscious Isadora tossed carelessly over his shoulder.

“This way.” Phrice motioned for Demetrius to follow.

“He said move, maggot.”

Demetrius stumbled, turned to glare at the daemon who’d shoved him. The beast smiled a stained and challenging grin.

Two massive doors to the warehouse at his front were pushed open. Phrice led them into the building, then through another door that disappeared down a rectangular staircase and into an underground passage.

Orange lights spaced every fifteen feet in the ceiling illuminated the corridor. The scents of earth and mold and sweat stained the air. The only sounds were the heavy clomp of boots against the concrete floor and the rapid breaths of both beasts and man.

Demetrius’s anxiety amped up as they neared the far side, two hundred yards from where they’d started. A black door carved with strange symbols beckoned. All around it, a pulsing halo of dark smoke hovered, the stench of brimstone sharp. Inside his chest, the darkness shifted to the forefront, as if inexplicably drawn toward what lay beyond the door.

His pulse picked up speed as he stared at the door. Behind him, the daemons chuckled.

“What are you waiting for, maggot?” the one directly at his back asked. “Don’t you want to see Mommy dearest?”

This time Demetrius was ready for the shove. And he didn’t fight back the pulse of darkness that clawed its way up his chest. Before the daemon could knock him off his feet, Demetrius whipped around and caught the monster by the throat. They were roughly the same height, close to the same size. The daemon grappled to pry Demetrius’s hand loose, but the blackness had claimed him, and words left Demetrius’s lips without even a thought as he called up the Medean powers he normally kept locked down.

The daemon’s arms dropped to his sides. The spell paralyzed his limbs but didn’t take away pain. Demetrius squeezed tighter and cut off the beast’s windpipe. Phrice chuckled and muttered, “Oh yeah, this is definitely Atalanta’s offspring.” Then louder, “I told you not to mess with him, Zepar.”

The blackness coiled and wrapped itself around Demetrius like a python squeezing out its victim’s last breath. The daemon’s eyes flickered; death beckoned. Demetrius reached for the sword at Zepar’s waist and drew it halfway out of its scabbard before Phrice yelled, “Enough!”

The two daemons behind Zepar plowed into Demetrius, one from each side, breaking the spell and ripping Zepar from his grasp. Demetrius went down hard. His head cracked against cold, unforgiving concrete.

“Get him up,” Phrice barked.

The daemons growled and hauled Demetrius to his feet. As they dragged him toward the door, the inky darkness inside radiated outward from his chest, sending tentacles through his limbs and up into his brain, as if taking control the way it had longed for years to do. The pain in his skull subsided as the door came into focus.

“Watch this,” Phrice muttered. “I’ve seen her do it a time or two. But only one from her line can work this charm.”

Phrice lifted Demetrius’s hand and placed it on a carved symbol in the center of the door. The surface burned his flesh, a loud hiss echoed through the corridor, and steam erupted all around the edge of his skin. His eyes grew wide as he watched his hand sink into the door as if it were liquid, and though blinding pain rushed up his limb, he didn’t cry out. Whatever was on the other side of that door—inside it—fed the darkness in the depths of his soul and called to it on a level like nothing before.

Give in. Come to me.

Power erupted in Demetrius’s chest, in his limbs, fueling him with strength and energy. The darkness surrounded him, invaded him, drew him forward. The door popped open with a hiss, and his hand broke free.

Phrice nudged him forward. Demetrius took a step. Though his night vision was sharp, the air felt heavy and thick, and he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of his face. His other senses clicked into gear, but he picked up nothing. No sounds, no scents, nothing but a sublime, vast emptiness in every direction.

The daemons pulled him to a stop. A faint whiff met his nostrils. A sweet scent, like cotton candy, one he was sure he’d smelled before.

“None shall disturb me in my chamber of solitude. The penalty is death.”

“Forgive me, my queen,” Phrice said, his voice wavering, “but what opens the door is a gift. Something…of great value.”

Silence ensued, then faintly, voices whispered. Moments later the entire room burst into flame, hundreds of candles of differing sizes and shapes set in a circle around them flaring to life.

The illumination burned Demetrius’s retinas. He blinked to clear the spots from his vision. When he finally adjusted to the glare, Atalanta was sitting on a blackened throne in front of him. Piercing onyx eyes held his as if they were the only two in the room. And that darkness, now a part of him he couldn’t deny, leaped with excitement in his chest.

Give in. Come to me.

She pushed out of her chair and moved forward, the hem of her long red robe whisking across the ground. Phrice stepped back out of her way. The daemons on Demetrius’s right and left dug their fingers into the meat of his arms to hold him still, but they needn’t have. The blackness held him in place with a pulsing exhilaration.

Atalanta’s gaze ran over his face, taking stock of his features one by one. Finally her focus ran back to his eyes, and one corner of her bloodred lips curved in a wicked smile. “Yios.”

The vileness inside him purred like a stroked kitten. And though something in the back of his mind whispered Be careful, the thrill of power pulsed all along his nerve endings, so intoxicating, it was a high like he’d never experienced.

She lifted her hand and ran icy fingers along his jaw. A chill slid down his skin, into his bones, and condensed along his soul. “It’s been a long time, yios. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about your matéras.”

His matéras. She was, wasn’t she? His. Why had he tried to forget her?

A strangled sound echoed behind him before he could answer. His gaze flicked that way, and he caught sight of the pale blond female over Phrice’s shoulder.

Atalanta peered around him. “What is this?”

“A gift,” Phrice answered. “The Argonaut brought her to us.”

Argonaut. The word swirled in Demetrius’s head, meant something he couldn’t quite pin down. That darkness roared in his chest, rebelling against the thought. He watched with detached interest as the daemon holding the female shifted her around so she lay cradled in his meaty arms. Blood and dirt stained her measly clothing, gathered where his claws dug into her tender skin. Pain raced across her features but she didn’t cry out, didn’t even move. She looked as if she was in some sort of daze, not focusing on any one thing as her gaze darted around the room. But when Atalanta moved toward her, her chocolate eyes grew even wider and a gasp tore from her throat.

Argonaut.

Princess.

Isadora.

Home.

Warmth unfurled inside Demetrius’s chest as links, dots, connections clinked back into place and battled the chill and darkness from the brink of consumption. In a rush he remembered who he was, what he was, and just what was at stake here.

His heart picked up speed. Sweat broke out on his skin. Evil black power still teased the edge of his control, but he ground his teeth against the temptation, knowing if he turned himself over to it Isadora would be lost forever.

Stay focused on her. Don’t take your eyes off her. Don’t forget why you’re here…

Atalanta’s long-fingered hand hovered over Isadora’s forehead, then dropped to her hair. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She looked up at Phrice. “Where did you find her?”

“In the field outside the half-breed colony.”

“How many witches accompanied her?”

“None. She was with two Argonauts. One we killed. The other…” He gestured to Demetrius. “His magick alerted us to his lineage. We thought he might be of value.”

“None,” she repeated, looking back at Isadora. “So Apophis betrayed us. And yet my yios brought her to us regardless.”

The daemon didn’t answer. Long seconds passed in eerie silence. Finally, Atalanta’s lips curled and she looked back at Demetrius. “Release him.” To the daemon holding Isadora she added, “Bring her.” She turned, waved her hand. The candles parted, opening the circle.

Panic rushed through Demetrius’s chest as he was pushed out of the illuminated circle into another cavern of black nothingness. Another candle flared ahead, this one set on a high pillar, raining layers of multicolored light down to form a spotlight on the concrete floor.

Atalanta stepped into the illumination and gestured to a long metal table at her right, also within the circle of light. The daemon dumped Isadora on the cold silvery surface and moved back into shadow. Isadora winced in pain as she eased herself to a sitting position. Her hand shook as she tried to shift on the unforgiving table, but she didn’t make a sound.

A morbid smile curled Atalanta’s mouth. “I sense your fear, Princess. Tell me, child. Do you know what it is like to lose something of great value?”

Demetrius’s gaze scanned the circle, his mind flipping through exit strategies as Atalanta spoke. But the blackness inside jerked when he spotted the drain set into the concrete floor beneath the metal table.

Atalanta leaned down so she was eye to eye with Isadora. “You and yours took something that belonged to me. Did you think there would be no repercussions?”

Atalanta reached behind her into the darkness and came back with a small twelve-inch dagger. Isadora’s eyes widened as the goddess grasped her arm in one swift move and held the shiny blade against her small wrist.

“No,” Isadora whispered.

Every muscle in Demetrius’s body tensed. Around him he sensed the daemons watching and waiting in the shadows, their excitement fueling the blackness inside him all over again.

“The hand is a marvelous thing. A gift, wouldn’t you say, Princess? Something of great value? One can exist without it, but the pain of loss is immense. They say those who lose a limb can still feel the blood pulsing in their missing veins long after the wound has healed.” She leaned closer and her voice dropped to a malicious whisper. “This is a good trade, don’t you think, Princess? Your hand for what you stole from me?”

What was stolen from her. Atalanta was talking about the boy. Max. Callia and Zander’s son, who’d been taken from them as a baby and raised by Atalanta herself. She needed Max because he was the son of a Hora, and with that link she could wield the Orb of Krónos, the magical medallion that would give her the power to control the human realm. Once she had that power…she could unleash her revenge on the world.

The Argonauts had rescued Max not more than a week ago, and Atalanta was obviously still pissed she’d been vanquished.

“No, please.” Isadora struggled, but Atalanta held her too tight.

The tip of the dagger pierced Isadora’s pale skin and she cried out. Atalanta’s hand tightened on the grip of the dagger, the tip of the blade digging in deeper.

Skata. Think…

“Please,” Isadora cried as blood ran down her inner arm.

“If you cut off her hand,” Demetrius said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “she’ll be of little use to us.”

They both jerked in his direction. The blade stilled against Isadora’s wrist.

“Perhaps you would prefer I took her foot?” Atalanta asked.

He didn’t answer. Isadora trembled as she peered into the darkness.

“Come into the light, yios.”

Demetrius hesitated, then took a slow step forward. The instant he passed into illumination, Isadora gasped.

He steeled himself against the look of utter betrayal that crossed her face, but it was the hardening of her eyes that cut through him, the confirmation he was the evil she’d always believed him to be.

“Her foot, then?” Atalanta asked again.

He pictured Isadora’s pale, petite feet. The trimmed toenails that she’d painted a fiery red. And tried not to imagine all that perfection mutilated and destroyed.

He shrugged. “I don’t care. But you go hacking her up and she’s bound to dislike you. And we all know a happy hostage is a useful hostage.”

Atalanta’s eyes held his. He knew she was debating just whose side he was on. She wasn’t stupid. And there was no love lost or loyalty between them. The blackness rumbled again but he worked like hell to tamp it down.

Slowly, she lowered the blade. Isadora let out a relieved breath. Atalanta set the dagger on the table at Isadora’s side, but she didn’t release the princess’s wrist. With her eyes still locked on Demetrius, she drew the index finger of her free hand across Isadora’s wrist, gathering a droplet of blood, and brought it to her mouth.

Isadora’s horrified gaze darted from Atalanta to Demetrius and back again.

A feral smile crossed the goddess’s face. “The witches succeeded in one part of our bargain.”

Bargain? The witches had been working with Atalanta? Demetrius’s mind spun with the ramifications of that, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on figuring a way out of this hellhole.

Atalanta let go of Isadora’s arm and passed a hand over the princess’s face. “We’re done with you for now, Princess.”

Before Demetrius could react, Isadora’s eyes flickered and her body slumped to the table.

Demetrius tensed all over again, but instinct told him Atalanta wouldn’t seriously harm the princess. Not yet anyway. She needed her too much.

“Now,” Atalanta said, looking back at him. “The princess’s presence is not a surprise. But yours is. A pleasant one. I am very happy I won’t have to track you down as I’d planned.”

As she’d planned. Demetrius had no clue what the hell was happening, but the pinch in his chest said to be careful.

Atalanta stepped forward and ran her ice-cold finger down his cheek. “You see, yios, I’ve put up with your defiance long enough. And now it’s time to prove your worth. The Horae will never willingly cooperate, so I ordered Apophis’s witches to cast a fertility spell over our fair princess. And you, my son, will be the one to ensure I reap the rewards.”

Demetrius’s chest tightened. He thought back to the way those witches had Isadora strung up when he and Orpheus had charged the room. To the way the warlock had been eyeing her. To the see-through negligee she was still wearing.

Atalanta tipped her head and stepped closer, until the sickeningly sweet scent of her was all he could smell. “I thought I would have to persuade you, to draw you to my side first. But now I see that won’t be a problem. Hera has finally done something right.”

The blood drained from his face as her plan finally registered. She was going to use him to get the link to the Horae she needed.

“Oh, don’t look so upset, yios.” She patted his cheek. “You’re going to enjoy this.” Her humor faded and she looked down at Isadora, completely out on the table beside them. “The only question is where? Where to send you? I’d originally thought I’d simply keep both of you locked up here until the darkness consumed you, but now I think you’ll be better off alone. It will definitely be faster this way. We’ll have to bind your powers so you can’t open the portal, of course, but you both need time. And a place where you’ll have no choice but to keep her close…”

Sickness drifted up from Demetrius’s gut, sickness and a foreboding that rang in his chest and echoed in his head.

“Of course,” Atalanta said, her excited voice cutting through his thoughts as she whipped back to him. “Of course, yios. There’s only one place that will work. One place where you wouldn’t let this pretty thing out of your sight. I have no doubt you’ll keep her alive, though it may become a challenge. But at least all those ingrained heroics of yours will finally be of use to me.”

He tensed as she reached out and ran her cold, vile hand over his jaw again. “You, my son, are finally going to live up to your destiny. You are going to give me the ultimate gift. An heir. A legitimate heir, with links to both the Horae and the throne of Argolea. And thanks to Hera, you’ll do so whether you want to or not.”

Hera. Atalanta was talking about the soul mate curse. Hera’s spiteful gift to Heracles and all the Argonauts—one soul mate. Only it wasn’t the blessing it should be. It was the cruelest curse imaginable. The one female in the world who was the worst possible match for that Argonaut.

He was Atalanta’s son. The spawn of true evil and the enemy to those of his world. He’d suspected Isadora was his curse, had spent two hundred years avoiding her so Atalanta could never use him for her own gain. And now, thanks to one wrong decision, everything he’d done up until this point to protect Isadora, to protect their world, was for shit.

“Sleep now, yios, you’ll need your rest.” Atalanta passed her hand in front of his face. His vision dimmed from the outside in, even though he fought it.

As the image of Isadora asleep on the table faded and the world drifted to black, he knew there was no escaping what was to come. His only hope was that somehow—in some way—he’d find the strength he needed to resist the only female he’d ever truly wanted.