“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, she will do nicely. Not only is she Horae, but she is untouched.” He lowered his hand. “We will not be sending her to Atalanta as planned. We will keep her. Her virtue will fuel my powers, and once the union of our bodies and souls is complete, I will have the strength to open the portal on my own whenever I choose. Then Atalanta will bow to me, not the other way around.” He turned to Isis. “Prepare her for the ritual.”
Union of bodies and souls? Ritual?
Hold on…wait a minute…
Isis scurried off. One witch secured Isadora’s left arm to a horizontal bar that hung from the ceiling as Apophis moved across the room to reach for something from the wall. Another witch chanted in Medean at Isadora’s side. And Isadora knew right then, if Apophis so much as touched her, the world—both Argolea and the human realm—would be forever altered. Survival instincts welled inside her, triggered her anger and what little training Orpheus had given her to this point. She wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. She wasn’t going to let this thing have her.
She dug down deep for her courage. And when Isis moved around the warlock and reached for her other arm to secure it as well, Isadora struck.
She grabbed the athamé, the black dagger hooked in Isis’s belt. Her fingers closed around the handle. She pulled back and swung. The blade caught Isis’s upper arm. The witch howled, stumbled back. Her eyes flew wide and glowed—oh, skata—yellow. Fear leaped in Isadora’s chest as Isis hissed and advanced with fury coating her features. Panicked, Isadora swung out blindly again, this time catching the witch across the jugular.
Bright yellow blood sprayed across the room, splashed over Isadora and the ground. She screamed when it connected with the skin on her forearms, sizzled, and popped. Across the room, Apophis screeched and jumped back, as if the blood had burned him too. Isis’s eyes went bug wide; her hands flew to her neck. As her body slumped to the floor, her face twisted and transformed. The youthfulness and beauty faded before Isadora’s eyes, leaving behind gnarled and wrinkled skin, canary yellow eyes, sharp pointed teeth, and hair that was no longer short and stylish but made up of hundreds of small snake heads, striking and hissing.
Horror pounded against Isadora’s chest. The burns on her arms forgotten, she shifted toward the other two witches. They both hissed and jumped back. Their eyes turned the same neon yellow as Isis’s as they began to chant again.
Isadora swallowed hard and gripped the dagger tighter. She tried to move back but her left arm was still secured above her.
Across the room, Apophis yelled, “Quai!”
She’d almost forgotten about him. Isadora twisted in his direction, then wished she hadn’t. The warlock was no longer the size of a regular man. He’d sprouted to nearly seven feet, the blue glow now a blinding glare.
“You are mine, paidi.” He held out his hand, curled his fingers forward. “And you shall not enjoy a moment of what is to be.” As if he were grabbing hold of something in the air, he yanked. Isadora’s body jerked forward as if her spine were being pulled right out of her body.
Blinding pain tore through her stomach, her hips. The dagger flew from her hand, smacked against the wall, and clattered to the stone floor. Her knees gave out. A sharp stab rocketed through her shoulder as her body slumped and her weight shifted to her wrist, shackled above.
Apophis advanced, menace blazing in his soulless eyes. “For the glory of Hecate I claim you here and now.”
Isadora lifted her head. Stars fired off in her line of sight and her shoulder felt as if it were being yanked from the socket, but all of it was overridden by the knowledge that he wasn’t going to end her suffering. He was going to torture her. And then…then she didn’t want to even think about what he would do.
Apophis’s vile voice echoed in her head as he drew closer. Shouts and screams ricocheted off the rock walls around her. Tears burned her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to curl into herself, but the blood-curdling roar from the doorway tore her eyes open.
A figure bolted through the opening, blade held high, malice coating his features. A body and face Isadora knew well. She blinked twice, barely believing the sight.
Demetrius. Only this wasn’t the almost-lover she’d envisioned in her dream. This was death and destruction intent on annihilation, pulled straight out of a nightmare.
His blade blurred silver as it sliced through air and slashed into Apophis’s robe at the arm. The warlock screeched, the sound a spine-chilling howl that vibrated through the stone-cold floor and into Isadora’s bones.
Two more males stepped into the room behind him. Orpheus joined the attack on Apophis, while Gryphon set his sights on her. Apophis lifted his arms out and shot electricity from his fingertips. A bolt hit Orpheus in the shoulder, sent him sailing backward, slamming him into the doorway. Demetrius dove to the side, narrowly missing a shot to the chest.
The witches at Isadora’s side screeched, and Isadora whipped around as they rushed Gryphon, who had made it past Apophis and was racing her way.
“No!” Isadora’s adrenaline surged. The pain dulled. She reached up with her free arm, grabbed the bar with both hands, and pulled herself up. When the witches got close enough, she swung her legs up and kicked out as hard as she could.
Bare feet met flesh and bone. The closest witch fell into the other with a howl. They both slammed into Apophis, sending him careening off balance. He hit the ground, twisted, and surged to his feet. Demetrius charged again. Apophis flicked out his arm and backhanded Demetrius in the face. A flash of blue erupted where they made contact and sent Demetrius staggering. The two witches scrambled to their feet. Orpheus swung out and caught the first across the chest with his blade before she could strike out at Isadora again, then plowed into the second, shooting her across the floor and into the wall.
Gryphon reached Isadora. “Hold on.” He worked the bind on her hand above. “Can you walk?”
Isadora’s energy lagged, but her will to live had never been stronger. And she’d never been as grateful to see the Argonauts—Demetrius included—as she was right now. “Y-yes. Hurry.”
Across the room, Apophis roared. His arms darted out and an electrical bolt shot from his fingertips. Demetrius swung out with his blade, nailed Apophis in the back, but it was too late. The current was already flying, sailing at light speed in their direction.
The beam struck Gryphon square in the back. Energy jolted through him. His eyes flew wide and his whole body jerked and seized. He dropped to the ground like a board.
A scream tore from Isadora’s chest. Demetrius swung at Apophis again. Orpheus attacked. The remaining witch pushed up from the floor and turned her fury on Isadora with a shriek.
Isadora scrambled back as far as the bar still holding her arm would allow. She glanced down and found Gryphon’s blade at her feet.
The training sessions with Orpheus condensed in her mind. Instinct ruled. She focused on the parazonium and envisioned it in her hand, breathed deep to center herself. Energy gathered near her Horae marking on her thigh. Power surged up into her body and shot down her free arm. Gryphon’s blade rocketed into her hand. Her fingers closed around the grip with deadly intent, and she swung as hard as she could. The blade stabbed deep into the witch’s chest.
The witch gasped. As she staggered backward, the blade pulled from her chest cavity, creating a sucking sound that echoed across the chamber. Yellow goo spurted from the wound, droplets searing Isadora’s cheek. She recoiled at the burst of blinding pain. The witch dropped to her knees, then slumped to the floor.