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.