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.”