Dark Skye (10 page)

Thronos.

His capture didn’t surprise her, considering the sheer number of the fire demons. Plus he’d been injured. She could almost pity him—a prince of Vrekeners imprisoned by Sorceri.

They would torture him to learn the location of his home. Afterward, they would . . . keep him—as a plaything, ensorcelled to do their every bidding.

She knew well the kinds of acts they’d force him to do. What they’d force him to
be.

Why did that make her bristle?

His gaze was focused on Lanthe, and he looked frenzied to reach her. One of his wings was back to nearly normal, still gnarled. The one that’d been shredded had bits of flesh trying to grow.

“It took you long enough to wake,” Portia told her. “Exactly how weak are you?”

Lanthe made it to her feet, brushing leaves off herself. Why would the great Portia care? Lanthe had a sinking suspicion: maybe the fire demons hadn’t been targeting Thronos at all.

Despite her power, Portia never would’ve captured her in the past. Sabine’s reprisal was too feared. Now? Just because the sisters had helped assassinate Omort, the Pravus leader, Lanthe was fair game for Sorceri?

Still, she regretted nothing. Her brother had had it coming. “Did you
have to attack me, Portia? You know I would’ve come willingly.”
I never would’ve come willingly.

“We fortuitously found you on the ground, unconscious.”

Then who hit me?

Ember added, “As if someone had left you on our doorstep, like a cat with a savaged mouse.”

Lanthe cast a worried look at Ember. Both females were diabolical. But while Portia at least listened to reason, Ember was akin to the flames she wielded—volatile.

“What did I miss?” a male voice asked.

Lanthe turned to see a sorcerer in full gold regalia striding into the clearing, a man she’d hoped never to see again.

“Has my Melanthe arisen?” Felix the Duplicitor asked, his striking face lit with a smile, his gold gleaming seductively. His Sorceri ability enabled him to make anyone believe any lie he told. She would know.

Her face heated as she remembered his fervent vows to her. When he’d promised her a future together—with gold, his protection, gold, children, and more gold—light-skirted Lanthe had been a lock.

In the throes, she’d ceded her clairsentience and battle sorcery. She hadn’t possessed her portal power yet, and he hadn’t wanted her tainted soul.

Portia turned to him. “Your pet’s only just woken.”

His pet? Lanthe ground her teeth.

He turned the full wattage of his smile on Lanthe. “It’s been an age, Mel.”

After sex, when Lanthe had asked him about a wedding date, he’d released her from his spell, chucking her chin, and remarked, “Though you tempt me sorely, there’ll be no wedding for us, dear. But wasn’t the sex enough of a reward?”

No, Felix. No, it was not.
She’d slunk away, burning with humiliation, dreading how to tell Sabine that she’d lost even more powers.
I’m such an idiot,
she’d railed at herself,
such a dupe!

“You look as ravishing as ever,” he said now, but he hadn’t used his power, so she was free to disbelieve him.

Ravishing?
Her recently broken nose was swollen like a balloon, and she probably had two glaring black eyes. “And you’re the same duplicitous male you always were, Felix.” Sorceri weren’t a forthright species to begin with; needless to say, Felix was a favorite among them. “Looking no worse for wear from your prison stay.” That gold armor really was to die for.

“I’ve only recently arrived. Had a vampire friend trace me to this island for the ‘sport.’ ”

Just as Lanthe had suspected.

“I’d found it yawn-worthy—until I heard about your capture.”

His interest put her even more on edge.

Portia said, “You have something we want, Melanthe.”

Why now? They’d had her, Carrow, and Ruby in their sights earlier when they were all escaping the prison. Yet they’d spared the trio, merely stealing the hand that Lanthe had harvested from Fegley—the grubby one that now hung from Portia’s gold belt.

The key to Lanthe’s freedom. “I’m all ears.”

“With so many helpless Vertas trapped here, we’ve decided to eradicate them, bringing more Pravus to the island. To get a jump on the Accession.”

Every few centuries the Accession rolled around, a supernatural force that fueled conflicts between factions, drawing them into battles, culling immortal numbers. Accessions could last decades or longer. Some said this one had already started with the renewed vampire clashes a few years ago.

“We’ve had our allies teleport more soldiers here,” Portia continued, “but what we need is an army of reinforcements.”

Lanthe could read the writing on the wall. “You want me to create a threshold.” Ensuring the doom of all the Vertas here?

Like Carrow and Ruby.

Think fast, Lanthe.
Portia would have to remove her collar. If Lanthe could manage persuasion, she could command them to release her.

“Bravo, Melanthe,” Portia said. “We want a door to the centauri lands so thousands of them can march directly here.”

“They already have a portal.” Most dimensions had at least one—but the quality varied.

“It’s being utilized for a new top-secret offensive,” Portia said, eyes flickering at the thought of carnage.

Who were the centaurs targeting? “Well, Portia, I can’t do anything with my current accessory.” She yanked on her torque. “So . . .”

“But we can’t trust you.” Ember flipped her long red and black locks over her shoulder. “Not after your actions in Rothkalina last year.”

“Mel, did you really behead Hettiah?” Felix’s tone was admiring.

Hettiah had been Omort’s half sister and consort—a pale, evil imitation of his unrequited desire: Sabine. Lanthe had battled Hettiah and narrowly prevailed.

In answer, she shrugged.

“You did!” He looked overjoyed. “Then the other rumor must be true. You ensorcelled Omort!”

She’d wanted everyone to know about the part she’d played and respect her. Now she wished her involvement had been kept secret.

Because Felix appeared to be on another power hunt.

For her very soul.

He could tell her she’d always loved him, that he’d given her all he’d promised over these years—and she would believe him. . . .

C
aptive of the Sorceri.

This would have galled Thronos had he not been confident of his impending freedom. He’d seize it soon enough.

No, he was more enraged that Melanthe had fled him—though he hadn’t expected anything different. Long ago, when he’d seen her turn away and run, he’d thought his world had ended. He’d thought he had no reason to live.

Now? He lived for vengeance. He would attack these foes—punishing whoever had battered her face—then recapture his mate.

He swung his gaze around toward the sorcerer, adding another target for punishment: Felix, the male who’d spoken to Melanthe.

An ex-lover, no doubt. How many of them populated this island?

The blond male wasn’t nearly as tall or muscular as Thronos and wore ostentatious gold armor. His manners were practiced, his skin unscarred. So that was the type of male his mate preferred.

The opposite of me.

At the thought, fury surged through Thronos. He shoved against the slabs holding him, but there was no budging them. Portia, that sorceress of stone, was too powerful, and he was weakened from regeneration. His
bones had mended, but he’d only reformed the barest covering across his right wing.

He’d been no match for the twenty fire demons who’d descended upon him.

Once healed, he’d strike. For now, he kept his mouth shut and listened, trying to glean information—such as why Melanthe would have ensorcelled Omort. Probably a rank power grab.
Sometimes, Omort, Sorceri paranoia is warranted.

“If you can’t trust me,” Melanthe told Portia, “then what do you propose?”

The sorceress of fire, Emberine, tittered. “We’ve been deprived of color for so long—let’s do something bright.”

What did that mean?

“Be done with this, ladies,” Felix said. When a fleeting ray of sunlight reflected off his gilded armor, every Sorceri gaze was magnetically drawn to it, including Melanthe’s.

Most Vrekeners believed the Sorceri’s claims of gold worship were just a disguise for rampant greed—as if the Sorceri would care how others viewed them. But Thronos knew they genuinely revered all metals, especially gold. The element was talismanic to them. Even at nine, Melanthe had been obsessed with it.
Her mother as well . . .

Portia said, “You rush our fun, Felix?”

“I’m keen to renew my attentions to the Queen of Persuasion.”

The hell that would be happening. Surprisingly, Melanthe’s expression matched Thronos’s thoughts.

Emberine gave an exaggerated frown. “I’m afraid our friend Lanthe is already smitten—with the demon angel.”

Smitten?

Melanthe’s blackened eyes widened. “He and his knights have hunted my sister and me, killing Sabine over and over, forcing me to burn through my persuasion to save her life.”

Again, she repeated her claims? Though he’d told her about his knights’ vows?

Emberine tsked at Thronos. “Naughty knights oughtn’t to have brained Sabine in front of young Lanthe.”

Melanthe turned to him, her face tight with rage. “Yet that one doesn’t believe me!”

This one . . . is starting to.
At least about attacks actually happening. Maybe some kind of offshoot group had targeted the sisters.

In a contemplative tone, Portia asked, “Do you think it’s possible that our handsome prince doesn’t know what his kinsmen do to our kind when they’re drunken and frustrated?”

Vrekeners never imbibe,
he thought automatically, though he knew that wasn’t true. He had but once in his life, yet his brother secretly carried a golden flask, one stolen from a sorcerer he’d defeated.

Aristo loved few things better than warring with Sorceri. Just as their father had. It was a source of contention between the brothers.

Portia faced Melanthe once more. “Such an infamously hostile past between you and the Vrekener. Your sister beheaded his father, and you personally crippled him, even though you’re his mate.” How indifferently the sorceress spoke of tragedies! “Then Vrekeners hunted you. Which was why your reactions over the last week perplexed us.”

Melanthe’s head swung up, confusion in her eyes. Instead of demanding to know what that sorceress was talking about, she snapped, “Let’s just get to this—”

“Shall we tell you, Felix?” Emberine asked coyly. “Every time the Vrekener was even mentioned, Lanthe’s cheeks would heat, her eyes turning metallic.”

Thronos stilled. Could it be true?

“That emotion was
hate,
” Melanthe spat, but he got the impression that her feelings were far more complicated than that.

He had no delusions about his own feelings. Like a stream carving a groove through rock, her actions had forever transformed him. He would always despise her.

Portia said, “Then you won’t mind if we skin him? Crush him under the weight of a mountain?”

Melanthe gave a snort of disbelief. “Be—my—guest. And do save me a seat.”

Or perhaps she hated as deeply as he did.

Emberine stroked the backs of her metal claws across Portia’s bared thigh as she addressed Melanthe: “You gave him his wounds before he could regenerate. Did he find you as a boy then?”

Of not even twelve.

“It’s known that a Vrekener will never stray from a mate.” Emberine laughed as she said, “Tell us, Lanthe, is the mighty warlord a virgin? Is the angel pure as driven snow? Or was the demon in him an early starter?”

Thronos set his jaw.
Not—a—demon.

Melanthe didn’t answer. At least she refused to join in their ridicule.

Emberine’s gaze roved over him, desire plain on her face. “I must initiate him!”

He could remain silent no longer. “Try it, slattern. Free me, and try it.”

They tittered at that. “Oh, Portia, I know I could get him to stray!”

Best of luck. You think I haven’t endeavored to?
He glanced in Melanthe’s direction. How would she feel about him being with another?

Though her face was blank, her eyes shimmered.

“We can’t waste time on that, Ember.” Portia seemed . . . jealous? “We move on with our plans.”

With another laugh, Emberine sprinted to Melanthe, faster than Thronos’s eyes could follow. In a heartbeat’s time, she’d crossed the clearing, stopping behind Melanthe to position a blade at her slender throat, hovering above that collar.

“No!” Thronos bellowed, his instinct screaming for him to protect his mate.

The metal was simmering red from Emberine’s hold. It would slice through Melanthe’s flesh. She swallowed, wincing from the heat.

Portia rose, riding a cloud of pebbles toward the two females, readying a
severed hand
for the torque removal.

Felix—the as-good-as-dead sorcerer—followed, seeming amused by the proceedings.