Tempted (5 page)

“Well, boys,” Orpheus said, shrugging into his black cloak. “This is where I leave you.”

Surprise registered, but not shock. Demetrius never expected Orpheus to play by the rules. Some instinct deep inside said not to trust the scoundrel alone with Isadora for even a second, though. Demetrius grasped the
ándras
by the arm before he could get a step away. “Hold up. Just what is your claim to the princess?”

“Careful, Guardian.”

The flare of green in Orpheus’s eyes was unsettling. Almost as unsettling as why Demetrius even cared what Isadora was to this guy. “If you intend to harm her—”

“No, hurting females would be your specialty, not mine.”

“Orpheus,” Gryphon warned.

Orpheus ignored his brother, narrowed his gaze on Demetrius. “What is she to you,
Guardian
?”

The darkness vibrated in Demetrius’s chest, pushed against his ribs, screamed to be let free. “A burden.”

“Well, that’s where we differ, Argonaut. To me she’s an opportunity. She and I have an arrangement. And she owes me something I intend to collect. Now if that’s it for the inquisition”—he glanced down to where Demetrius held him by the arm, waited until he let go—“then I’ll see you both inside.” He lifted the cloak around his head and disappeared.

Demetrius darted a look at Gryphon, who only rolled his eyes. “Invisibility cloak. Don’t ask where he got it. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Demetrius looked back to where Orpheus had stood only moments before.

“He can also poof through walls, in case you didn’t know. Which means he’s probably already inside. Where in Hades is that signal?”

As if on cue, an explosion rocked the front gate and shook the ground. Screams and shouts erupted; a fireball ignited near the moat. Demetrius caught Gryphon’s eye. Gryphon nodded and flashed. Demetrius followed. When he opened his eyes he was on the top of the outer wall walk. He turned just in time to see three witches running his way, blades drawn, mouths open in blood-curdling screams.

Holy
Hades.
He tensed, had just enough time to draw his parazonium—the ancient Greek dagger they each carried—from the scabbard at his back and swing out and around in a defensive move before the first witch reached him. But his blade made no contact, swept through nothing but air. Jolted by the lack of matter, he shifted his attention to the middle witch, who screeched and swung up and over with her sword, bringing it down dangerously close to Demetrius’s shoulder. He shifted out and around, heard Gryphon call his name from farther down the wall walk, and kicked out, knocking the witch off balance. She hit the stones at his feet, jumped up, and swiveled in the air like a kung fu fighter.

Blade met sword. The witch was small but strong, and Demetrius felt the dark magick clinging to her as she fought against him. The third witch disappeared and reappeared at the edge of his vision, an exact replica of the one he was fighting. As he swung again and again and advanced, he realized she was casting illusions, trying to confuse him.

Fucking
witches…

He pushed her closer to the gun battery. She growled, shifted the sword in her hands. Venom shone in her eyes. Her back hit the stone wall with a thwack. Knowing she was cornered, she stared at him, and a slow smile spread across her twisted face. “Come to me. Join me. You know you can’t resist for long.”

“I don’t think so.” He swung up and over, catching her arm with the flat of his blade, knocking the sword from her grasp. It clattered against the hard ground.

Her eyes flew wide, and her irises turned neon yellow…which was just freakin’
wrong
. She shifted forward, raised her arms, and pointed her fingers at his chest. “Mother goddess of the—”

“I’m not wild about that one either.” He placed the heel of his boot against her chest and pushed just hard enough to get her attention. Her back hit the wall again. “Surrender.”

He spent his life killing. Daemons weren’t a problem, and if a random human got in the way of his goal, it was an acceptable loss as far as he was concerned. But he had a mental hang-up when it came to fighting a female, even a witch. He didn’t want to gut her, but he also knew the depth of her powers and he wasn’t about to let her cast a spell over him.

“I’d rather die first.” The witch lifted her hands again.

Before she could hex him, he pushed with the sole of his boot. A cracking resounded just before the stones gave way and her body tipped over the edge of the wall. He reached out to grab her, but she slipped out of his grip. Her scream echoed up as she dropped into the clouds below.

“Demetrius!”

Damn it.
At the sound of his name, Demetrius tore to the other side of the wall walk and looked across the ward to the inner wall, where Gryphon had flashed and was now fighting a handful of witches. Only these didn’t look like illusions. They looked real and pissed and abundant.

“
Skata
.” Demetrius closed his eyes and flashed to the next wall, behind the horde of witches. He kicked out at one, knocked her off balance. She leaped to her feet, twisted around, and hissed. When she charged with her sword high, he arced out and slashed through her abdomen. Lights flickered around her like a halo as blood spurted from the wound. But it wasn’t red, it was neon yellow, and when a drop hit the skin of his hand, it sizzled and burned.

Holy
motherfucking…

Her shriek yanked his attention. In a daze he watched her beauty stutter and fade, leaving behind a wrinkled, gnarled, and warped being with razor-sharp teeth and snakes shooting out all over her head.

No
way.
Delia hadn’t lied when she said these things weren’t Medean anymore. They were like Furies, without the fucking wings. Any apprehension he had at mowing them down evaporated. He used his blade to take down one, then another. Each time he struck, that acid spurted from their wounds, charred any bits of his flesh left exposed.

They were relentless, coming again and again. By the time he reached Gryphon’s side, he was bloody and bruised, his hands charred and aching, and he was breathing heavily, a trail of dead witches behind him on the wall walk.

Gryphon didn’t look much better. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I prefer fighting daemons. These witches are fucking brutal. At least the damn daemons go down easy.”

Demetrius wasn’t about to compare the two. His gaze shot to the courtyard below. “We have to get inside that keep before they bar the doors.”

They each flashed to one side of the gatehouse entrance, where two witches were working to roll the massive wood doors closed. Demetrius nodded once at Gryphon, then jumped up to the steps and went after the first witch. She was agile and turned on him like a wraith. Her scream echoed through the chill air, but he struck out and around with his blade and caught her in the chest. Her face contorted and morphed into her ugly image, her neon yellow eyes flying wide just before she fell at his feet.

Demetrius looked up in time to see the blade in the other witch’s hand catch Gryphon at the chest. Gryphon roared as metal sliced into flesh, went down to one knee. The second witch screeched and lifted her sword for the kill blow.

Demetrius charged with his shoulder and plowed into her abdomen before she could make contact. The witch sailed through the open door and smacked into a pillar on the far side of the hall. Her eyes went glassy; her head lolled on her shoulders. As her glamour faded, the snakes that made up her hair hissed and twisted around her face. She slumped to a heap against the floor.

Demetrius righted himself, reached for Gryphon.

“I’m fine,” Gryphon grumbled, pushing up to stand. “Shit, that burns.” He shook off Demetrius’s help. “I said I’m fine.”

Outside, shouts resounded and footsteps drew closer. The cackles and screams were clear indications that what was coming their way wasn’t Argolean.

“
Skata.
” Gryphon pointed toward a circular staircase with his blade. “There. Go!”

They made it halfway up the stairs before they were overrun by five more witches rushing down from the second level.

They swung, battled, chopped, and kicked. For every witch that went down, another seemed to come out of the woodwork and join the fight.

“Holy Hera,” Gryphon shouted over the battle. “They’re reproducing like rabbits!”

Just about the time Demetrius thought they were losing ground, Orpheus appeared on the landing above, his own sword raised as he drove the remaining witches down. Metal clanked against metal. Shouts resounded. Cries and screams of effort and agony echoed in the vast stone space.

“I leave you boys to do one simple thing.” Orpheus sliced through one witch’s leg. When she howled, he kicked her in the stomach. She tumbled down the staircase to land on a pile of dead and mutilated bodies.

Demetrius wiped a hand across his sweaty brow and peered down at the ruin below. “No way there’s only fifty witches in this freakin’ castle.”

“The witches are the least of our problems right now, boys.” Orpheus’s eyes flared in that strange way of his. “I found her.”

Orpheus turned and skipped steps to get to the top. Blades drawn, Demetrius and Gryphon followed. When they reached the third floor, Orpheus held up a hand, stopping them. Down the long arched corridor, an open doorway at the end glowed with a surreal blue light. Dark magick hovered all around, and a vile evilness coated every inch of space.

Demetrius stared at the blue light, transfixed by the glow, his chest rising and falling as he worked to regulate his breathing. That darkness inside him leaped with excitement.

He swallowed hard, gripped his blade. At his side, Gryphon did the same.

“This is where we separate the men from the boys.” Orpheus’s eyes flicked to his brother. “You wanna run home?”

Gryphon shot him a glare. “And let you have all the fun? I think not.”

Orpheus smirked, looked to Demetrius. “How about you, cowboy? Did you ever wonder what Pandora let out of her box?”

Demetrius tensed. There was no way Orpheus could know who and what Demetrius really was, but the intense expression, coupled with the look in the
ándras
’s eyes when he tipped his head toward the door, gave Demetrius a strange hitch in his gut, as if Orpheus knew way more than he should.

Orpheus took one step toward Demetrius. “Some things are better left unseen. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you,
Guardian
?”

Knowledge and secrets lingered in Orpheus’s words, drifted in his empty eyes. The black mist pounded at Demetrius from every side. The two parts of him he kept locked off from the world, the blackness inside and his so-called
gift
, strained to be set free. To finally be used.

Temptation was closer than it had ever been. All he had to do was lift his hands, give in to the power…

An ear-shattering scream rent the air. Demetrius looked past Orpheus toward the blue glow. And his chest grew impossibly tight. He knew that voice.

Instinct pushed him forward without a second thought. “Isadora.”

Chapter 4

Isadora thought Hades was the most terrifying immortal being she’d ever faced. She’d been wrong.

Shakes racked her body as she stood in the center of the great hall. Behind her, lightning flashed outside, illuminating the space through three high arching windows. Far below, the crash of waves against rock drifted up in a roar that churned and rolled in time with her fear. But what held Isadora’s attention wasn’t the lights or sounds or even what the witches were muttering. It was the glowing blue being floating across the ground toward her.

Floating.

Holy
skata
, it was
floating
.

Her heart pounded like a gong against her ribs. Terror gripped every inch of her soul and urged her to flee, but she couldn’t move. Even if the witches hadn’t been holding her, she’d have been frozen in this space. Because evil hummed and vibrated in front of her—the kind that was on a par with Atalanta and Hades and wasn’t supposed to exist in her realm—and she was powerless to do anything but stare and quake.

“You,” the glowing thing said in a raspy voice that sounded as if it rang out from the dead. “You are…more than I expected.”

Isadora had no idea what he meant. Her gaze was fixed on the silver hair that fell from a part in the middle of his skull and hung to his hips. A gray moustache seemed to rise from two clumps under his nostrils to frame his twisted mouth. Not a single hair swayed; the only thing affected by his movement was the long black robe he wore, which hovered inches above the weathered stone floor.

He stopped mere feet from her. The sallow wrinkles on his face pulsed with energy as he breathed deeply. And as his pupils dilated until there was no white around his irises, just one giant gaping black hole, Isadora knew this thing—whatever it was—had come to steal what was left of her freedom.

“My name is Apophis, wee one. Do you know who I am?”

Terror rendered Isadora speechless. Apophis. The mythological warlock. It couldn’t be. She’d heard stories of him as a child, but she’d never thought he was real. And now he was standing before her? No way.

“Atalanta was wise to hide your true power from me,” he said in that eerie voice when she didn’t answer. “She was also naïve to think I would not find out.”

“My lord?” the witch to Isadora’s left asked.

His glowing gaze stayed locked on Isadora. “With this one at my side, Isis, I will be more powerful than Atalanta. I will rise to the level of the Titans.”

The Titans…
shit
. They were the gods who had spawned the Olympians. Isadora’s anxiety skyrocketed.

Isis stiffened. “But, my lord, she is nothing more than a weak child.”

“Not a child. And not weak.” His lips twisted into an evil smile. “She is one of the Horae, Isis. Do you know what that means? Atalanta tricked us into thinking she only wanted the princess because she was royal, but this changes everything.” Excitement flared in his eyes. An excitement Isadora knew was going to equal bad things for her. “She has the power to look not only into the past and future, but the present as well.”

Isis gasped. And Isadora’s brow wrinkled as the warlock’s words set in. No, that wasn’t right. Her sister Casey had the gift of hindsight, and Isadora herself had the gift of foresight, but both of their powers were unpredictable. And they’d only recently discovered that Callia, their other sister, was the so-called balance between them, but they didn’t yet know what that meant.

“I thought the Horae needed each other to harness those powers,” Isis said.

“For themselves, yes,” Apophis answered, “but with the power of the dark arts I can harness the strength in this one alone. Imagine what I will be able to do once she and I are joined. I will be able to see everything. Past, present, future. Even what the gods have planned.”

The impact of what he was implying rushed through Isadora like a wave, shutting down all other thought. If he was right, then it meant together she and her sisters had the power to look into the present, to visualize what was happening elsewhere, to tap into the future and see what others had planned, even Atalanta. And it also meant, with the strength of the Argonauts behind them, together they could ensure no one man, creature, or deity disrupted the balance of the world.

Something inside her chest solidified, as if years of wandering finally made sense. Isadora’s father, the king, had once told her she would play an important role in the world—if, that is, she stopped being so darn timid. Could it be this was her role? Not simply to rule over their realm as queen as she’d thought he meant, but to aid the Argonauts as they carried out Zeus’s ancient decree that the Eternal Guardians protect not only Argolea, but the human realm as well?

She was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t realize Apophis had moved close until she felt the chill from his hand hovering over her chest. Startled, she looked up to see one bony, gnarled hand with razor-sharp black fingernail-like claws inches from her skin.

“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.