Tempted (8 page)

Come
on, Gryph. Where the hell are you?

He scanned the tree line again, taking in every boulder, every tree trunk someone could hide behind, every—

His gaze swung back to the old-growth log. And his heart picked up speed as he headed that way. Someone call his name but he didn’t turn. His senses kicked in the closer he got to the log and he smelled blood again. This time fresh. And very, very Argolean.

He bounded to the top of the log, at least six feet off the ground, and looked down. Dread welled in his stomach at what lay on the other side. “Shit.”

He dropped to his knees beside his brother. Gryphon lay with his torso tilted at an odd angle, perched against the log. Blood oozed from various cuts over his face and arms and legs and seeped through what was once his white shirt.

“Dammit, Gryph.” When the guardian shivered, Orpheus whipped off his cloak and tucked it up around his brother’s shoulders.

“You…” Gryphon’s teeth knocked together. “Don’t look so…happy to…see me.”

“I’m never happy to see you, dumbass.” But there was no heat in Orpheus’s words, and as he worked his gut churned with urgency.

Damn it, he needed Callia, like
now
. Orpheus wasn’t a healer, but even he knew Gryphon had taken a blade to the ribs and had already lost too much blood. Yeah, he was an Argonaut and as such healed faster than most, but there was no telling what Apophis’s energy had done to him.

Footsteps and voices echoed as the others came around the log. “We’re gonna get you home, brother,” Orpheus whispered.

Theron dropped down on Orpheus’s right. “Hey, Gryph,” he said softly. “How you doin’, buddy?”

“Never better,” Gryphon breathed as another shudder racked his body. He looked up at the others, his voice no more than a whisper. “You guys make a helluva lot of noise. Thought you were never gonna…find me.”

Worry ran across Theron’s face. He glanced at Orpheus, who nodded at Gryphon’s side, where blood was already seeping through the black cloak. “Ribs. We need to get him back now.”

Gently, Theron lifted the cloak, swore, then replaced it. “Orpheus is right, Gryphon. We need to get you home. We’ll do it gently, but we need to hustle. There’s no telling how many daemons are out in these woods. We—”

Gryphon shook his head, stopping Theron’s hands from shifting under to lift him. “No. None. They’re gone.”

“How do you—”

“They left…” Gryphon shivered again. “With D.”

“What do you mean ‘left with D’?” Theron asked. “You mean the daemons captured Demetrius? Him and the princess?”

Gryphon shook his head again. “No. Not captured.” He grimaced, bent forward at the waist as if he was in excruciating pain, then eased back. Sweat marred his brow as he said, “Demetrius opened the portal here on purpose. I heard him. They thought I was down, but I heard the head…daemon congratulate him on finally bringing them a prize.”

Oh
shit.
Orpheus had been wrong. Demetrius’s biggest secret wasn’t that he could harness magick.

At Theron’s perplexed expression, Gryphon shivered once more and added, “Theron, man. Demetrius…He’s Atalanta’s son. The motherfucker double-crossed us.”

***

“I’m sure you’re anxious to see Atalanta.” The archdaemon—Phrice, Demetrius was sure he’d heard him called—cranked the key in the engine of the old rusted-out cargo truck.

The daemon on Demetrius’s right snorted. “I guarantee she’s eager to see you.”

Yeah, Demetrius just bet Atalanta was anxious to see him. Anxious to see him, gut him, then stick his head on a stake for all the Argonauts to see.

He kept his mouth shut as the rig bounced over the frozen ground. In the hours since he and Isadora had been wrenched from the half-breed colony, they’d ridden on a small plane, landed somewhere in northern British Columbia, and were now driving across the barren tundra to hell-if-he-knew-where. As daemons were bound by the same limitations as Argoleans, they couldn’t flash from one place to another on earth, which meant hauling back a hostage or two took a long-ass time.

The only plus in the entire situation was that Isadora was still unconscious. Until he knew where they were headed, Demetrius had to play it cool, not show any outward sign he was frantically plotting a way to get Isadora far enough away from these monsters to open the portal and get them both out of this nightmare.

They drove for twenty minutes, and as the truck drew close to an enormous lodge-style wilderness retreat, that black mist inside grew stronger.

The truck pulled around the side of the structure, then headed for an outbuilding roughly two hundred yards away. Phrice shoved the truck into park and popped the door. “Get out.”

The hair on Demetrius’s neck tingled as he slid out of the cab and dropped to the ground. There was very little snow here, but the ground was frozen solid and brown as death. At the back of the vehicle, the cargo door slid up, and seconds later a daemon walked around the side with an unconscious Isadora tossed carelessly over his shoulder.

“This way.” Phrice motioned for Demetrius to follow.

“He said move, maggot.”

Demetrius stumbled, turned to glare at the daemon who’d shoved him. The beast smiled a stained and challenging grin.

Two massive doors to the warehouse at his front were pushed open. Phrice led them into the building, then through another door that disappeared down a rectangular staircase and into an underground passage.

Orange lights spaced every fifteen feet in the ceiling illuminated the corridor. The scents of earth and mold and sweat stained the air. The only sounds were the heavy clomp of boots against the concrete floor and the rapid breaths of both beasts and man.

Demetrius’s anxiety amped up as they neared the far side, two hundred yards from where they’d started. A black door carved with strange symbols beckoned. All around it, a pulsing halo of dark smoke hovered, the stench of brimstone sharp. Inside his chest, the darkness shifted to the forefront, as if inexplicably drawn toward what lay beyond the door.

His pulse picked up speed as he stared at the door. Behind him, the daemons chuckled.

“What are you waiting for, maggot?” the one directly at his back asked. “Don’t you want to see Mommy dearest?”

This time Demetrius was ready for the shove. And he didn’t fight back the pulse of darkness that clawed its way up his chest. Before the daemon could knock him off his feet, Demetrius whipped around and caught the monster by the throat. They were roughly the same height, close to the same size. The daemon grappled to pry Demetrius’s hand loose, but the blackness had claimed him, and words left Demetrius’s lips without even a thought as he called up the Medean powers he normally kept locked down.

The daemon’s arms dropped to his sides. The spell paralyzed his limbs but didn’t take away pain. Demetrius squeezed tighter and cut off the beast’s windpipe. Phrice chuckled and muttered, “Oh yeah, this is definitely Atalanta’s offspring.” Then louder, “I told you not to mess with him, Zepar.”

The blackness coiled and wrapped itself around Demetrius like a python squeezing out its victim’s last breath. The daemon’s eyes flickered; death beckoned. Demetrius reached for the sword at Zepar’s waist and drew it halfway out of its scabbard before Phrice yelled, “Enough!”

The two daemons behind Zepar plowed into Demetrius, one from each side, breaking the spell and ripping Zepar from his grasp. Demetrius went down hard. His head cracked against cold, unforgiving concrete.

“Get him up,” Phrice barked.

The daemons growled and hauled Demetrius to his feet. As they dragged him toward the door, the inky darkness inside radiated outward from his chest, sending tentacles through his limbs and up into his brain, as if taking control the way it had longed for years to do. The pain in his skull subsided as the door came into focus.

“Watch this,” Phrice muttered. “I’ve seen her do it a time or two. But only one from her line can work this charm.”

Phrice lifted Demetrius’s hand and placed it on a carved symbol in the center of the door. The surface burned his flesh, a loud hiss echoed through the corridor, and steam erupted all around the edge of his skin. His eyes grew wide as he watched his hand sink into the door as if it were liquid, and though blinding pain rushed up his limb, he didn’t cry out. Whatever was on the other side of that door—inside it—fed the darkness in the depths of his soul and called to it on a level like nothing before.

Give
in. Come to me.

Power erupted in Demetrius’s chest, in his limbs, fueling him with strength and energy. The darkness surrounded him, invaded him, drew him forward. The door popped open with a hiss, and his hand broke free.

Phrice nudged him forward. Demetrius took a step. Though his night vision was sharp, the air felt heavy and thick, and he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of his face. His other senses clicked into gear, but he picked up nothing. No sounds, no scents, nothing but a sublime, vast emptiness in every direction.

The daemons pulled him to a stop. A faint whiff met his nostrils. A sweet scent, like cotton candy, one he was sure he’d smelled before.

“None shall disturb me in my chamber of solitude. The penalty is death.”

“Forgive me, my queen,” Phrice said, his voice wavering, “but what opens the door is a gift. Something…of great value.”

Silence ensued, then faintly, voices whispered. Moments later the entire room burst into flame, hundreds of candles of differing sizes and shapes set in a circle around them flaring to life.

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.