Marked

by Elisabeth Naughton

  A ghost of a smile curled Orpheus’s mouth, and Isadora cursed herself for the stammer that proved just how freaked-out she was by the whole marriage thing. Showing weakness in front of Orpheus was a bad idea.

  “Sounds exciting. Both the business at this important time and the binding ceremony he’s not bothering to prep for. You’ll forgive me if I don’t attend. I figure if the groom can’t make it a priority and all that, why should I?” He flopped onto a plush white sitting chair across the room while Isadora clenched her jaw. “I mean, let’s get real, Isa. If the big, bad stud were here now taking care of family business, I wouldn’t be, would I?”

  “You are an ass.”

  Orpheus’s smile widened. He kicked his feet out to rest them on the low glass coffee table. “Aw, now Isa. You hurt my feelings. You really do. Here I am, giving up my precious sleep to help you—again—and what do you do? You hurl insults at me.” He tsked and shook his head. “Breaks my heart. It really does.”

  Orpheus wasn’t here simply because he was worried she would spill the beans on his secret, but because he knew she was desperate enough to call him. And that put him in the driver’s seat. Refusing to show him an ounce of weakness, she lifted her chin. “What’s it going to cost me?”

  “Depends.” He arched one wicked brow. “What exactly are you asking for?”

  She thought for a minute. Then said, “Persephone.”

  His rolling laughter was like fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. “Wait, let me check.” He held up a finger, glanced around as if he were listening for something, then shook his head. “Yeah. No. She won’t give you five minutes.”

  “But she would for you,” she said quickly, ignoring his sarcasm. “If you asked her.”

  His expression said that wasn’t a guarantee. “Even if I wanted to, her SOB of a husband won’t allow it.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  Orpheus’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you plan to keep Hades from knowing? Did your Argonaut teach you that Jedi mind-trick thing?”

  She ignored the comment, because she wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. She wouldn’t need mind tricks if she had Orpheus’s cloak of invisibility. He used it to sneak into the beds of the human women he ravaged, and he’d let her borrow it before to cross through the portal unchecked when she’d gone looking for Acacia. The cloak was so strong, it worked on both humans and gods alike.

  “Oh, no,” Orpheus said, reading her expression. “Not on your life.”

  “I may not have much of a life left. And you’re the only one who can help me, Orpheus.”

  His eyes flashed green in that daemon way of his, then returned to their normal shade of gray. For a moment, fear raced through her, but she beat it back. She was the only one who knew of his true lineage—she and his father, a past Argonaut who was now, conveniently, dead. Not even Gryphon knew his brother was half daemon. The only reason Isadora had discovered the truth was because she’d secretly followed him into the woods one night, where he often trekked alone for reasons she didn’t understand, in the hopes of convincing him to help her, and had seen what he could turn into.

  She inwardly shuddered at the thought. She could have slinked away. Could have returned to Tiyrns and turned him in. But a vision had stopped her. It had been the last one of the future she’d had before her powers had dried up. And in it, Orpheus—in his daemon form—had saved her.

  He looked toward the dark windows. “I don’t owe you shit.”

  She knew he was lying. He knew she held his fate in her hands. One word from her and he’d be executed. If Argoleans discriminated against humans, it was nothing compared to what they’d do to a daemon living among them.

  Silence stretched between them. She half-expected Orpheus to poof his way right out of her suite. And then he said, “Tell me why.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Tough shit. If you’re asking me to go out on a limb to get you Persephone, then you better cut the personal crap.”

  Isadora bit her lip in indecision. In the end, she knew she didn’t have a choice.

  Before she lost her courage, she reached for the hem of her skirt and slowly lifted so he could see the marking high on the inside of her right thigh. The winged omega symbol. The one she’d never understood until recently.

  Orpheus’s eyes grew wide and he swore in his native tongue.

  Yup. He obviously knew what the mark meant. But then, being half daemon, of course he would.

  She dropped her skirt back into place. His smug expression had been replaced by a “holy skata” one she knew she would never forget. “I need to see Persephone because she’s the only one who can influence Hades to alter the pact.”

  His shocked gray eyes slowly lifted from where he was still eyeing her skirt up to her face. If there was one other person in all of Argolea who didn’t want to see the prophecy come true, it was Orpheus. “And what if he won’t?”

  “Then you and I are both likely dead.” She narrowed her eyes. “Now tell me, are you going to help me or not?”

  They left at dawn, when the first light of morning was spilling over the horizon. Theron let Acacia lead the way, while he took up the rear to keep an eye out for any wayward daemons lying in wait.

  So far so good. He knew none of the three from the day before had been able to send a signal back to Atalanta about their location. At some point they’d be missed, but hopefully by the time anyone in Tartarus noticed they were gone, Theron would have Marissa and Acacia far from this valley and out of harm’s way.

  Gods, but he couldn’t get the little girl’s words out of his head. Each time he looked at Acacia he saw the surprise in her eyes at Marissa’s premonition. He understood Acacia didn’t believe it. He knew otherwise.

  A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Though he knew what was expected of him, had even accepted what he would do for his race, the thought of Acacia’s fate had never once been a question in his mind. The Elysian fields, yes. Perhaps even the Isles of the Blessed—the afterlife where the blessed heroes dwelled—because of her connection to the royal family. But not once had he considered the fact she might be condemned to Tartarus.

  And why hadn’t he? It made perfect sense that a pact made by Hades would not end well for the loser.

  “I think we’re getting close,” Acacia said from up ahead.

  Shaken from his thoughts, he looked up to see the soft sway of her hips as she moved. They’d made good time, even with Marissa in tow, but Acacia’s pace had slowed the last mile or two. He knew she was weak and growing weaker by the minute. Just as he knew there was nothing he could do to help her.

  A lump formed in his throat at the thought, that weight in his chest multiplying. Marissa sat perched on his shoulders, her hands and cheek pressed to the top of his head, where she’d been sleeping for the past hour. Working to keep the child balanced was the one thing that had distracted him from thinking too much about Acacia. And about what he was doing to her himself.

  He never should have touched her. In her house, in her room at the colony, last night in that dark and sultry cave. Just the thought of the way her body felt, so soft and moist and giving, jacked him up and made him think about what it would be like to sink inside her and forget about the rest of the world. Never before had he met a gynaíka—or a woman—who’d made him forget his duties.

  Why did it have to be her?

  “Do you hear that?” Acacia stopped in his path. Theron nearly ran into her before realizing she was intently listening to something in the distance. She reached a hand behind her to stop him. Just the slight brush of her fingers against his chest sent electricity zinging along his nerve endings.

  He forced his mind away from what those fingers could do and drew in a long breath. He smelled fresh wood and fire, and the unmistakable scent of burning flesh.

  Alarm bells rang in his head even as Acacia turned questioning eyes his way, and he realized she smelled it too. “What is t
hat?”

  He had a feeling he knew. And skata, he didn’t want to tell her.

  Worry rushed over her features as she read his expression. Then she turned and rushed ahead down the path.

  “Acacia!”

  From above, Marissa was jolted awake. She sat up taller on his shoulders. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, child. We’re almost there.” Theron gritted his teeth as he ran after Acacia and tried not to lose Marissa.

  They reached a clearing, and the trees opened to an area void of shrubs and brush. A circle had been outlined in rocks, and at the center sat a large, blackened stone, four feet high and as long as a man, flat on top as if it had been chiseled to form a table. Around the base, piles of wood fueled flames that leapt and licked at the stone tablet and the body that lay on top, burning in the dawn.

  Nick stood with his back to them, something bunched in the hand at his side. On the far side of the table, a small group of people huddled together, weeping as they watched the body burn.

  Mourners. The burning of the flesh was said to release the soul to the afterlife, but it only worked if the heart remained in the body.

  Let there be a heart.

  “Oh, my God,” Acacia whispered at his side.

  Theron eased Marissa to the ground, and a woman came racing their way. He recognized her from the day they’d arrived in the colony.

  “Marissa!” the woman screamed.

  The girl was swept up into her mother’s arms. The woman muttered incoherent words of comfort as tears streaked down her face and she clung fiercely to the small child. She mouthed a thank-you to Acacia and Theron before turning back to the group of mourners.

  Nick turned slowly to look their way, and Theron saw what the man held. A jacket. Bright red. Leather, with shiny silver grommets running up and down the sleeves.

  Acacia saw it too. Her hand went to her mouth as the blood rushed from her cheeks. “Dana. Oh, God, Dana. No.”

  She swayed on her feet. Theron caught her before she went down. And cursed himself and those bloody daemons. He glanced up to Nick for help, not understanding Acacia’s link to the woman, but knowing instinctively that they’d been friends.

  Nick shook his head, and though there was murder in his eyes at what had been done, there was also heartfelt regret. He turned back to the fire.

  “Meli,” Theron said gently, putting his body between her and the fire. “Don’t look.”

  “No.” She gripped his forearms. Tears streamed down her face. The anguish he saw in her eyes nearly broke him. “It can’t be Dana. It just can’t. She was talking about leaving town. She was at the store. With me. Just before you showed up. Just before those things…” She closed her eyes tight and curled her hands into fists against his shirt. “You don’t think they found her”—her eyes popped open—“because of me, do you? Theron. You don’t think—?”

  He gathered her close against his chest, cutting off her question. She struggled, but he held her tight. How could he tell her that was exactly what had happened? His sense of smell was strong, and even amidst the flames, he hadn’t detected the scent of her heart. Which meant the daemons had cut it out of the Misos in payment to Hades before they’d killed her, as was their pattern. No way he could tell Acacia any of that. Or where he suspected her friend’s soul was right now.

  Voice thick with emotions he’d never felt before, all because of the woman in his arms, he said, “Come on. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  Her anguish was palpable, but she turned and walked with him toward the trees. “I don’t understand this world you live in,” she mumbled as she swiped at her eyes.

  No. Of course, she wouldn’t. Sometimes he didn’t either. He drew her closer to his side.

  “I’m so tired, Theron,” she whispered.

  He lifted her into his arms. When she didn’t protest, he knew she was more fatigued than she was letting on.

  His heart pinched. She was fading quickly. And the events of the last two days weren’t helping.

  They made it ten yards into the trees when he sensed the air change. Acacia sensed it too, because she stiffened in his arms. “I have a bad feeling,” she whispered against his neck.

  So did he. He set her slowly to her feet.

  The first scream erupted at their backs before either of them turned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  One thing Isadora could say about Orpheus. The ándras knew things no one else did. Like where the gods hung out and how to breach their inner sanctum.

  “I can’t go in with you,” Orpheus said as he pulled the hood of his black cape over his head to hide his face. “The cloak only works for one, and no way in hell I’m getting trapped on Olympus. Zeus has called one of his blitheringly boring summit meetings, so the gods will all be congregated in his temple, no doubt falling over themselves in an attempt to impress the pompous POS. You know the difference between a brownnoser and a shit-head, right, Isa?”

  Isadora frowned.

  “Depth perception.” Orpheus chuckled at his own joke.

  “What about Persephone?” Isadora asked, trying to refocus him.

  His cocky grin faded. “She’ll be where I told you.”

  “How can you know for certain? Maybe she—”

  “Trust me. She’ll be there. Any time she can get away from her mother, she heads for the trees. There’s more to destroy there.”

  Trusting Orpheus went against everything in Isadora’s gut. But she didn’t have another choice. She was out of options, and if this didn’t work…

  She ignored the sickness brewing in her belly and lifted her chin. “Where will you be?”

  “Hiding out here, like the lower life-form I am.” He glared at her from beneath the hood. “You screw this up, Isa, and we’re both fucked.”

  She nodded once. “I won’t.”

  On one more deep breath, which didn’t do a thing for her tummy, she pulled the hood over her head and turned for the gates that granted access to Mount Olympus. For the love of all things holy, she was about to walk on hallowed ground.

  Okay, correction. For her sake, she sure hoped good ol’ Zeus didn’t catch wind she was here. The god was not known for understanding, and his temper was worse than all seven of the Argonauts put together, on a bad day.

  She held her breath as she walked cautiously up to the gates. When neither sentry looked in her direction, she realized they couldn’t see her. Orpheus’s invisibility cloak was working. Confidence growing, she slipped past the guards without even a glance and paused at the base of the winding road toward the temples.

  Please let Orpheus be telling the truth…

  She turned left instead of heading up the road and followed a low stone fence past wheat fields and olive orchards, until she came to the forest. Large trees she didn’t know how to name towered above, blocking out the sunlight. Low brush and trailing vines littered the ground.

  She walked a quarter mile in the dim light before she noticed the shrubs and plants around her looked sickly and wilted. As she delved deeper into the forest, the ground became black, looked almost burned, and what little plant life was left was withered and dry.

  Humming from ahead brought her feet to a halt, and she peered through the blackened tree trunks toward a small pond. Around the edge, the grass was brown and brittle. Even the tree branches protruding over the once-green oasis were drooped and void of leaves. A great sadness radiated from the space. And in the center of the pond, hovering inches above the surface, lay Persephone, floating on her back. But the only parts of her body touching the water were her fingers as they splayed over the surface of the pond.

  Even reclined and in a state of miserable relaxation, she looked like a regal queen. The Queen of the Underworld. The queen of death and destruction. Which was exactly what she was.

  Isadora’s nerves kicked up. She glanced back the way she’d come as worry and self-doubt raced down her spine. She had the goddess alone. Just like she’d wanted. But sudden
ly her tongue was thick and her throat was bone-dry.

  Persephone’s hair was dark, her body lithe and graceful. She looked like a siren, but a thousand times stronger and a million time more dangerous. And she was way more intimidating than Isadora had expected.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to get here.”

  Isadora froze. Glanced around again. The goddess couldn’t possibly be speaking to her, could she?

  “Of course I’m talking to you,” Persephone said, turning her head and pinning Isadora with deep green eyes the color of an Irish field. “Do you think I don’t know what you and your half-daemon friend are up to? You were only permitted to pass the gates of Olympus because I figure anyone as desperate as you deserves to be heard. And because your anxiety amuses me.” She heaved out a long sigh. “I do so get bored here.”

  Isadora opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Not so desperate now, I see.” Persephone looked back up to the sky. “And here I thought this was going to be interesting. Apparently you lack the panache of your father.”

  “M-My father?” Oh, good one, Isa. Way to get right to the point.

  “It’s been twenty-seven years since King Leonidas stood where you stand now. Asking very nearly the same thing.”

  Suddenly, getting to the point didn’t seem so important after all. “Wait. My father came to you?”

  Persephone’s irritated eyes darted to Isadora. “Did I not just say that? Keep up, girl.”

  As far as Isadora knew, her father hated the interventions of the gods. In fact, he’d do just about anything to keep them from meddling in Argolean affairs. “Why did my father come here?”

  Persephone huffed and lifted a hand to let water drip off her long, elegant fingers. “To ask me to use my influence on Hades. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Wow. News flash.

  “Yes,” Isadora said, stunned. “But I still don’t understand why my father would intervene.”

  Persephone rolled her eyes and recited in a dull monotone: “There shall be two in every era, born of god and earth and men. One of strength and one of courage, two separate halves to bring the end. And they shall be known by the markings they bear, united in the twenty-seventh year. Only joined will the strong survive, to dissolve the pact and bring the end to life.”