Dark Skye (Immortals After Dark #15)(21)

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. . . .





NINE


Captive 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.