Dark Skye (Immortals After Dark #15)(28)

—Thanks.—

He jerked his hand away, looking angry with himself. Then he turned to survey the area.

Thanks to the glow of the lava flows just beyond the cave mouth, there was enough ambient light for even Lanthe to see clearly. Each of the cave walls had been hewn smooth, as if to create a canvas for a multitude of etched hieroglyphs. There were pillars to support the ceiling, a raised rock shelf along the back wall, and layers of dust.

She’d been to ancient ruins before. This place seemed so old it made those other ones appear techno.

Thronos cased the perimeter, pausing at intervals to scent the air. What she wouldn’t give for his heightened senses. And his strength, she added when he moved a fallen pillar out of his way, plucking it up as if it were a matchstick.

“You have no idea why we arrived here?” he asked.

She shook her head, trailing after him. In the back left corner of the cave, she perceived something that made the tiny hairs on her nape stand up. There was only one way her senses could trump Thronos’s: recognizing the call of gold.

Yet the wall appeared solid. Looking for a door, she examined some glyphs, brushing away dust. She gave the marks a few pokes with a gauntlet claw, but found nothing.

Even as she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder longingly. Maybe there was a mother lode locked in the mountain, never to be discovered in this hell plane.

The idea left her deflated. Now that the adrenaline of their escape had waned, she was growing dizzy with fatigue and blood loss. Her regenerating tongue was sending waves of pain throughout her mouth and head.

“Do you recognize these markings, sorceress?”

She’d been learning Demonish in Rothkalina, was conversant at least, but she didn’t recognize this. —Proto-Pandemonian, maybe? Or some kind of primitive Demonish?—

Thronos looked even more unsettled than before, shoving his fingers through his thick hair. Something about this cave was affecting him. “You expect me to believe your door to Pandemonia was random?”

—We could have gone anywhere, anyplace in existence. Believe me, it could’ve been worse.—

“Worse than Pandemonia?”

—Absolutely.— Foreign realms were often lethal to some degree, so dangerous that only an immortal could survive there.

Though many in the Lore believed immortals were quasi-deities, others thought they’d been forced to evolve in those foreign dimensions, to become ever more hardy, until one eon they became . . . undying. Then they’d traveled across realities to inhabit the mortal world, attracted to the relative ease of that plane.

So basically, Sorceri had evolved with senses only a little better than a human’s, bodies that were weak compared to other Lore species, and life spans that could end from far more than just a beheading or mystical fire.

Her species sucked at evolution.

“What realm trumps this one, Melanthe?”

—At least there’s rain here.— She started wringing out her hair. —We could have gone to Oblivion, forced to fight other demons for water.—

His wings twitched with irritation. “Other demons?”

—Would you rather we’d landed in Feveris?— Anyone who entered that plane was bespelled with unending, uncontrollable desire.

“Feveris, then?” Had his voice grown huskier? “The Land of Lusts?”

If she’d had more blood left in her body, she might have blushed at his tone.

“Have you been there?” he asked.

She had, just to dip a toe, to see if the rumors were true. Her servants had tied a rope around her waist to drag her back if she got bespelled, a precaution they’d been forced to use. Within minutes, Lanthe had begun stripping for a gnome.

—Maybe.— She’d never forget that perpetually sunny, coastal plane, redolent with the scent of Hawaiian Tropic, island flowers, and sex. Or its twinkling rays of sun . . .

“I’m sure you felt right at home there,” he grated.

She was still smarting from his harlot comment on the prison island. —Maybe YOU influenced me to open this door to Pandemonia, demon! All last night I was captive of a demon, so naturally I opened a threshold to YOUR home world.—

He stalked up to her, yelling, “Do not call me demon!”

She forced herself to hold her ground, then repeated his earlier words: —Sensitive about this, creature?—

“Demons are savage. Vrekeners have grace and a sacred purpose. We are descended from gods!”

—How do you know this?—

“From the Tales of Troth—sanctified knowledge passed on from one Vrekener generation to the next for millennia.”

—I’m going to have to stop you, because you’ve already bored me. In any case, my brother-in-law Rydstrom is no savage. He’s one of the best males I know.—

“Enough of Rydstrom! You sound infatuated with him.”

—He is hot.—

“That’s what you like? Ever superficial, sorceress.”

—And you are ever pathologically jealous.—

“It’s much deeper than jealousy. The males you bedded stole from me. You stole from me.”

—What did I steal?—

“Years and children. I would have killed any other for such a grievous loss.”

—That’s what you’ve wanted from me all this time? Years and children? Even if those years would have been miserable?—