Dark Skye (Immortals After Dark #15)(69)

She waved a hand shining with blue energy in front of his face. “You won’t have any choice.”

He glowered at her hand. “Melanthe, just stop and discuss this with me.”

“The same problems as before apply. When you can see past my number, then maybe we’ll talk.”

“So if I could see past it, you’d come with me to the Skye? Then use your power to make me forget the men you’ve been with,” he said, as if he’d just lit on the idea and found it excellent. “If that’s what it takes, then I’ll subject myself to your sorcery once more.”

She clenched her blue fists, hating him for hurting her yet again, hating that he didn’t even understand how he was hurting her. “Should I make you think I’m totally a virgin, or maybe that I only had a couple of f*ck buddies? How about one conquest per century?” Voice rising with each word, she yelled, “I hate the way you make me feel!”

“I don’t want to! But I don’t know how to handle this. I can’t just act like I haven’t felt wrath. Like I haven’t been brought to my knees with jealousy. . . .” He trailed off, frowning at a pair of marble markers that bordered the path. Only two lines had been carved on them.

Thronos had already gone across their border.

“What do they say?” she asked, backing away.

He read them, gazing up with bafflement. And then things really got weird.





THIRTY-ONE


The markers read:

Pain confesses all.

And Time cares naught.

What did that mean? Enough with this bloody place! What would this zone have in store? The mention of pain didn’t worry him; he knew pain, could handle any physical agony. But what about Melanthe?

The sun was beginning to rise, purple clouds in the background like a halo over her black hair. He’d just taken a step in her direction when he spied movement.

He disbelieved his sight—not far behind her was a tank-sized beast with bloodred eyes, dripping fangs, and bony spikes protruding from its spine.

A hellhound.

“Freeze, Melanthe.”

She did. Eyes wide, she whispered, “Something’s behind me, isn’t it?”

He gave a shallow nod.

The beast’s soot-colored pelt was said to be dense enough to repel swords. And talons.

But if Thronos could reach her and get them into the air . . .

The hound lifted its snout. Catching their scent, it let out a chilling howl. When it charged them, Thronos lunged for her.

He never reached Melanthe. Another beast collided with him from the side, a locomotive of force that nearly knocked him out of his boots.

A second hound.

Thronos crashed to the ground. When his vision cleared, he found one mammoth paw pinning him by the waist. He cast his wing up, talon slashing.

The strike didn’t even disturb the beast’s dense fur.

“Run, Lanthe!”

She was already sprinting in his direction, as if a hound of hell pursued her—because it did. She ran with a feylike quickness.

Melanthe was fast. It was faster.

Thronos launched another strike of his wings, and another, buying time to glance over his shoulder, taking in every detail of their possible escape route.

Behind him was an open field fringed with moonraker trees. To the west, a charred mountain peak loomed over the field. Atop it were dozens of dragons, jostling for territory. Their hive? They clawed the black stone for purchase and loosed great streams of fire. Rocks plummeted.

A pair of dragons took off from that height, heading in the direction of the demon valley. Sparring in the air, they tore chunks of flesh from each other, scales raining down.

Sunrise; feed on fallen. More dragons would follow.

As Melanthe high-stepped past Thronos, she cried, “Stop playing with yours and kill it!”

“Why didn’t I”—he jerked his body left to right to avoid snapping fangs—“think of that?!”

If the beast’s pelt was impervious, it’d have only a few vulnerabilities. As swiftly as he could, Thronos whipped his wings up, talons crossing over the creature’s face. Before the hound could bite down on them, he gave a yell, dug in, then ripped his wings to the sides.

His talons raked across the beast’s eyes, slicing through to the very bone of its eye sockets.

Blood spurted. The beast yelped in pain, blindly stumbling toward the brush. A mistake. Dozens of huge reptilian-looking predators snatched the defenseless hound into the shadows.

With a haphazard swoop of his wings, Thronos half-lunged to his feet, stumbling after Melanthe, pain coursing through his bad leg. He craned his head around. Where was she— He caught sight of her, eluding the hound on her tail. He stepped forward, nearly planting his foot in resin. “Watch for resin!” This pit was covered with silver reeds, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the ground.

Risking the dragons, Thronos bounded into the air. He wouldn’t be able to reach her before the hound did. So he pulled his wings tight and dove, aiming for the beast itself. At the last second, he rolled to launch a shoulder into the hound’s flank, knocking it off its feet.

While it shook away confusion, Thronos snared its meaty tail, pinning it between his arm and torso, digging his claws in. Gnashing his teeth, using all the strength he possessed, he hauled on the tail as he began to rotate. As if throwing a discus, he spun the beast. Again. And again. With a bellow, he released the thing, sending it flying through the air.