* * *
“Let me do the talking,” Orpheus said.
Demetrius eyed the tent city in the hills outside Tiyrns where he and Orpheus had flashed after leaving the castle. Lights illuminated the canvas walls and multicolored flags flying high atop tent poles. Leaves lay scattered across the forest floor, crunching under their boots with each step in the moonlight, and the air was cool—an early-summer chill that spread through his skin like a virus.
Which was a lovely thought. As was the realization that a virus—even a really nasty one that left him quaking on his deathbed—was preferable to the misery currently sweeping through his heart every time he thought about Isadora.
Demetrius’s witch senses prickled and tingled as they drew close to the coven. For hundreds of years, he’d denied his lineage, but in the last few months, as he trained himself with Orpheus’s help, the spells were coming easier. And he was growing more accustomed to reading his body’s reactions to the natural world around him.
Another thing he had Isadora to thank for. Without her, he never would have experimented with his abilities. He wouldn’t have found a part of himself he didn’t know was missing. He wouldn’t be alive.
Sharp pain condensed beneath his breastbone, and he rubbed a gloved hand across his chest, hoping to alleviate the ache.
It didn’t help.
“You okay?” Orpheus asked.
“Fine.” Demetrius dropped his hand. “Which tent’s hers?”
Orpheus gestured for him to follow, and Demetrius fell into step at his back.
At this time of night, most of the inhabitants of the city were asleep. But a few faces peered out as they passed. Delia—the coven leader—operated several illegal portals, and Argoleans often ventured into the city to cross to the human realm without the Council’s knowledge. But it was all on the down-low, and usually it was prearranged. Demetrius knew it was only a matter of time before they were greeted by Delia’s lookouts.
They reached the far end of the city. Ahead, a giant, pavilion-sized tent rose against the night sky, blocking out the moonlight and mountains beyond. A female witch with purple-striped hair pulled the tent flap open and faced them. “Delia’s been waiting for you.”
Of course she was. If Demetrius had sensed the magic gathered in this place before even reaching the city, Delia had sensed they were on their way.
Orpheus ducked under the flap. Demetrius followed, his gaze skipping from the circle of witches kneeling on pillows on the floor to his right with their hands joined and their eyes closed, swaying in what seemed to be some kind of spell-conjuring ceremony, to the group at his left, speaking in hushed voices.
Quiet descended, and gazes peered their direction. The tent was smaller than he’d thought, this space like a small gathering area more than a pavilion. That or walls blocked off rooms he couldn’t see and wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. A sliver of unease shimmied through him. Even though he was learning about his abilities, he wasn’t sure he was totally ready to embrace his heritage. Especially not the woo-woo, we-are-one nature shit the witches in that circle were conjuring.
The grouping parted, and Delia stepped forward, her eyes glinting, her long, white hair illuminated by the candles spaced around the perimeter of the tent. “It’s been a while, Orpheus.”
“Delia.” Orpheus lowered his head, a movement that took Demetrius totally off guard, because Orpheus never bowed to anyone. “We need your help.”
Delia’s eyes sharpened, shifting Demetrius’s way. And under her scrutinizing gaze, Demetrius tensed, knowing she was examining, assessing, and judging.
She stepped back and gestured for them to follow. “Come. Away from the circle.”
Relief flitted through Demetrius but turned to unease as he moved under an archway and into another room, this one smaller and cozier than the last. Instead of open and barren, it was decorated with plush couches, soft throw pillows and blankets, and reflective surfaces that shone off every wall.
Witches used mirrors as seeing objects. Demetrius hadn’t mastered that ability yet, and at the moment didn’t really want to know what Delia could see.
She turned to face them. “You’re here to discuss the girl.”
Orpheus cast a look at Demetrius. Even without asking, Demetrius knew what he was thinking. Bingo, we were right. “So Natasa is from this coven?”
Delia looked his way. “No. And she’s not a witch.”
“Then what is she?”
“Something of great value.”
“To whom?” Demetrius asked.
“To everyone.”
Okay, this was already getting irritating.
“She fried the portal at the Gatehouse,” Orpheus told the witch. “That’s why we’re here. One of our Argonauts went through with her, and we can’t find him. If she’s not a witch, we would appreciate anything you can tell us about her.”
Delia pursed her lips, then said, “I sensed when she crossed into this realm.”
“So she can conjure magic,” Demetrius said, “but she’s not a witch. That tells us a lot.”
The coven leader didn’t answer. Simply looked at him with a blank expression. And Demetrius’s frustration with her jumped another notch.
This was a waste of time. He should be trying to figure out what he was going to do about Isadora and the Council, not wasting his time here chasing dead ends.
He was just about to leave when Delia turned to look into the mirrors around her. “What was she after in this realm? Did you find out before she crossed?”
Sandy brown hair fell over Orpheus brow when he cocked his head. “She told Maelea she was looking for information about Prometheus.”
“And which Argonaut went through with her?”
“Titus,” Orpheus answered.
“Not ideal,” Delia muttered. “And Titus’s forefather? From whom does he hail?”
“Odysseus.”
Delia turned and stared hard into Orpheus’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
Orpheus glanced uneasily at Demetrius then back again. “Pretty damn. Why does it matter?”
Delia shifted her weight. “It matters because if she is what we think she is, he is likely the only one who can stop her. And yet because of his curse, he is the one from your order who will be most distracted by her.”
“And what in Hades does that mean?” Demetrius asked. O sent him a calm the hell down look, but Demetrius had reached his limit. “Curse? Stop her? Look, whatever you’re dancing around, just spell it out for us. If Titus is in some kind of danger, we need to know.”
Delia held his gaze. Seemed to debate something. Finally said, “Titus was cursed by one from my coven years ago. That female you mentioned…because of the power inside her…has the ability to distract him from that curse. And that distraction will blind him to who and what she really is.”
Orpheus’s eyes narrowed. “And what is she?”
“Our best guess?”
Gods, Fates spoke more plainly than this chick. Demetrius frowned. “Yeah, if that’s all you’ve got.”
Delia pursed her lips. “Unquenchable fire.
Silence settled over the room like a thousand ton weight had just been dropped. And in the aftermath, Demetrius’s stomach tightened with both fear and apprehension. His gaze shifted to Orpheus, who was staring back at him with a holy fucking shit expression.
If what Delia suspected was true, then it meant Isadora wasn’t going to be safe anywhere. And if Natasa really was unquenchable fire…
Frantic, he turned toward the witch. “Why does it matter that Titus’s forefather is Odysseus?”
“There are those who believe,” Delia said, “that through his line, Odysseus passed along the gift of hidden knowledge.”
“About Natasa?”
She shook her head. “During his travels, Odysseus was imprisoned by a nymph named Calypso. Calypso was the daughter of the Titan Atlas. Atlas is Prometheus’s brother. Which means Calypso is Prometheus’s niece.”
Understanding finally dawned. Along with shock. “Are you saying Odysseus passed this knowledge to his descendants,” Demetrius asked, “and Titus knows where Prometheus is chained but just doesn’t realize it?”
“No,” Delia answered. “I’m saying…it’s a possibility. However, it’s also a possibility this hidden knowledge only relates to the location of Calypso’s island. Her name in direct translation means ‘concealer.’”
True, but either way, if they could find Calypso, Titus could read the goddess’s mind. They might be able to find Prometheus before Zeus and the other gods. They could stop Natasa from what she was about to do.
“Who would know for sure?” Demetrius asked.
Delia shrugged in a noncommittal way.
“Epimetheus.” Orpheus’s eyes narrowed on the witch. “He lives in the human realm. Keeps to himself. I’ve met him a few times. A complete moron, but”—he glanced at Demetrius—“our best shot to find out if this theory is true or not.”
Prometheus’s brother. Also a Titan, and the father of afterthought. Demetrius had heard stories about the elder god; he’d just never had any desire to seek him out. But now…
He refocused on Delia. “What did the witch curse Titus with? You said it was one from this coven.”
Delia sighed again. “I shouldn’t—”
“Screw shouldn’t,” Demetrius said. “We passed shouldn’t a long time ago. You said Titus’s curse interferes with his ability to read Natasa. How?”
Delia frowned. Debated. Then finally said, “She cursed him to feel the emotions of any he touches.”
“Which is why he wears the gloves,” Orpheus muttered.
A lot about Titus suddenly made sense. “Assuming Calypso passed this hidden knowledge to Odysseus, how does Titus unlock it?”
“In that,” Delia said, “I am no help ”
Orpheus looked toward Demetrius. “What do you think?”
What did he think? Demetrius couldn’t stop thinking about Isadora. And their baby. And what could be his last chance to save them both. “I think it’s the only lead we’ve got.”
Orpheus turned to Delia. “Thank you.” Then to Demetrius, “Let’s go.”
They moved for the door, but the witch’s hand on Demetrius’s forearm stopped him. “Be careful, Guardian. Some decisions have irrevocable consequences.”
She knew. He didn’t know how, but she was talking about Isadora and Nick and what Demetrius was considering doing. That heart his mate had awakened swelled beneath his ribs. “And some people are worth it. I don’t care what happens to me. As long as she’s safe, that’s all that matters.”
He pulled away, heading for the door Orpheus had already exited. But at his back, he was sure Delia muttered, “And what about her people?”
* * *
He was in an oven. Being roasted like a turkey dinner.
Images of flickering flames and a slamming door dragged Titus from deep sleep. He opened his eyes and blinked several times. Darkness and a faint moon hung above. Waves crashing against rock echoed to his right and the scent of salt hung heavy in the air.
Sweat slicked his back. He pushed up on his hands. Chill air spread across his overheated skin, instantly cooling him. Surveying his surroundings, he realized he was in some kind of rock overhang. It wasn’t a cave, really, but enough shelter from the wind and prying eyes to keep them dry and safe.
A moan echoed at his back. He glanced over his shoulder, peering through the dim light. Natasa sat leaning against the wall directly behind him, her head tipped to the side, her curly red hair matted and damp over one slender shoulder. Her eyes were closed in sleep, and her arms hung at her sides, but without even touching her, he knew she was the reason for his fiery dreams.
Gods, she was beautiful. Beautiful and mysterious and all he could think about. Heat rushed to his belly, slid into his groin. Memories of the way she’d wrapped her body around his to keep him warm flickered in his mind. His cock swelled and hardened, and other, more enjoyable ways she could warm him flooded his thoughts.
He brushed a hand over her arm, hoping to rouse her, to tempt her, to kiss her. Alarm registered at the first touch. Her skin was hotter than he’d ever felt it.
“Tasa?” He placed his palm on her forehead. She moaned, moving her head toward his hand, but didn’t wake.
He hadn’t been dreaming. Her flesh was on fire. He shook her. “Natasa.”
She groaned, but still didn’t wake. His gaze spread down her torso, over her breasts covered only by the thin white bra, to the black pants plastered to her hips and legs. Finally landed on the makeshift bandage tied around her thigh.
He tugged at the bandage, pulled it free, then grasped the tear in her pants and ripped it open wider so he could get a better look.
The wound was red and inflamed, no longer bleeding but swollen, the edges oozing. Infection had already set in. Faster than it should have for one shallow cut. He shifted his hand back to her forehead. She moaned once more and leaned into his hand.
Skata, she was burning up. He needed to do something to cool her fever or she could seize. At this point, risking a secondary infection to her wound was less of a concern than watching her die.
He pushed to his feet, leaned down and wrapped his arms around her. She grunted, resting her hands on his biceps. Her burning head fell against his chest. Fear and panic mingled inside him. “Come on, Tasa. I need you to wake up.”
She was like deadweight in his arms. He carried her toward the water and scanned the area. When he found a place where the waves weren’t crashing too strongly against the rocks, he headed that direction. Lowering her to her feet, he wrapped his arm around her waist and slowly eased them both into the water.
He gasped at the frigid bite, but she was so hot next to his skin, her heat quickly eased the chill. Bracing one hand on the rock ledge to keep the waves from knocking them into the cliff, he held her tight. “Wake up for me, baby,” he whispered, running his fingers up and down her lower spine. “Open those pretty eyes.”
She moaned, leaned her head against his chest as if still sleeping, but her legs grazed his, and her arms tightened around his waist.
Man, he could get used to this. Her wrapped around him, leaning on him, needing him. And as he slowly felt her body temperature lower, he couldn’t help but see how the situation had reversed. Hours ago, she’d been the one saving him. They seemed to have this back-and-forth thing going. Where she couldn’t walk away from him and he couldn’t walk away from her. Now more than ever, he was determined to figure out who she was, and how he could help her.
His fingers brushed her hair to one side, and he noticed the triangular tattoo on the back of her neck.
He shifted her in his arms to get a better look. The triangle wasn’t fancy, just straight lines and identical angles. Nothing someone would purposely have tattooed on their skin unless it meant something personal. But this didn’t look like ink to him. It looked—he shifted his forearm covered in the ancient Greek text closer to compare the lines and markings—like something she’d been born with.
Everything inside him stilled.
Her erratic body temperature, the fact Maelea had said she was searching for Prometheus, Natasa’s admission that people were after her, her inconsistent, almost volatile reactions, his strange ability to touch her…
A tingling grew in his chest, slowly drifted up until his thoughts were a whir in his mind. He looked down at her face, resting gently against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her long, dark lashes forming crescents against her pale skin. And realized what he would ha
ve figured out with his superstrength brain had he not been so obsessed by her touch.
She was fire. He didn’t know why or how it was possible, but he was certain she was the element the Argonauts and gods were all desperately seeking.
His heart pounded hard. Options, scenarios whirred through his mind. Theron and the others already thought she had some dark agenda. If they found out she was fire, they’d use her as a weapon. The same way they’d used him all these years to get an upper hand in their battles.
“Don’t stay…in water…too long,” she mumbled against his chest. “He’ll come… Will think I…failed.”
His brow lowered. He tried to read her expression. Couldn’t. “Who, baby?”
Zeus? Hades? Both were desperate to find the remaining elements. The waves rocked them in the water, but she didn’t answer. Her breathing slowed, and as she drifted to sleep, her temperature seemed to normalize. But his heart was racing. And he was starting to shiver again.
Realizing he was going to be no help to either of them if hypothermia set in, he climbed out and dragged her with him. Water ran in rivulets down their skin. She was still groggy and out of it, but this time when he lifted her, she curled into his arms, and the urge to protect her, to take care of her, overwhelmed him.
He carried her back to the shelter of the overhang and reached for her now-dry coat. He dabbed at the wound on her leg. Her face tightened, as if in pain, but when he placed his bare palm over the cut, she tipped her head and sighed. Her breaths slowed once more and evened out. He felt her forehead again, counting minutes as they ticked by in silence.
Her temperature was already slowly creeping back up.
“Skata.”
She needed medicine. A healer. Something to take care of the fever before it burned her alive. He could open a portal back to Argolea, but there was no way he was letting Theron get close to her now.
He glanced up and around. Zagreus and his goons had to be long gone. Judging from the position of the moon and the reduced cloud cover, hours had passed since their run-in. He didn’t have time to wait to make sure. By morning, Natasa’s fever would be worse, and though the water had cooled her slightly, something about her mumbled warning set his nerves on edge.
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