That pride returned, swift and consuming, to smack Zander in the chest all over again. And yeah, he may be fighting his own personal demons where Isadora and Callia were concerned, but this was why he was making the sacrifice. For Titus, who couldn’t touch anyone except in anger; for Demetrius, who was so screwed up no one knew what the hell was wrong with him; for Cerek, who kept his distance from all females. He was doing it for all his guardian brothers who couldn’t make the same sacrifice for a thousand different reasons.
“Demetrius forgets everything. Guarantee by next week he won’t give a shit about the whole thing.”
A smile cracked Titus’s usually somber expression. Or at least, what could be considered a smile for Titus. One corner of his mouth quirked. “Probably. That, or he’ll come up with a reason you did this to screw the rest of us over somehow.”
Zander shook his head. Smiled himself and followed Titus as the other guardian turned and headed for the stairs.
“And just so we’re clear on something else,” Titus said as he walked. “No way in hell I’m gonna start calling you Your Royal Highness just because you’re binding yourself to Isadora. Your Royal Heinie, maybe.”
Zander’s smile widened as they turned the corner and headed for the Undercroft, the room on the lowest level of the castle where the Argonauts stored weaponry and any other gear they might need. This was more like the Titus he knew.
“Or Your Majesty,” Titus went on. “More like Your Major Dumbass. Ooh, wait. Better yet. You know how the Council always addresses the king as His Most Faithful Serene Highness? We’ll call you His Most Fucked-up Sperm-donating Heinie.” Titus seemed pleased with his own joke. “Yeah, that one fits.”
Zander’s smile faded as Titus pushed the heavy door to the Undercroft open with his shoulder. Yeah, that one totally fit, didn’t it? His future had just been summed up in one lame-ass title.
He grabbed a new scabbard and parazonium, draped the strap across his chest and positioned the weapon at his back, then slid into his jacket and pushed all thoughts of the king, Isadora and, especially, Callia out of his head. “Let’s make tracks, Titus. No sense letting Demetrius have all the fun.”
“That’s the best plan I’ve heard all day.” Titus grabbed his own gear and nodded toward the door. “I’m ready to kick some daemon ass.”
So was Zander. In a way Titus or any of the other Argonauts would never understand.
Chapter Six
Max jerked awake, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking from head to toe.
The air caught in his lungs, stifling, stagnant. He sat up quickly, staring into the dark as his heart raced and his senses slowly righted themselves.
He was in his attic, on his pallet. Moonlight streamed through the high, dirty window on the far wall, illuminating the layer of dust on the barren floorboards until the room looked like it was covered in snow.
Not the training field. He glanced down. There was no blood on his hands. He hadn’t just killed in a rage like he’d seen in his dream.
A dream. Just another useless dream.
He took a deep breath. And another. Closed his eyes and worked to slow his racing pulse. The dream had come, just as it always did. And as always, he had trouble separating it from reality. In this one he’d seen his mother—again—looking for him. Only, when she saw what he’d become, what he’d done, a horrified expression had crossed her delicate features and she’d turned her back and fled.
Not reality. Just a dream. Just a stupid, stupid dream…
Feeling steadier, he opened his eyes and glanced around. As his pulse settled and his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized this dream must have been a doozy. The bread that had made up the dinner he hadn’t eaten was strewn across the floor, most of it smashed. The plate was broken into at least three pieces and his water was nothing more than a damp circle on the hard, cold wood.
Strange.
With a shrug he shook off the thought and lay back down. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but it must have been hours, judging by the light. Outside and down below, he could hear Atalanta back at work after the dinner break, training her daemons. Luckily, she’d left him alone to sleep, obviously too disgusted with his humanity to look at him. The clash of weapons, cries of defeat and Atalanta’s bellowing rage rang up through the air to pound at his brain.
He tossed his forearm over his eyes and tried to block out the sounds. Shivering, he wished for his blanket, though he knew how useless it was to wish for anything here. He wasn’t getting that back tonight, so he’d just have to get used to it and suffer.
To keep from thinking about the cold, he rolled to his side, drew his knees to his chest and pictured his mother’s face again. He breathed deep. If he focused hard enough, he was almost sure he could feel the warmth of the glass in his hands earlier.
The glass.
He sat bolt upright, very much awake now, his heart racing once more. Only this time it wasn’t a dream that haunted him, it was reality.
He jumped to his feet, dropped back to his knees, searched every inch of his pallet for the glass, only to come up empty. His hands shook, and tears blurred his eyes. Why hadn’t he hidden it again before falling asleep? Stupid, stupid Max! Where was it?
His hands rushed over the pallet again and again, more frantic with each pass as he searched, but when his fingers finally caught something small and round and metal, he froze.
He lifted the coin into the moonlight so he could see it. Then went cold all over as he stared at the letter A stamped into the gold.
Atalanta’s coin. Her marker. She’d been in his room. She’d seen him with the glass. And now it was gone. The ruined food, the spilled water, the broken plate…it all made sense now.
He was on his feet before he could stop himself, fueled by some building rage he’d never experienced. He backtracked down the ladder, hit the fourth floor and raced down the back stairs toward the kitchen, his temper and anger growing with each step he took.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
He ignored the kitchen workers and their growls of warning as he raced through the room. A blast of frigid air hit his face when he thrust the kitchen door open, but he ignored that too. Out across the training field he caught sight of the group of daemons huddled around Atalanta and one of her minions.
“Weak!” Atalanta bellowed. “If I wanted spineless maggots in my army, I’d replace the daemons with humans. Put your back into it!”
Max’s feet moved with their own purpose. His vision blurred and darkened. Before he knew it he was pushing his way through the crowd and stopping in the center of the ring.
Atalanta caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. The daemon she was fighting—Phobi?—took the opportunity to get the upper hand. But she was quicker than he was and a thousand times more deadly.
Her sword arced out just before Phobi struck, and with a scream that echoed through the frigid night air, his head flew from his body and thumped hard across the frozen ground. His body fell seconds later.
It was a sight Max had witnessed a hundred times before, and every other time a part of him had cried. Death was death, no matter the creature. But this time, he didn’t even care. All he saw in his line of sight was Atalanta and his last breaking point.
“Maximus,” she said as she wiped the dripping blade against her bloodred skirt. “How nice of you to join us.”