Isadora twisted her hands in her lap to give her time to think of an answer, pushed her long hair over her shoulder and wished for scissors so she could cut the heavy mass. Tradition forbade it though. Females of the royal family were to remain untouched until matrimony. In every sense of the word.
And wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? Not to mention, one of the many things she planned to change about the monarchy as soon as she was queen.
If, that is, she lived long enough to assume her crown.
“Of course not,” she said under Callia’s ruthless stare. “I’ve told you everything.”
Callia’s expression remained stoic. Her pale violet eyes narrowed. It was obvious she knew Isadora was lying, but the healer wasn’t willing to challenge her.
At least not yet.
One check in the plus column.
Only problem was, it didn’t do much to boost Isadora’s mood. It was foolish to feel inferior, considering she was destined to command more power than any other Argolean, but at that moment, in front of this gynaíka, Isadora felt like a speck on the floor beneath a dirty boot. As a healer, Callia had powers most Argoleans only dreamed of, and Isadora’s father loved to rave about the brains beneath Callia’s startling beauty. To the extent that Isadora was often of the opinion he’d rather have Callia for a daughter than the one fate had saddled him with.
Her father’s greatest disappointment was that in the almost seven hundred years of his life, his only heir had been female. Female and weak.
Callia finally broke the stare-down and finished gathering her things. Her long auburn hair spilled down her back as she moved. She wore slim, tailored slacks and a fitted blue jacket that looked stylish and bold. As most Argoleans were at least half human, and fascinated with human culture as a whole, their dress and mannerisms often mimicked those from the human world. The exception was the royal family, and Isadora in particular. Sheltered. Cloistered. Forbidden from crossing the portal or even looking through to the other side. All in the name of tradition and of upholding that which had been established over three thousand years ago.
Callia represented everything Isadora wanted to be. She was the consummate professional with enough sex appeal charging the air around her to light an entire village. And confident without fault. Another reason—among many—Isadora wasn’t fond of her.
“I’m going to return to the clinic and research your symptoms in more depth.” Callia lifted the bag from the side of Isadora’s bed. “Then I’m going to speak with your father.”
“You don’t need to burden him with my situation,” Isadora said quickly.
“He’s still king. And I greatly suspect the health of his heir is of monumental concern to him.”
Right. His heir. Not his daughter. Not because he cared or anything.
Isadora didn’t bother to answer. What could she say anyway?
Callia swept out of the bedroom suite as gracefully as she’d entered. From beyond the double oak doors, a trio of mumbled voices drifted into the room. Callia’s, Isadora’s handmaiden Saphira’s, and the unmistakable sounds of a male voice.
Isadora tensed.
For two days she’d been wondering what had happened to Theron. She remembered his coming for her in the human strip club and carrying her outside. But everything after that was a blur. She’d awoken in the castle. In this same four-poster monstrosity that could sleep six comfortably and threatened to swallow her whole each day of her pathetic life beneath the heavy brocade covers she hated, with the morning light from Tiyrns—a city she only saw from her veranda—shining in the cathedral windows across her room.
No one had heard from him. When she’d inquired, her father’s nurse said simply that the king had relayed a message to Isadora stating that Theron was attending to Argonaut business.
Which meant none-of-her-business business.
But Isadora knew that wasn’t true. Theron had gone looking for her because she’d run off. And something had happened to him.
Heavy footsteps crossed the sitting-room floor outside her door, followed by the loud rap of knuckles against wood and Saphira’s strained voice, urging the visitor to leave and let the princess sleep.
Isadora swallowed and pulled the covers up to her chest. She hated feeling weak and timid in front of the Argonauts, especially in front of Theron, because he was so big and strong and…robust. Hated, even more, being stuck in this blasted bed and looking like the weakling she really was inside.
“Y-Yes?” she managed in what even she knew was a pathetic voice.
Great commanding presence for the future Queen of Argolea to present to her loyal subjects, Isa.
She cleared her throat.
“My lady,” Saphira said from the other room. “The Argonaut Demetrius is here to see you. Are you receiving?”
Demetrius? Here? Now?
Of all the Argonauts, Demetrius hated her the most, more so even than the rest of the Argonauts put together, though she didn’t know why. And that was saying a lot, considering the Argonauts had a real chip on their shoulders about anything dealing with politics. All of them except Theron. He was the only one who never seemed put out about having to set foot on royal ground when summoned.
“My lady?”
The hair on the back of Isadora’s neck stood up straight as she thought of Theron again. What if Demetrius had come here to relay bad news?
Oh, gods. This couldn’t be good.
“C-Come in.”
Both heavy doors swung open as if they weighed nothing. And the guardian who stepped through the opening was as startling as the crash of wood hitting wall.
Demetrius was the biggest of the Argonauts, at just over six-seven and close to three hundred pounds of pure steel. His features seemed carved out of marble—square jaw, straight nose, striking dimple in his chin and deep-set mocha eyes. Short dark hair framed his face, and the body beneath the black leather duster and skin-tight black pants was as impenetrable as any castle keep. So were his thoughts. He had a don’t-mess-with-me air that permeated every room he stepped into, and never had Isadora seen him smile.
Sometimes she wondered if he even could.
“Your Highness,” Saphira said in a frantic voice, “I apologize. He wouldn’t be deterred. I told him you weren’t well enough for visitors today. But he—”
“It’s all right, Saphira.” Isadora pushed herself higher into the pillows. “I’ll see him.”
Don’t back down. Don’t look weak. Stand your ground.
Or lay on it, as the case may be.
Demetrius didn’t bow or nod or acknowledge the heir to the throne in any way, not that Isadora expected him to. The Argonauts were, collectively, the black sheep of the race. And Demetrius, even blacker.
Though they’d been chosen by Zeus and appointed as protectors of the race when it was established over three thousand years ago, few in the kingdom today understood or approved of their role. They saw the Argonauts as violent warriors given too much power by the king. Rogue individuals who spent most of their time in the human world hunting daemons, which were really no threat to their society.
Truth be told, up until last week, Isadora had feared the Argonauts like everyone else. She’d regarded them as dangerous rebels who reveled in their power and lived for the killing. She’d even found herself agreeing of late with the Council’s anti-Argonaut propaganda campaign, which preached that so long as the portal was protected, Argolea was safe and the Argonauts weren’t needed. Those who applied for permission from the Council to cross over into the human world to satisfy their curiosity did so at their own risk. Therefore, what was the big threat?