Bound. Forever. To any Argonaut who wasn’t him.
“Demetrius! Dammit.” Gryphon sighed at his back before he reached the exit. “What in Hades crawled up his ass and died?”
“I don’t know,” Phineus said. “I’ve been wondering that for over a hundred years. You ever figure it out, you let me know.”
She felt as if she weighed a thousand pounds.
Isadora tried to get up but couldn’t. Her arms and legs were heavy, her mind nothing but a thick, murky fog.
She shifted her head, groaned when pain stabbed her skull. Faintly, she thought she smelled basil burning. And…clove.
Peeling back her eyelids, she looked through hazy vision that seemed to come and go. She was in some sort of dark room. The air was cold, and light flickered over the walls as if from a candle.
Her father often used candles to light corridors in the ancient castle of Tiyrns, but something in her gut said this wasn’t any room in the royal castle that was her home. At least not one she’d ever been in.
Apprehension churned in her stomach. To her left, a soft voice murmured, “Are you sure this is safe?”
Isadora recognized the voice. She blinked several times and peered up at a woman dressed all in black. A hood shielded her face, and she stood with both hands extended and hovering above Isadora’s abdomen.
“Perfectly. She won’t be harmed. Much.”
“I don’t know,” the first voice whispered.
The hooded figure reached for something behind her. When her hand returned, it glistened with moisture. She touched Isadora’s forehead, the spot between her breasts, and then, lightly, she traced lines over Isadora’s bare belly.
Gooseflesh prickled Isadora’s skin. Her mind was like a worn gear caught in a wheel, trying to catch, over and over, yet slipping each and every time.
“Demeter,” the female chanted, “goddess of fertility. Come to us so that she may bear thy fruit.”
Bear fruit? Isadora went cold all over as her mind stopped its frantic search for answers and she focused in on the female above her. Tiny tendrils of fear slithered down her spine.
“She’s awake,” the familiar voice said. Though pain raked her skull, Isadora shifted, looked that direction. She knew that voice. Strained to make the connection she was sure was on the tip of her mind. Then froze when she realized who it was.
Saphira. Her handmaiden. Her trusted confidante. The one female who knew her better than any other.
Saphira didn’t meet her gaze, but thoughts, memories, images swirled in Isadora’s hazy mind as she stared at the female she considered a friend: Sitting at her vanity on the day of her binding ceremony to Zander, peering into the mirror, seeing the first glimpse of the future she’d had in several weeks. Realizing she was trapped, that if she didn’t get away, there was no way the vision she’d just witnessed wouldn’t come true. And Saphira. Coming to her rescue. Kneeling at her feet. Bringing Isadora tea and claiming she had a way out of the entire mess.
Isadora struggled again, glanced up when she discovered her arms were tied to some kind of bar. Frantic, she tried to lift her head again and this time succeeded, only to peer down the length of her body and learn she was bare but for a sheet low across her hips. Red lines marred her skin, fanned outward from her belly button. Lines that looked like they were drawn in blood.
Oh, gods…
A scream bubbled up Isadora’s throat, but the sound came out muffled and ragged. Belatedly she realized a gag was stuffed in her mouth, tied behind her head. Terror clawed its way up her chest.
“She’ll hurt herself,” Saphira said as Isadora thrashed again.
“No, she won’t.”
Isadora’s eyes shot to the woman in the black cloak, and anger welled inside her as the female lowered her hood.
Isadora had met her before, she was sure of it. Spiky red hair, sharp green eyes. Isadora squinted, tried to see through the haze, but still couldn’t make the connection she knew was right there.
“Yes,” the female breathed, leaning closer, her gaze coming to rest on Isadora’s face. “We have met, Princess. Patience. It will come to you if you let it.”
“Isis,” Saphira warned.
Like a light bulb flicking on, the face and the name converged. This female was a witch. She and her consorts manned the secret portals in the Aegis Mountains Isadora had used to cross into the human realm unseen. And the lines on Isadora’s stomach…Her eyes shot down her body again. Now she recognized the shape. The lines of blood were drawn into the shape of a pentagram.
No. No. Gods, no…
Isadora arched her back, tried to kick and claw herself free, fought with everything she had in her. But the bonds holding her were too tight, the slab of granite beneath her body unforgiving and cold as ice.
“Shh, paidi,” Isis said, rubbing a hand over Isadora’s forehead. “We wouldn’t want you to expend all your energy just yet. You’re going to need it for what lies ahead.”
Isis moved away, came back with a small black dagger. Isadora’s eyes grew wide all over again as she looked up at the double-edged blade, at the twin curves of silver metal that made up the guard—one up, one down—at the gleaming black handle, at the ball at the end that formed the shape of the pentagram. When she recognized the sun symbols of Medea running up and down that handle, her vision blurred.
An athamé. The ceremonial dagger used by Medean witches to direct energy when invoking a spell. Holy skata.
Saphira moved around the table, sprinkling something on the floor. The scent of roses drifted to Isadora’s nose. Isis passed the dagger through the smoke of burning herbs, then through the flame of a black candle. From her pocket she produced a handful of brown granules—dirt?—and sprinkled them over the dagger and Isadora’s belly. Finally, Isis dipped her hand in a bowl and flicked liquid over the blade and Isadora.
Fear rendered Isadora immobile; the bonds held her tight. All she could do was watch as Isis held the dagger over her belly and chanted, “Child of earth, of wind, of fire and sea. Into our lives, we welcome thee. As I will it, so mote it be.”
A fertility spell. They were casting a fertility spell?
“Are you sure this will work?” Saphira asked.
“Have faith,” Isis replied.
“I do. It’s just…” Saphira wrung her hands. “Is this the only way? I mean…” Her voice lowered. She refused to look Isadora in the eye. “The dark one…he’ll hurt her.”
“Atalanta knows what she’s doing.”
Atalanta? Dread welled in the bottom of Isadora’s chest.
“You know she is our chance for freedom,” Isis said before Saphira could answer. “If our powers are to grow and we are to be free of this prison as we so desire, we cannot afford to let this deal with Atalanta slip by.”
Deal with Atalanta. None of that sounded good to Isadora. She struggled against her bonds again.
Saphira grimaced, nodded.
A wicked smile spread across Isis’s face. “Trust me, Saphira. She will enjoy what is to come. Before this is over we will all get what we want.”
“But, Isis…” Saphira’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You know she’s of the royal family. That she’s untouched. That she is a—”
Isis held up a hand. Saphira closed her mouth. She didn’t argue again even when Isadora screamed, “Fight for me!” from beneath the gag.
Isis set the dagger on the table behind her and returned with a flaming black candle, which she held over Isadora’s stomach. Isadora’s eyes jumped from Saphira to the witch now swirling the candle over her abdomen. “The circle is cast and we are now between worlds. Beyond the bounds of time, where night and day, birth and death, joy and sorrow meet as one. It is in this place we invoke the tantric powers of Hecate.”