When Xiamara faced her, Apollymi felt the blood drain from her cheeks. "What aren't you telling me?"
Xiamara sniffed back her tears before she placed her hand on Apollymi's shoulder and transferred the images Apostolos had given her. Disbelief and horror racked her as Apollymi saw what had been done to her child.
Those emotions gave way to a fury so profound, all she could do was scream. The sound of it echoed through the Palace of the Dead all of the way up to Katoteros where the rest of the gods made their home.
All activity stopped as the other Atlantean gods heard the sound of utmost heartache.
One by one, they turned to face Archon whose features blanched.
"Is she free?" Epithymia, the goddess of desire, asked.
Archon shook his head. "She'd be here already if she were free. No. Something else has happened. For now, we're safe." At least he hoped so . . .
Apollymi staggered away from Xiamara as image after image branded itself into her mind. What the humans had done to her son . . .
"I will kill them all," she growled through clenched teeth. "Everyone who laid a hand to him will die in flames, begging for my mercy and I will have none for them. None!" She looked up at Xiamara. "And Archon will know the full weight of my wrath. There is nothing inside me for him now."
Xiamara tucked her black wings around herself. "But Apostolos refuses to accept what's his. He refuses me."
"Go to him anyway, Xi. Comfort him and help him understand what he has to do. Tell him that when he comes to me all will be made right."
"I will try, akra."
Acheron lay in the darkness of his room, trying to breathe as he shook from the pain of his overwhelmed senses. Suddenly, he heard a soft, gentle voice in his head that drowned it all out. It was truly the most beautiful sound he'd ever known.
His breathing eased along with the fading pain.
"I am with you now, Apostolos."
"Who are you?"
"That is the voice of your mother."
He squinted in the dark to see the demon kneeling beside him. He curled into a ball, away from her. "I have no mother. She cast me aside when I was born."
"Ni, akri," the demon said softly. "I was the one who took you from your mother's arms while she wept in fear for you. Your mother, Apollymi, hid you in the human realm to protect you from the gods who wanted you dead. I swear to you on my life. Neither of us ever meant for you to be harmed. You were supposed to be raised as a prince. Pampered. Beloved. None of this should have happened to you."
He found that impossible to believe. "I don't understand. Why do the gods want me dead?"
"It was prophesied that you would be the end of the Atlantean gods. But you have to understand how much your mother loves you. She risked her life and defied the other gods to save you and keep you hidden until you were old enough to use your powers to fight them. Even now she sits imprisoned, wanting you to come to her. Free her, Apostolos and she will make right every wrong ever done to you."
"Make it right how?"
"She will destroy everyone who ever harmed you." The demon stroked his hair like the mother she described. "You are the most loved of any child ever born. Every day I have sat with your mother while she wept for your loss and ached to have you with her. Come home with me, Apostolos. Meet your mother."
He wanted to. And yet . . . "How do I know I can trust you?"
"Why would I lie?"
Everyone lied, especially to him. "For any number of reasons."
Xiamara. They come. Leave him quickly!
The demon shrank back from his bed. "The gods can't find me with you or they'll know who and where you are. Listen to your mother's voice and I'll return as soon as I can. Stay hidden, precious one." She vanished instantly.
Acheron lay alone, listening to the voices that tangled inside him. He heard laughter and tears, curses and screams.
Until his mother's voice soothed him again. He focused on that single tone and closed his eyes as it drove away all the other voices that made his head throb.
Had the demon been telling the truth? Dare he believe for one moment that he was the beloved son of anyone?
Surely it was preposterous.
He cupped the necklace in his hand and studied it. Some kind of stone, it appeared milky and iridescent. Then he glanced to where his slave's mark had been branded into his palm.
It was gone now without a single trace. How could this be?
I'm a god who was a slave . . .
Not just any slave. The lowest of all.
Acheron covered his eyes with his hand as shame overwhelmed him. And as he lay there, images tore through him . . . he saw the past, the present and the future through the experiences of thousands of people. He could hear their hopes and fears. Hear the very essence of the universe.