She rose. “And ruin the mystery? Where’s the fun in that?”
She was toying with him. He didn’t know why, but the knowledge eased the tension inside him. “You’re not Argolean.” He tapped into his senses, this time focusing on her. On what he’d ignored before, because he’d been too distracted by his target to pay attention to her. “And you’re not a god. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but—”
“What in Hades…?”
She was staring at the ancient Greek text on his arms. The text marking him as a guardian of his race.
Damn it. When he’d lost his shirt in the shifting process, he’d forgotten all about the Argonaut markings. Markings he didn’t want and couldn’t wait to get rid of. Markings he’d inherited after his brother’s death.
Her eyes darted back to his face, and confusion—maybe even a little horror—slithered into their amethyst depths. “You’re an Argonaut? But I saw you shift. I saw you turn into that…that thing.” She shook her head. “Daemons can’t be Argonauts. They can’t be chosen. It goes against every law ever established. It goes against the natural order.”
She was definitely otherworldly, but he still didn’t know from where. And if she knew what he was, why wasn’t she slicing and dicing him like the others right this minute? When she jerked her arm out of his grasp, he didn’t try to stop her. ’Cause, yeah, this whole fucked-up situation went against his order too.
Damn you, Gryphon. And damn the gods for marking him in Gryphon’s place. There was only one thing he wanted now. One thing that would grant him vengeance against the sonofabitch god who’d cursed him to begin with.
He stepped back, perched his hands on his hips, breathed deep so he’d stay calm and not shift again. But it wasn’t easy. Because the fire in her eyes told him his night was far from over.
“Screw whatever it is you want to know about me,” she said. “What I want to know is…who the hell are you?”
***
The agonizing cry of pain that echoed in his ears was his own, even though his lips didn’t move.
In his mind, Gryphon kicked out at the vulture attacking his right leg, but his body didn’t answer the command. It never did, even though he wished and willed and prayed for just an ounce of movement. Frozen in place, he breathed deep through the pain and closed his eyes—the only part of his body he could move—blocking out the vultures and the view he’d looked out at for the last three months: jagged black rocks that made up the ground and mountains. Red-gray clouds above that swirled and boiled but never let loose the cleansing rain he sought. A canyon mere feet in front of him that dropped to a gurgling lava river, and a hot acrid wind that blew across the barren land, the heat so intense it seared what hair he had left on his skin, dried his eyes, and made him wish for annihilation.
But annihilation wouldn’t come, just as moving even one limb was a pipe dream he should stop fantasizing about. This depraved land was his eternity. Tartarus. Hell in all its glory. And though today’s torment would soon be over, he knew another would take its place tomorrow. When he awoke in the morning whole and healthy, just as he did every morning, only to be subjected to another round of torture more agonizing than the last.
Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Tears that would never fall. He turned his mind from the pain rippling through his body and imagined home.
Argolea.
The blessed realm of the heroes. Where his ancestors had dwelt. Where his Argonaut kin remained. Where his brother lived, whole and healthy and alive.
He felt himself flying, could see the entirety of his homeland as he looked down. The blue-green Olympian Ocean with its white sand beaches, the emerald green fields, the majestic snowcapped Aegis Mountains and the city of Tiyrns, gleaming white marble in the setting sun. He wondered if the Argonauts were in the castle or out on patrol. If Orpheus was with them as he should be. If his brother wondered where he was now. Did Orpheus care that Gryphon had been sentenced to Tartarus even though he’d never done anything to deserve it?
That’s a bloody lie.
“No. It’s the truth.”
You’ve killed more than your fair share. The blood of innocents stains your soul.
“If I killed, it was done out of duty.”
Ha! There is no duty in death. Only misery. Which you now well know.
The voice mocked him. He hated the voice. Fought against it. And yet it was the only constant in this ever-changing hell. “I am an Argonaut. I did what was asked of me.”
Not anymore. You’re nothing. You’re dinner. Look at you. You can’t even move.
“I served. I saved—”
You’re pathetic. Whom did you save? You can’t even save yourself.
“I—”
Go ahead. I dare you. Save yourself, stupid. I’d like to see it.