“Now that’s the reaction I usually get,” she said with a grin.
A Fate. Before she even leveled those white irises on him, he realized she was Lachesis, the Fate who spins the thread of life. And though he tried to contain it, he just couldn’t stop the anger and rage from spilling over. “You’re here now? I could have used you five fucking months ago. Not now.”
Her features softened. She floated toward the end of the dock and stopped. Not, he noticed, close enough for him to touch her. Or grab her. Or drown her for abandoning him when he needed her most.
“The choices were not yours to make in the Underworld,” she said. “Hence I would have been of no use to you there. Now is when you need guidance, Guardian.”
Fuck guidance. He needed a lobotomy so he could forget the hell of the Underworld. So he could stop hearing that damn voice. He leveled his steely gaze on her. “I don’t need you or any of the gods. Go screw over someone else’s life.”
He turned for the shore, vibrating with a fury that came from the core of him. A fury—an emotion—he realized he hadn’t felt before Maelea came into his life. But the Fate appeared in front of him before he could step off the dock. And the depths of her white irises stilled his feet. “Choice was taken away from you, Guardian, and it was wrong, but you endured. You will endure now because you are strong. Maelea is more important than you know. Keep her safe.”
Wariness crept in. “What’s so important about Maelea? She herself said no one wants her.”
Mystery swam in the glow of the Fate’s blinding eyes. “I cannot answer that. But I can tell you this. There is a reason you are together now. A reason you were sent to the Underworld. A reason that will someday make sense to you.”
She faded before he could ask what the hell she was smoking.
Shaking his head at her vague advice, he headed for the road. Gravel crunched under the soles of his boots. Like he needed more voices telling him what to do? And what the hell was she telling him anyway? To be nice to Maelea? The princess of the fucking Underworld? Screw that.
He reached the road, his temper bubbling with each step. Where had the Fate been when he was being tortured in the Underworld? Where were the rest of the Argonauts? Orpheus was the only one who’d cared to come after him, and then only because he’d felt guilty. And Maelea? Too fucking bad if she was an innocent victim in all of this. So the hell was he.
A roar sounded from the direction of the motel. He narrowed his eyes to see through the darkness. And spotted two, three…no, four daemons rounding the corner of the building.
His adrenaline surged. He grasped the knife he’d strapped to his thigh before heading to the lake. That was exactly what he needed. A knock-down, drag-out, shit-kicking fight to remind him he was alive. That he wasn’t in hell anymore. That the only hell around him now was the result of one vindictive brunette locked in his motel room.
Maelea…
He’d left her chained to the bed. Without a weapon. While he’d walked away to clear his head. Panic closed in and choked the air in his lungs. Glass shattered across the parking lot. A scream ripped through the darkness.
Fear pushed Gryphon’s legs forward. His lungs burned as he raced across the pavement to reach her in time. He didn’t bother with the doorknob, just threw his shoulder against the wood and crashed into the motel room, tearing the door from the frame, sending splintered wood flying across the ground.
One daemon had already come through the broken window. Another was on its heels. Maelea stood on the bed, throwing lamps and pillows and anything she could reach at the monsters with her free hand.
He hurled himself in front of her, arced out with the blade, caught the first daemon across the chest. Blood streamed. The daemon roared. His claws connected with Gryphon’s shoulder, knocking him back into Maelea. She screamed, jumped back as far as her cuffed arm would let her go. Gryphon’s head cracked against the headboard, but he slashed out again with his knife, this time connecting with the daemon’s thigh, slicing right into its femoral artery.
The daemon screamed a deafening sound, dropped to its knee. Blood gushed over the bed and floor. The second daemon knocked the first out of the way and charged. At the window, three more were scrambling to get into the room.
They were outnumbered and about to be overrun. And he had no idea where he’d left his sword.
He swung out, but the charging daemon plowed into him, knocked him off the mattress and into the wall. His shoulder and head hit with a crack. Pain raced along his limbs. He kicked out, swung with the puny knife in his hand. Caught the daemon across the neck. Blood spurted. The daemon howled and staggered back. Gryphon tried to push up to his feet, but a vibration knocked him back into the wall. One that seemed to come from the ground and made the other daemons in the room stumble, grab on to whatever piece of furniture was close, and steady themselves.