The older ándras glanced out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. “Fed, but not nourished. Mark my words, boy. They will run this kingdom into the ground if they can. You are the only one who’s strong enough to stop them.”
He looked back at Theron, and whatever regret had shown in his eyes earlier was long gone. “I know you’re not thrilled with the prospect of marrying my Isadora.” When Theron opened his mouth to protest, Leonidas held up his knobby hand to stop him. “No, now let’s not mince words. There are too many things I must tell you tonight, and I fear our time is coming to a close. Know this though, Theron. The sacrifices you make now and in the future are done for a reason. We may not see them at the time they are offered, but they are there nonetheless. You and I, we are both of Heracles’s line, and therefore honor and duty rule us. Remember your blood when all is said and done. Remember the vows you took when you were inducted into the Argonauts.”
Wariness crept over Theron as he listened to the king. There was something on the older ándras’s mind. Something more than the regrets of a long life and worry over his failing health.
The king took one last swig of whiskey, capped the bottle and handed it back to Theron. “You were absent these past few days. I take it you ran into trouble.”
Theron replaced the bottle in his inner jacket pocket. “Four daemons converged just as I located Isadora.”
The king nodded. “You sent her back here and dealt with them on your own. Your bravery is commendable. Four against one. Those are insurmountable odds, even for you.”
Theron thought briefly of his knight in shining armor and the way she’d taken care of him in the aftermath. Strength, he knew, often came in unforeseeable packages, but he hadn’t expected it of the human woman he’d stumbled across. “Not quite insurmountable.”
The king eyed him a moment, then pushed himself out of his chair and hobbled toward the windows. Late-afternoon sunlight splashed over his wrinkled features and the weariness was evident in his withering body. “You are holding back. What’s troubling you, Theron?”
Theron shifted his weight in his seat. Among the king’s greatest powers was his ability to sense emotions in others. Some said he could read minds, but Theron had never known that to be the case. Leonidas did, however, have the ability to draw whatever you were thinking right out of your head, and in this case, though the king knew Theron didn’t love Isadora, he didn’t want the older ándras to know his thoughts kept running back to a human he had no right thinking about.
“The daemons’ powers continue to grow,” Theron said, hoping to distract the king. “Though the Argonauts have been successful in eliminating a large number of their army over the last few years, we aren’t making the dent we should be.”
The king showed no reaction, only continued to stare out at the city and the first twinkle of lights from houses far below. “That isn’t what truly troubles you, though, is it?”
Theron thought back to the night he’d sent Isadora home. To the fact that the daemons hadn’t killed Casey when they so easily could have. He chose his words carefully. “They’re not hunting humans. The few we find dead seem more like random accidents than intentional murders.”
“No,” the king said without turning. “There’s no benefit to them to kill humans outright. Not unless they kill the right one.”
Theron’s brow wrinkled at the strange comment, and while he waited for the king to go on, his spine tingled.
The king finally turned his way. “You know the story of Atalanta, Theron.”
Yes, every Argonaut knew the story of Atalanta, who’d traded her soul for dominion over the daemons after Zeus refused to appoint her as one of the original seven Eternal Guardians. Even millennia later, she was still seeking revenge. Her goal was twofold: kill the Argonauts guarding the portal between Argolea and the human realm, and at the same time build her army of daemons.
“Each Argolean soul she sends to Hades makes her and her army that much stronger,” Leonidas continued. “And that includes the souls of the half-breeds they kill as well.”
“Half-breeds?” Theron asked. “I thought they were a myth.”
“And humans think we’re a myth. Half-breeds do indeed exist, though they are rare,” Leonidas said with a sigh.
Theron thought back to the marking he’d seen on Casey’s lower back—the Greek omega surrounded by wings. He’d convinced himself it was nothing more than a human tattoo. All Argoleans had the alpha marking—a brand from the gods themselves that signified the beginning of their race—but this was different.
The king gave him a searching look and nodded. “I can see your mind working, my son. If there’s no benefit for daemons to kill humans, and they aren’t intentionally hunting humans, what are they after? What are you and the Argonauts really protecting? The answer to both of those questions is simple: the key to the prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” Theron asked cautiously.