"Acheron most definitely cares. If he didn't, I wouldn't be here now, and all of you would be dead already. He doesn't need me to kill them. He can do it without breaking a sweat. Believe me, I gain no personal pleasure in the killing either. Likewise, I'm ambivalent as to who survives and who doesn't. This isn't a game to me. Nor is it the end of the world."
She swallowed against the painful lump in her throat that had appeared at the thought of her friends dying. "They are all worth saving. All of them. You have no idea how hard it is to be one of us. We are created and then abandoned. Some of us go decades, even longer, without a single word from Acheron. None of us ever see Artemis again—"
He snorted evilly, interrupting her. "Count your blessings there."
She paused at his rancor as Stryker's words about Artemis's death came back to her. "Artemis is still alive?"
"Oh, yeah. Believe me, she's alive and well and in Acheron's face daily."
For some reason, that made her feel better—provided Alexion wasn't lying. "Then she does care about us."
"No," he said bitterly. "She cares about Acheron. The rest of you are here so that she can control him. It's why she continues to create new DarkHunters to replace those who go free. The day Acheron stops caring about the lot of you is the day Artemis will turn her back on you and most likely you'll all drop. So don't ever tell me that Acheron doesn't give a damn about you, when I see the toll the lot of you take on him every day."
His words hung in her mind. Could it be true?
Knowing Ash, it seemed a lot more plausible than him being a Daimon.
Well, sort of. But then again the Daimon theory was remarkably sound too.
If only she knew who to trust.
Alexion moved to stand just before her, so close that she could feel his breath falling against her cheek. "You have a decision to make, Danger. Are you going to help me save a few DarkHunters or do I kill them all now and go home?"
Chapter 6
Stryker sat in the dark library of his home in Kalosis—the Atlantean hell realm—with his second-in-command standing before his immaculate ebony desk, watching him. The surface of the desk was so shiny that it reflected the candlelight with an eerie glow that danced around them.
Sadness settled heavily in his heart as he remembered a time when it would have been his son, Urian, who was plotting with him this night.
Urian. The mere thought of his once beloved son was enough to cripple him. Urian's loss still ate away inside him like a festering disease that nothing could cure.
And it was all because of Acheron that he had killed his beloved son. His heir. His heart. There was nothing left inside him now except hatred and a need for vengeance so profound that it made a mockery of the betrayals that caused humans to become DarkHunters.
He wanted Urian back. Nothing could appease the emptiness that his son's death had left. Nothing could quell the vivid memory of the hurt and betrayed look in Urian's eyes the instant Stryker had cut his throat.
Stryker ground his teeth as grief tore through him anew. How he wished he could take back that moment.
But it was done and he couldn't live until he had made sure that Acheron knew this pain firsthand. That Acheron suffered out his eternity in bitter anguish. Something that was made more difficult by his need to make it all happen beneath Apollymi's radar.
When you served a goddess, it was difficult to find time for personal revenge that she'd probably disapprove of. But Stryker would be unstoppable until everyone Acheron held dear lay permanently dead in their graves. Already he had caused the death of Nick Gautier and his mother, Cherise.
There were only three others who meant anything to the Atlantean prince. The Charonte demon, Simi, who would be virtually impossible to kill—but then, where there was a will, there was always a way. The human child, Marissa Hunter, and Alexion.
He'd almost succeeded in capturing Marissa a few months back in New Orleans. Unfortunately, his attempt had failed, and for the time being Acheron's guard was up where the child was concerned. Yet there would come a time when his guard would relax.
Then the child would be vulnerable again.
But when it came to Alexion…
Acheron thought his right hand could take care of himself. That pomposity was what would be both their undoing.
"Acheron a Daimon." Trates laughed as he picked up the sfora that Stryker used so that he could watch those in the human realm.
The blond man before him, like all Daimons, was well over six feet tall, incredibly good-looking, and in the height of his youth. It was the curse of their ancient Apollite race that no one could live past their twenty-seventh birthday.
At the hour that marked their birth, they began to slowly, painfully disintegrate into dust. The only way to avoid that fate was to begin feeding on human souls. Whenever an Apollite decided to feed on souls rather than to die, he was termed a Daimon and cast out of the Apollite mainstream. Most Apollites feared Daimons as much as humans did, though he'd never understood why.
Very few Daimons ever preyed on their own.