Soldiers—no, not soldiers, Zagreus’s hired satyr mercenaries—led him through the long, dark hallway toward his cell, illuminated every ten feet by torches attached to the rock walls. Water dripped down to form puddles where the floor was uneven. A cool chill spread through the corridor, being so far below ground, but Nick had gotten used to it over the last few months. What he would never get used to, though, were the moans, the screams, the crack of leather hitting flesh. The cries of ultimate misery and the hopeless despair that reverberated through the tunnels both night and day.
The dark energy he fought—energy he’d always thought had come from his mother, Atalanta, but now knew was straight-up evil delivered from his fucking father, Krónos, the most malicious of all the gods—rolled and churned inside, electrifying him, exciting and arousing him, even though disgust brewed in his stomach over what was being done to the other poor souls trapped in this living hell. He’d tried everything to tune the sounds out, but they were always there, taunting the darkness, calling to it, begging him to just let go.
He ground his teeth against it. Focused on the rocks below his bare feet, on the way the metal cuffs bit into his wrists, on moving forward one step at a time. He slowed when he reached the threshold to his cell, but the satyr behind shoved him hard, forcing him to stumble into the beast ahead.
“Keep moving.”
The satyr at his front turned and shoved him back. Weak from the fight and loss of blood, Nick staggered but caught himself before he went down. A stench rose up around him, one he blocked out. All satyrs smelled like death. Something else he hadn’t grown used to during his months of captivity.
They led him into the baths, and today he was thankful to find the cavern empty. He didn’t have the energy to scrap with some of the other inmates who were often brought here to bathe at the same time. The ones who were trying to hold on to some semblance of control by acting aggressive in front of the guards, hoping it would grant them a day or two of life. They didn’t realize that every person imprisoned here had a purpose, or that most lasted only a few days. And as soon as they gave in, Zagreus lost interest and they were truly dead.
Three large pools took up space in the center of the cavern. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. A bench had been carved out along the far right side, and fresh towels had been laid out in advance.
The satyr on the right tossed Nick a small plastic bag. “The prince wants you cleaned before we take you back to your cell. Do it quickly.”
As the satyrs turned away to stand guard at the door, Nick looked down at the package in his hands. Soap and a disposable plastic razor.
The razor had potential. His gaze skipped over the thick rock walls, then to the backs of the two satyrs he could see. Two he could take down with a weapon as simple as a razor blade. Three was pushing it. And if he succeeded, odds were good he’d be caught before he could figure out how the hell to get out of this maze of a prison.
Plus there was the harsh reality he’d lost a fair amount of blood in that last fight and was more tired than he wanted to admit. Now was not the time to plan his big escape. He stripped off what was left of his torn pants and stepped into the pool.
Cool water surrounded him, and he winced when it hit a cut on his leg and another on his shoulder, then sighed as the liquid cradled his sore body. He dunked beneath the surface and let the water rush over his face and swirl above his head, pulling the grime from his hair and beard. No, he didn’t have a clue what Zagreus had planned next, but he was thankful for the chance to rid himself of the filth and stench and blood of those satyrs. If only until the next unfair battle.
He came back up, flicked the wet hair out of his eyes, and opened the small bag. After washing his shaggy hair and the rangy beard, he scrubbed the soap all over his skin, then rinsed, feeling more human with every passing second. When he was clean, he glanced toward the razor sitting on the side of the pool and frowned because he knew that thing was gonna hurt like hell tugging through all the hair on his jaw. He considered leaving his damn face just the way it was, then thought better of it. If the satyrs had given him a razor, it meant either he was shaving himself or they were. And he didn’t want those fuckers anywhere near him.
He did his best without a mirror and scissors, wincing every time he nicked himself. After rinsing, he climbed out of the pool, reached for a towel, then hesitated with his hand on the soft cotton as his gaze caught on the cuffs around his wrists and the markings on his forearm. Markings that made him think of his soul mate.
He wondered where she was and what she was doing. Whether or not her newborn child had survived the daemon attack at the half-breed colony. If his brother, Demetrius, his twin and—thanks to the fucking gods—also her soul mate, was taking care of her right this minute or out running useless missions with his Argonauts.
If she ever thought of the sacrifice Nick had made for her.