Tears filled her eyes. “We all make mistakes, Urian. Can you imagine what an incredible world this would be if we didn’t have to spend the rest of our lives paying for them?”
Those words bit to the core of his soul and struck the mark she wanted them to. “Welcome to adulthood, princess. The time in our lives when we no longer have parents to scare the monsters out from under our beds. Rather, we realize that we’re the monsters who live under everyone else’s.”
June 1, AD 780
“Xyn!” Urian was nearly hysterical as he searched for his dragon.
There was no sign of her. He’d waited all night at their rendezvous, and she’d never shown. So he’d done what he wasn’t supposed to …
Come to her bower.
By the looks of it, she hadn’t been here in a long, long time. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Even the bed. And that wasn’t like her. She was a meticulous housekeeper.
This time, there were no notes. No gifts.
Nothing.
She was gone without a trace.
Without a word.
It was as if she’d never existed.
Tears blurred his vision. Sarraxyn wouldn’t do this to him. She wouldn’t.
Of all the creatures in the universe, she knew how much he needed her. That she was the one thing he relied on. His only tenderness. And if she wasn’t here and this place was in this condition, it could mean only one thing.
She was dead.
His knees buckled. Urian hit the floor as he choked on a sob. Of all the deaths, and there had been so many in his lifetime, this one was the hardest to bear. He pressed his fist to his mouth and sank his fangs into it. How could she be gone?
In that moment, he wanted to join her. Truly, he couldn’t think of a single reason not to. What was he fighting for at this point?
They had no hope of breaking this curse. Of seeing daylight. His father was a fool for even thinking it. Damned and cursed. Forever banished to darkness.
Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of the night he’d watched Geras die by the hands of a Dark-Hunter. The pain-filled look on his son’s face when he’d been unable to reach him in time. That panic and fear an instant before he’d shattered into dust.
Or Nephele, who’d gone too long without a soul.
She’d been sitting right beside him when she’d just burst apart. To this day, Urian didn’t know if she’d simply been inattentive to the signs that she needed to replenish, or if it’d been a form of suicide. If it had, she wasn’t the only Daimon to do so. It was so common, they even had a name for it—suntribó.
That moment when they just became too tired to continue. When the voices wore them down and the deaths of those around them were more than they could contend with.
When they felt just like he did right now. Life was too harsh and they just gave up.
Lifting his knees, Urian cradled his head with his arms and wept. Not for himself, but for those he loved. Gods, it hurt so much. So deep.
And he was so tired of it.
How could he hope now? The last bit of his kindness and goodness was gone.
Without her, he had nothing. He was nothing.
His body shaking, he stared with blurry vision at the dakruon that were tattooed along his hand and forearm in an intricate pattern. Black teardrops to mark the deaths of everyone he loved. There were so goddamn many.
Now there would be one more.
He drew a ragged breath as his gaze went to the phoenix on his shield. He bore that same mark on his biceps.
His totem animal. From this too, I will rise. Though he didn’t know how. He couldn’t imagine how. But he would. Xyn would be the first to kick his ass.
We are warriors.
And his dragon wouldn’t have given her heart to anything but the strongest of the strong. “You cannot break me,” he whispered. “I’m already shattered.”
October 3, AD 801
Spawn, Paris, and Davyn sat across from Urian as they watched the intriguing crowd around them. The Varangians in particular held their interest, as they were known to have some of the strongest souls of the bunch.
“I thought the Rus were supposed to rape and pillage,” Spawn muttered irritably as he watched them carouse and revel in friendly comradery.
Paris snorted. “You can always go Kassandrian. I won’t tell.” Kassandrians were the branch of Daimons who lacked all semblance of decency or ethics. They didn’t care who or what they preyed upon. Even children and pregnant women were fair game. And they were a pariah to all the rest of them.
Which meant Paris was joking.
No one could stand a Kassandrian. To prey on a pregnant woman or child was forbidden to them. They were exiled and turned out immediately. Much like a trelos. The only difference being that a trelos couldn’t control their behavior. A Kassandrian knew exactly what they were doing. They just didn’t care. Nothing mattered except their own petty selfishness.
Truly, they were disgusting creatures.
And because of the way they fed, they smelled bad, too.
Urian wore many hats in their world. As a warrior, he was considered a Spathi, and since he led groups into battle, he was a Rigas. Because they targeted primarily Dark-Hunters and the Squires who served them, that made him and his soldiers Dikisi Daimons.
But the two titles that would make anyone other than the three Daimons at the table with him scorn him if they knew were that of Anaimikos and Akelos. Akelos were Daimons who only preyed on human souls that were corrupt. The very kind that often led them into turning their species into trelos Daimons. And Anaimikos were those like Davyn who fed from Paris. Daimons who fed other Daimons. Those who didn’t kill at all. They split the souls with their partners.
It was actually very sweet what his brother had with Davyn. While Davyn couldn’t kill to eat, he would kill to protect Paris. Without hesitation and with extreme prejudice.
And speaking of which …
Urian didn’t mind killing to live. He felt his powers surge as the Apollites they were seeking came in.
The other line of Apollo. Two sons. One was already a Daimon, but the other was on their list.
He passed a knowing look to Spawn. “How are you?”
“I could stand a charge.”
“Then you can have the Daimon.”
As they started to rise, a Norseman approached them. “Leaving?”
Urian nodded.
The large, burly, dark-haired man grinned. “Hey, Wulf! Over here!”
Another huge Norseman inclined his head to Urian as he brushed past. “Enough, Erik Tryggvason! By the gods, you’re too loud, brother.”
Ignoring them, Urian headed after their prey.
October 7, 1988
Urian’s head pounded from the voices that screamed louder and louder. It drummed to the point that he felt as if he were about to go insane and turn mad. Standing on the edge of a rooftop, he pressed his fingertips to his temple, tempted to step over the edge and end his suffering.
Nights like this …
It’d be real easy.
Especially the way the frigid wind whipped through his sweater and long leather coat.
Blinking fast, he shook his head and forced himself to focus. With a sigh, he jumped down the fire escape and was about to case the building when all of a sudden he almost landed on top of one of his targets.
With a startled gasp, the woman looked up, shielding her face.
Well, this wasn’t supposed to happen …
Stunned, he wasn’t sure what to say or do as he stared into a pair of dark brown eyes set into a perfectly sculpted face. Her golden-blond hair was stylishly cut and framed her features in a way that made them appear strangely elvish.
Up close, she was tiny and frail in appearance. Much younger than he’d have thought, but still a woman full grown.
And she blushed.
“Sorry! I thought I was the only one sneaking out.”
Urian scowled. “What?”
Wrinkling her nose in the most adorable fashion, she gestured up at the windows, then leaned forward to whisper. “I’m sneaking out past curfew to meet friends. Are you running from a boyfriend or husband who came home early?”
He laughed at her presumption. “Neither.”
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re a pervert or burglar.”
“Hardly!” Although … he was here to stalk her. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of pervy. Maybe he’d spoken too soon.