Other than Max.
And neither of them spoke of Maddor, as the mere mention of it made him most violent against his brother.
Narishka only knew because she’d helped her sister conceive and birth his son. And to what purpose? To become a slave for Morgen le Fey—thanks to Max and his interference. Because of his brother’s actions, the mandrakes were nowhere near as powerful a race as they should have been. Hence why they all lived in servitude to the fey whores of Avalon and Camelot.
Maddor, as their progenitor, had been the first to suffer—shouldering the bulk of Morgen’s blind rage because of Max’s actions. And there had been nothing Falcyn could do to stop her or help his son.
Nothing.
Not even on the day they’d finally killed Maddor because of Max’s curse. For that alone, Falcyn still wanted their hearts in his fists. Not a day went by that he didn’t burn in anger over the loss of his child.
And that was why Falcyn had loved and protected Blaise for all these centuries.
Because Blaise wasn’t really his brother.
He was his grandson. One he’d been forbidden to meet until long after Blaise had grown into his own. Which was why Falcyn had kept the knowledge of his birth from Blaise. Nothing save more pain could come from Blaise learning the truth.
He hadn’t been abandoned by his father. He’d been torn from them and left to die by the Adoni, who were even more cruel.
And it stung him enough for them both. There was no need in burdening Blaise with a reality he couldn’t change. Come hell itself, Falcyn would die before he allowed anyone to ever again harm Blaise.
“Bitch, please!” Falcyn used his powers to break her hold and slam her back against the wall hard enough to put a dent in the sheetrock.
Finally, panic and fear sparked in her eyes as she realized the true extent of his powers and her own weakness in comparison. She fought against his invisible grip. “Kill me and your son dies, too.”
“My son died a long time ago.”
Narishka shook her head. “Maddor still lives.”
Those three unexpected words saved her life. “What do you mean?”
Grimacing, she glared at Blaise. “Tell him! Maddor still rules over the mandrakes at Camelot.”
Falcyn felt the blood drain from his cheeks. No … she was lying.
She had to be.
“You play with me, Adoni whore, and so help me—”
“I would never!” Choking, she spat at Blaise. “Tell him, damn you!”
Blaise licked his lips slowly. His complexion paled as much as Falcyn’s. “Is Maddor really your son?”
Falcyn couldn’t bear to answer that question. Not while silent tears choked him. “Does he live?” His voice cracked on those words.
Blaise nodded. “Yeah, he lives. He’s a cold-blooded son of a bitch, though.”
Like father, like son.
With a bitter laugh, Falcyn closed the distance between him and Narishka. “She was a whore, actually. Treacherous from her first breath to her last.”
Narishka lifted her chin with a courage that would be admirable if not for the sheer stupidity of her defiance, given his hatred and blatant disregard for her life. “I told you not to kill my sister.”
Hissing, he moved to end her so that she could join Igraine in hell.
“Wait!” she screamed.
“For what?” The question was out before he could stop it. He didn’t even know why he bothered, since he had no desire to spare her life or to even hear another syllable from her lips that were more used to spilling lies than truth.
“You have something we need.”
So what? Was she effing kidding? He couldn’t care less about them or their needs.
He quirked a brow at that. “I own nothing.”
“Didn’t say you owned it. You protect it.”
He scowled even more, as there was nothing left in this life he protected.
Nothing other than Blaise and Illarion. And he’d never allow her to have either of them.
“Pardon?”
A dark, insidious light played in the depths of her eyes. “Let us negotiate, shall we?”
*
Urian scowled at Medea as they talked inside the small private room in Sanctuary that was reserved for whenever preternatural clientele became rowdy and needed a time-out away from human witnesses who might not react well to the reality of what they shared their world with. Barely more than a closet, their quarters were cramped, but it allowed them to not be overheard by any of the humans outside.
Or the Were-Hunters, who as a rule had very sensitive hearing.
And given the fact that his sister had just told him about a mysterious plague that was about to destroy her people, he was glad no one could overhear them.
“Why are you telling me this? I’m no longer a Daimon.”
Medea crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, but for all you know, this plague could infect you, too. Whatever it is that Apollo unleashed on us is taking an awful toll. I know you hate our father, but—”
“Stryker’s not my father!” he reminded her coldly.
“Biologically, true. However, he did raise you as his own. His wife birthed you.”
“After I was ripped from the stomach of my real mother by that bitch you serve … and shoved into her womb without anyone’s knowledge or consent!” And Medea reminding him of how the gods had screwed him over wasn’t warming him to her cause.
At all.
Honestly, he’d had enough of being their bastard stepchild they kicked whenever they became bored.
“That bitch is also the mother of your current boss and the beloved protector of your real father and mother, don’t forget!”
Urian hissed at her less-than-subtle reminder about Apollymi’s position in his world. “You have some nerve to come here and ask me to help Stryker or Apollymi, given what they’ve both taken from me.”
“I know that. Which tells you how desperate I am.” She swallowed hard. “They’re not the only ones who are sick, Uri. Davyn has it, too. He’ll die if you don’t help us.”
She saw the uncertainty that tormented him as she mentioned the one Daimon he still considered his family. While Urian might be angry at her parents and Apollymi, he would never turn his back on Davyn. Not after all the centuries they’d been more brothers than friends.
Not after all the intel Davyn had risked his life to bring to Urian.
The one truth about her brother—he was loyal above everything else.
Even his own pride and ego.