“What?” Davyn scowled at him.
Rubbing his hand over his face, Stryker winced. “It’s why I had you keep Urian occupied that night. Trates and I got the call for help. I knew Phoebe was living there. Had known about her for a long time, contrary to what Urian thought—they’d told me about it not long after he set her up with an apartment. I just felt so betrayed that Urian had taken Cassandra and Wulf there, too. I didn’t mind that he’d converted Phoebe. I could almost respect that. It was the Dark-Hunter I resented him for. That he’d lie and shield our enemy from me when he knew how much I wanted that last bitch dead. And Kat. That was the bitterest pill. He even married them!”
Tears glistened in his eyes. “Even so, I couldn’t let him know about Phoebe and her killing spree. When I saw what she’d become, I knew Urian would blame himself for it. Hate himself for the monster she’d become. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you killed her.” Davyn had a sick expression on his face.
He shook his head. “I started to, but I couldn’t. I’m not as cold as you think. Instead, I brought her back here and locked her in the catacombs. Originally, I was going to tell Urian and let us deal with it together. Then when we were in Dante’s Inferno … and Acheron showed up in all his arrogant, prick glory. The Dark-Hunter was there with that stupid demon disguised as a baby, and one thing led to the next … my anger got the better of me. Next thing I knew, I’d cut his throat and left him there to die.” A tic started in his jaw. “Just like Phoebe, he was never really one of us either.”
Medea gaped at her father. “And in all this time, you didn’t think to tell him the truth? To tell any of us the truth?”
“To what purpose? The deed was done. Besides, you saw her. She’s not his wife anymore. She doesn’t know herself. Wouldn’t know him. For all intents and purposes, she might as well be gallu. And it’s not like he’s going to forgive me at this point, anyway.”
“You did cut his throat, Father.”
“I know, Medea. I was there. Believe me, I’ve relived that nightmare more times than I care to recount. It’s never far from my thoughts. Even when my eyes are wide open. That night is one of the few things in my life I would give anything to do over and do differently.”
Her mother moved to hug him and offer him comfort.
But sadly, like Urian, Medea couldn’t quite forgive him for his actions. As a mother, she’d never be able to harm her child. Not for any reason.
Even betrayal against her. Having lost her child, there was no way she’d be responsible for the loss of her baby’s life.
And it made her wonder if Urian wasn’t right. If one day her father would do the same to her.
How could she trust anyone? Ever?
Yet when she met Falcyn’s gaze, she saw in him a promise of faith. A blood oath.
Like her, he’d known bitter betrayal. Pain.
Loneliness.
Lies.
And he wouldn’t do that to another. Because he knew the bitter taste of it.
She was nothing more than the product of broken dreams and broken trust. Of heartache and sorrow.
But in his eyes, she finally saw a future. And for the first time, it wasn’t bleak.
Against her better sense, she reached out for him.
Falcyn saw the torment deep in Medea’s eyes and he recognized it for what it was.
Fear. Misery. Crushed dreams that hurt so deep down inside that she’d had no choice except to deny that they’d ever been there.
He felt them, too. Had buried them beneath an apathy that had left him unable to feel anything for so long he’d begun to believe the lie of it all.
That there was nothing inside him. No emotion. No sentimentality of any kind.
And there was the irony. He’d actually convinced himself he was numb and unfeeling. Uncaring when the truth was he cared so much that he’d been forced into denial so that he could remain sane when faced with the madness of a brutal world that constantly assaulted him with its insanity and pain.
Now …
He could no longer pretend. Damn it to hell. Against all his carefully constructed shields and safeguards this little Apollite had slid in past his defenses and carved her name into his dead heart. And he would never be the same.
Because now that he knew her name and her face …
Her touch … she was as integral to him as breathing.
Shit.
Falcyn didn’t need his dragonstone to live.
He needed Medea.
Grinding his teeth, he searched his mind for something to say to her, but words failed him. There was nothing he could say to adequately convey what he felt for her.
Nothing.
So he took her hand into his and pressed her open palm to his lips, then to his heart so that she could feel the fact that it beat solely for her and no one else.
Medea swallowed as she saw the tenderness on Falcyn’s face and felt the strong beating of his heart beneath her fingertips. “Is that it, dragonfly? Really?”
“You know me, princess. If I speak, chances are, I’ll say the wrong thing and piss you off. Ninety percent of intelligence is knowing when to shut the fuck up.”
Laughing, she stepped forward to kiss him. “Then that makes you a genius.”
Suddenly, a loud rumble shook the walls around them. Medea pulled back with a frown.
Falcyn cocked his head at the sound as a weird fissle went down his spine. One he hadn’t felt in a long time. Surely that couldn’t be what he thought. It would be impossible for Apollo to infiltrate Apollymi’s domain.
Wouldn’t it?
The sound returned. Even louder.
Harder.
“What is that?” Zephyra asked with the same note of panic in her voice.
Falcyn narrowed his gaze on the doorway. “It sounds like…”
“Strykyn,” Stryker finished for him in a breathless tone as the cacophony of rushing wings grew louder and louder.
Closer and closer.
Like a tornado across a vast field. It rumbled all around, shaking the ground and walls.
An instant later, the door burst open to admit the giant black war owls of Ares.
19
Medea was frozen by the unexpected sight of the massive ancient Greek warriors who came through the door, first as gargantuan black owls. Then as armored soldiers. Armed with spiked shields, oversized pauldrons, and swords, they meant business and were here for blood.
Their blood.
The woman in her could appreciate their handsome, ripped bodies, but the demon warrior who’d survived countless battles didn’t welcome them in her domain. She saw them for the threat they were, and wanted them dead or gone.
Their choice. Either option was fine by her. The bloodier, the better, because with what they would be bleeding, she’d get a free meal out of it.
She licked her fangs in expectation of a most satisfying dinner.
Stepping back, she manifested her own sword and made ready to send as many of them as she could to whatever god they worshiped if they chose to fight.
This was bullshit and she wasn’t about to sit back and let them have her family. Not without it costing them life and limb.